Michael Walsh - Early Warning

“Read the other dossier first,” advised Seelye.

“Ask Director Byrne to wait just a couple more minutes,” said Tyler, opening the dossier.

One thing you had to admit about Tyler, Seelye thought, the man was a quick study. A lot of lawyers were, especially trial lawyers, but Tyler was exceptional. He could speed-read the densest page and absorb it in one gulp. Not only could he sell igloos to Eskimos, carry coals to Newcastle, and hawk oil burners in the Sahara, he could sell himself to the American people as something other than what he was: a millionaire trial lawyer who had made his reputation and his fortune putting doctors out of business with crippling lawsuits, all the while posing as a champion of women’s reproductive rights. It was either a commentary on Tyler ’s political skills, or the stupidity of the American public, or both. And yet…

And yet there was no question that he had a knack for the presidency, in a way many of his predecessors didn’t. Maybe you really could grow in office.

Tyler tossed the dossier back onto the table. “Show him in,” he said.

A knock at the door, and in came Byrne. At sixty-two, Tom Byrne had lost neither a hair on his black Irish head nor his good looks, and he moved with the confident grace of a man who held an awful lot of secrets. Like his brother, Frankie, Tom had grown up in Woodside, Queens, when it was still a Paddy stronghold, and even though New York had long since ceased being the city of the Irish, Italians, and Jews, nobody had had the guts to tell him that. Tom Byrne believed passionately in George Washington Plunkitt’s dictum that “the Irish were born to rule.”

“Mr. President,” he said by way of acknowledgment. “General Seelye.”

Seelye rose and shook hands. Despite all his years in Washington, this was the first time he had ever met the fabulous creature in the flesh. Stories about Byrne were legendary, particularly his Kennedyesque appetite for women, but NSA and the FBI had very little to do with each other, and both sides endeavored to keep it that way.

“Sit down, Mr. Byrne, and tell me what you make of the situation in New York. You know why I’ve asked you to come here, I’m sure.”

Byrne smiled. “Because my little brother, Frankie, is head of CTU.”

“Precisely,” said Tyler. “What do you hear from him?”

“Hear from him?” replied Byrne. “Nothing. We haven’t talked in years, except through official channels.”

“You two don’t like each other very much, is that it?”

“No, sir. But that’s no secret. We’ve hated each other since we were kids.”

“May I ask why?”

Byrne smiled. “It’s complicated, Mr. President. And, with all due respect, I think we have a lot bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

“Where do you suppose your brother is right now?”

Now Byrne laughed. “Not at his desk, that’s for sure. Frankie’s got this big mick, first-through-the-door attitude, so if I know my bro, he’s out there right now, in the middle of the sh-in the middle of it.”

“Are you in contact with him?”

“No, sir,” replied Tom. “Frankie speaks only to God and his squad. Mere mortals like us need not apply.”

Tyler looked Byrne over closely, trying not to let his distaste for the man show. He’d read the files, heard all the stories. But Washington was a tough, unforgiving town, and sometimes you had to climb into bed with people you’d otherwise cheerfully strangle, just to get the job done. This was one of those times.

“Director Byrne, let me be blunt. I need to know what your brother knows, in real time, and I don’t much care how you do it, so long as that information pipeline is up and running A-sap. No matter how much you know, or think you know, about me, Director Seelye, members of my cabinet, or the dog I had when I was twelve, it doesn’t matter to me a bit. Your job depends on opening up a channel of communication for me to Captain Byrne. Do I make myself clear?”

Seelye expected to watch with satisfaction as the wind went out of Byrne’s sails, leaving him becalmed on the shoals of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Instead, he looked as if Tyler had just handed him a present. “Rat out my own brother? The pleasure’s all mine. I’ll need your authorization though-in writing.”

Seelye saw the play right away, even if Tyler didn’t. What Tyler had just done was crack the wall of separation that the NYPD had so assiduously erected between it and the feds; by ordering the FBI, in the person of Tom Byrne, to breach NYPD security, he had effectively just delivered the New York City cops to their ancient enemies, the Bureau: the street Irish versus the Notre Dame Irish, pigs in the parlor vs. the lace curtains. The same fucking tribal animosities, imported from the Ould Sod to the New World, most likely with the same sad results. Both sides would lose.

“Director Byrne,” replied Tyler, coldly, “I am the President of the United States. My word ought to be good enough for you. And Director Seelye is your witness. Now get out of here and get me an inside channel to the CTU. I don’t give a rat’s fucking rear end how you do it, whose toes you have to step on, or whose balls you have to break. Are we clear about this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now give me your assessment before I have the AG fire you right now and give the job to somebody else.”

“Yes, sir.” Byrne collected his thoughts. He was pretty sure Tyler was bluffing about firing him. After all, it was he who had successfully transformed the FBI from a bunch of lawyers with guns chasing bank robbers in Omaha into a pretty fair imitation of Britain ’s MI5, the domestic security service, and the front-line counterterrorism soldiers in the ongoing war against the jihad. Not to mention the fact that the Director was a moron, and the AG couldn’t indict a ham sandwich even if he caught it standing over the dead body with a smoking gun between two slices of rye bread. On the other hand, Tyler was known to do some pretty strange things, and with a tough election fight coming up, Tom’s scalp might just turn out to be a campaign collectible.

“From what we can tell,” he began, “there are at least a dozen terrorists on the ground in New York at the moment. There may be more. There may be sleeper cells, waiting to go into action after we tip our hand. In fact, I would say that is entirely likely. But right now, that’s our best guesstimate, and they’re armed with some pretty formidable firepower.”

“Can the NYPD take them?” asked Seelye.

The intercom buzzed. “What is it, Millie?” barked Tyler, annoyed.

“Pam Dobson on the line, sir. She says the media is clamoring for a statement.”

“Tell her to keep her panties on,” said Tyler. “And I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ms. Dhouri’s voice. “I’ll phrase it more artfully.”

“See that you do, thanks,” said the president. He turned back to Byrne. “Well, can they?”

“Of course they can. And if they can’t, the Guard is on the way, and with those reinforcements-”

At that moment, a terrific explosion could be heard from the TVs. All three men turned to look.

A huge plume of smoke was rising over the Hudson and lower Manhattan around Canal Street on the west side. It looked like half the city was on fire.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Tom Byrne. “They bombed the Holland Tunnel.”

Los Angeles

Even in his semi-buzzed state, Jake Sinclair was on the phone in a flash when it vibrated in his palm. He had seen the first news reports-sketchy, incomplete things born of panic and fallibility and gossip and rumor, full of the mistaken details that would later give rise to a thousand conspiracy theories-and was clutching the instrument even before it rang. He pushed the talk button and spoke: “Flood the zone. Everybody in the field. I don’t care how dangerous it is.”