Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

“What, field rations? And here I always thought the American military had the finest kit available.”

“We do. That’s why I’m offering you a hot dog from a corner vendor. Or would you rather have an MRE?”

Seated on a bench near the Vietnam Memorial Wall, Carlos and Cameron watched quietly as dozens of people strolled past the glistening, reflective edifice, stopping occasionally to read the names or to place a small token at the base of a particular panel.

“You’d think the visitors would taper off. It’s been forty years since that war ended, and people still come. Some of them never even met or knew the relative or friend they come to honor,” Carlos said.

“A tribute to man, if not to war,” Cameron replied.

“So how’d you get this assignment?” Carlos queried. “I thought you were just out for a summer cruise.”

“Natural fit. I’m commander of the OAT section of our SAS counter-terrorism group. Off-shore assault team. Because I’d been in on the snatch, our CO agreed that I could carry on.”

“Well, you were smack on the money about the sniper routine.”

“That was General Connor’s call. But it’s how to deal with it that’s going to be the problem,” Cameron added.

“We’re going to be hard-pressed to find a way to interdict that kind of operation,” Carlos said. “The D.C. snipers showed us that, and they were only two guys without much planning. These hit squads, if indeed that’s what this is all about, will be much more organized, probably even mobile throughout the countryside. What do your boys think? Did they concur with what the interrogation turned up? Will Australia get hit?”

“We’re taking precautions. Australia’s on the Al Qaida hit list, that’s for sure. The attacks at Bali and Fremantle confirmed that.”

“Well,” Carlos said, “the Aussies deserve a lot of credit, especially in your part of the world. They’ve fronted up every time this terrorist activity has risen, and they’ve been firm in supporting both the UK and the U.S. General Connor figures they’ll be targeted for sure.”

“We’ve just elected a new government,” Cameron added. “Much more conservative. That should keep us in the fight, maybe even allow us to fight back.”

Carlos glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d better run. General Connor will be looking for some answers. You in town long?”

“No. We meet this afternoon with Brigadier McIntyre at the British Embassy, and then take the night flight to LA, and on to Sydney. And congratulations on your retirement and appointment as deputy director of, what do you call it, Trojan? At least, I think I should congratulate you.”

Carlos stood, followed by Cameron. “Take care, Cameron. I think we’ll be seeing more of each other.” He offered his hand. “Good to be working with you again.”

“I hope it will be good, Carlos. These fanatics can make everyday life miserable if we can’t find a way to stop them. And I’ve been in the Indonesian jungle before. If we have to find some of them, it’s not a nice environment.”

“If this threat assessment is correct, we’ll spend more time on the streets of Sydney and Washington than the jungle. Keep in touch,” Carlos said and took off across the park.

Oval Office

The White House

Washington D.C.

March

Since leaving the CIA and accepting his appointment to Homeland Security, General Austin had been directed by President Snow to locate his primary office within the west wing of the White House, where both he and the National Security Advisor were immediately available as required.

Across the street, in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building which housed Trojan, Pug Connor returned from a luncheon with two of the Joint Chiefs to find a voice mail requesting his appearance in Secretary Austin’s office at 3 P.M. He glanced at his watch, which read 2:40. He grabbed his notes and briefing papers from the morning meeting and walked briskly down the stairs and across the street, entering the White House grounds. As he cleared security and entered the corridor, he met General Austin just coming out of his office. Austin inclined his head, signaling Pug to follow.

“Good timing. We’re headed down the hall,” Austin said.

“Are we going where I think we’re going?”

“We are. Dixie called and said the president has squeezed twenty minutes into his schedule and asked us to join him. We’ll just play it by ear. I think Admiral Barrington will be there too, along with Patrick Collins, the president’s choice for Secretary of Defense.”

Admiral Barrington was outside the president’s office when they arrived, and Defense Secretary Designate Patrick Collins and newly confirmed Vice President Hank Tiarks were already in the Oval Office. Dixie, the president’s secretary, stood and motioned them through the doorway. Inside, President Snow rose to greet them.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Let me introduce Vice President Hank Tiarks and Patrick Collins, soon to be the Secretary of Defense,” the president said. As the men shook hands, the president motioned the group to a small cluster of chairs and a large, deep burgundy leather couch. The president gave a nod to Pug, then took his seat. “I’ve read the brief on the interrogation transcripts and the overview of the attack plan. We’re short on time this afternoon, so let’s hear your analysis, Secretary Austin,” he said. “What unwelcome visitors can we expect?”

“Mr. President, we’ve compiled a fairly confident picture that several of the various terrorist groups have concentrated their objectives and plan to hit us-and our allies, I might add-where we are most vulnerable, on our own soil again.”

“Are you telling me we know the target this time?”

“No, sir. The target is America-everywhere. But this time, as you saw from the summary, no airplanes, no plagues, no dirty bombs, and no chemical contamination of water supply or anything like we’ve considered, although those possibilities are always on our watch list. No, this time, Mr. President, we have reason to believe that the various terrorist groups, we don’t really know which one, intend to infiltrate America. If there is one central command, they possibly already have the people in place-small teams of snipers-in America, Australia, and England. From our experience this past couple of years, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have native-born Americans mingled in with the infiltrators.”

“Snipers? And Americans, too, you say?” Snow repeated.

“Yes, sir. Hit teams. Religious zealots, primarily. Mr. President, if you recall, there were two snipers a decade back who brought the D.C. and Virginia areas to a standstill. That’s what we believe they intend to do, but on a much larger scale. Hit us at the local level, a killing here, a killing there, a drive-by shooting in a mall parking lot, with this scenario replicated across the country every day or every week. From what we can gather, there is no large objective, no catastrophic disaster. The only possible objective of a small-scale operation like this is to terrorize neighborhoods and communities. Make our people believe that their government can’t protect them.”

“You mean throughout the country? Random killings?”

“Yes, Mr. President. That’s how we see it.”

“Do you concur, Admiral Barrington?”

“I do, Mr. President. The body count will probably not be high, statistically speaking-in fact, far less than from automobile accidents every weekend-but once the media gets on to it, we can certainly expect that as these groups take credit and try to obtain publicity for their terror tactics, the public fear will be rampant.”

“And the Aussies and the Brits as well?”