Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Jackson turned toward an electronic map of the United States on the near wall, pointed to Ohio and clicked a button on his remote control. The city of Cleveland lit up with a small green light. “After interrogating a KSF soldier in Cleveland, we discover that Kharrazi is still in America, and will remain here until his mission is accomplished.” Another click and Las Vegas lit up, “Here is where Kharrazi kidnapped Phil Bracco. It took months for the KSF to prepare a safe house the way they did.” Another click, and another light. “Henderson, Nevada. A tip at a local gun show nets us another three KSF soldiers. Yet we still have no big names. The way we see it, their headquarters is out west, probably in Nevada, more specifically, Las Vegas.”

Jackson turned to Dutton and handed him the remote. Dutton clicked a button and a series of red lights sprung up in a circle surrounding the Washington, DC area. “Here’s where we have the Sentinel Radars stationed. If a missile is launched anywhere outside of this perimeter, we have anti-missile launchers in place.”

“What if the missile is launched inside the perimeter?” Hatfield asked.

Dutton hesitated. “Well, we’re fairly certain-”

“Fairly certain isn’t going to cut it,” Hatfield huffed. “If I wanted fairly certain I would have phoned you instead of coming to meet with you personally. The President-shit, the country can’t afford for us to be fairly certain any more. We need certainty and effectiveness.”

Hatfield seemed to compose himself for a moment. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward, as if he were going to let everyone in on a secret. “I have a direct quote from the President. Would you like to hear it?” He didn’t wait for their nods. “If the White House even gets egged tonight, his quote is, ‘Tell them to find new careers, because theirs will be over.’ Now, I don’t have to tell you that President Merrick doesn’t bluff, do I?”

It was a lie. Merrick was too polished to make such a crude threat, but Hatfield wasn’t. In years past, Chiefs like Leon Panetta and Andrew Card would embrace their domain and stay perfectly happy within the walls of the White House. But Hatfield was of a different ilk. He spread his tentacles into places he had no business being, and as a consequence, he had few political allies. And in a place like Washington D.C., allies were a potent currency.

Regardless of the veracity of Hatfield’s statement, everyone at the table commenced a slow squirm. Almost everyone. Matt McColm casually removed a stick of gum from its wrapper, and giving it his full attention, slid it into his mouth and began a leisurely chew. He was using the most powerful weapon he had to counteract an overbearing authority figure. Apathy. He wasn’t about to give Hatfield the satisfaction.

Nick understood the move. Everyone knew the Chief of Staff had the President’s ear, but he wasn’t Matt’s boss. Matt’s boss sat directly across from him, and by the look on his face, Jackson was enjoying every minute of it.

Hatfield glared at Matt. “Do you understand me?”

Matt folded his gum wrapper with methodical precision.

“I’m talking to you, Mr. Sharpshooter.”

Nick braced himself for the collision.

Matt took the empty wrapper, folded it, and carefully placed it in his breast pocket like it was a rare jewel. “Tell me something, Bill,” he said. “When are you going to show us how to wipe our ass?”

The table smoldered with stifled laughter.

Hatfield’s eyes tightened into penetrating beams of malevolence. He pointed a manicured finger at Matt. “Start reading the classifieds, asshole.”

Matt leaned into Hatfield’s finger. “What the fuck do you know about-”

“That’s enough!” a voice boomed from behind them. Defense Secretary Martin Riggs loomed over the table. He still had on his suit jacket, but his tie was pulled down, and a portion of his collar was stuck on the outside of his jacket. Even though the ex-Marine looked as if he hadn’t seen a bed in a week, his stature alone made you think twice before challenging him. Riggs dropped a large stack of manila files onto the table and strategically sandwiched himself in a seat between Matt and Hatfield. “After this is over they’ll be plenty of blame to go around. Right now we need to focus on the enemy.”

Matt and Hatfield gave each other malicious glares, but nothing more.

Riggs thumbed through his stack of files. Without looking up he said, “To answer your question, Mr. Chief of Staff,” he glanced at Matt for effect, “there is no guarantee we can shoot this missile down whether it’s inside or outside the perimeter.”

Hatfield folded his arms. Riggs opened a file marked, “Classified” and continued. “We have twenty F-16’s armed with the newest generation of Sidewinders dedicated to safeguard the White House. Even so, hitting a missile with a Sidewinder is tantamount to a bullet hitting a bullet. It’s not easy.”

Riggs placed the file on the table in front of him and addressed Hatfield. “There’s also the issue of countermeasures. Our intelligence tells us that if Kharrazi does have missiles off of our shore, they’ll almost definitely be Russian technology. If that’s true, the missile will come supplied with decoys.”

Hatfield had a confused look on his face, so Riggs took a deep breath. “Decoys, Mr. Hatfield. Sometime during the flight the missile will drop off large aluminum coated balloons. To our laser-guided radar system they will appear as metal objects, no different than the missile itself. It will give us too many targets to choose from. Mistakes will be made, I assure you.”

“Still,” Riggs said, turning back to his file, “with the amount of ground troops roaming the vicinity, and the Sentinels and fighters flanking the zone, I’d give a rouge missile one chance in three of making it through. And that’s only if there’s one missile deployed.” He gave Hatfield a long look. “That good enough for you, Bill?”

Hatfield allowed a deep breath to convert itself into the tiniest of nods. “If that’s the best we can do.”

Matt looked away from Hatfield and shook his head, fighting to maintain control.

“You got those reports?” Jackson asked.

“Right here,” Riggs said, sliding a large folded piece of paper from the file and opening it all the way. He moved the stack of files to the side and laid the paper across the middle of the table. As Riggs leaned over the paper, Nick could see that it was a map of the United States.

Riggs removed a pencil from his breast pocket and hovered over the map. With millions of dollars worth of computer technology surrounding him, Riggs was going with his strength; a pencil and a piece of paper. He drew a straight line from Hoover Dam to Las Vegas. “Three-thirty this morning an operative in Nevada made an ID on a KSF soldier traveling from Arizona to Las Vegas.”

“What happened with him?” Hatfield asked.

Nick winced. Hatfield had obviously never been to a Riggs briefing before. Riggs didn’t tolerate interruptions when he was disseminating intelligence. He would almost always answer your question at some point during the briefing, and the ones he didn’t answer usually weren’t pertinent enough to warrant an explanation.

Riggs simply gave Hatfield his game face. The Chief of Staff developed a sudden fascination with the diagram of Hoover Dam. Riggs returned his attention to the map.

“Now then,” he continued. Drawing a line from Flagstaff, Arizona to Santa Fe, New Mexico, he added, “Four-fifteen this morning, an experienced trucker traveling east on Interstate 40 near Flagstaff noticed a truck pulling a trailer that didn’t match the markings on the cab. He called DPS and they discovered two KSF soldiers transporting explosives.” He looked up at Hatfield. “They made the arrest without incident.”