Orson Card: Empire

Bureaucracy, he thought.

But that was the easy answer. Chalk it up to bureaucratic maneuvering and red tape, and then nobody had to be called to account.

Reuben was tired of having responsibility without authority. Where was the leader who could get things done?

Truth to tell, this President had changed things. Without ever getting a bit of credit for it, he had transformed the military from the cripple it had been when he took office into the robust force with new doctrines that had the enemies of the United States on the run.

On the run? No, backed into a corner. It was time for them to act if they were to continue to have any credibility. Reuben Malich knew what they needed to do. He even knew how they would probably do it. He had given warning, and so far, it seemed, no one was listening.

“Major Malich, sir.”

Reuben turned to face the young man in uniform. Young? Twenty-eight wasn’t young for a combat officer. But he was nine years younger than Reuben, and in those nine years Reuben had learned a few things. Combat could leave a man with scars; but running errands for players in the mind-numbing game of government aged him far more. At thirty-seven Reuben felt like he was fifty, an age that had long symbolized, to him, the end of his useful life. The age when he should get out of the war business.

Today. I should get out right now.

“Captain Coleman,” he said. “Don’t even think of saluting me.”

“You aren’t in uniform, sir,” said Coleman. “And I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh?”

“You had me meet you here instead of the office we both share because you think people are watching you. I don’t know whether those people are inside or outside the Pentagon or the government, but we’re here because you have things you want to tell me that you don’t want any listening devices to overhear.”

Good boy, thought Reuben. “Then you’ll understand why I want you to face me directly and duck your head slightly downward.”

As Coleman complied, Reuben unfolded a city tourist map and brought one side of it up between their faces and any observer elsewhere in the park.

“I guess this means I don’t get a chance to look at the statue,” said Coleman.

“It’s big enough you can see it on Google Earth,” said Reuben. “Cessy and DeeNee both tell me you’re not an idiot, and now you’ve told me yourself. So I’m taking the chance of telling you what I’m actually doing. I will tell you once, and then we go about our business as if we were doing what I’m officially supposed to be doing, except you’ll help me do the other thing and help me cover up my real assignment.”

“All perfectly clear, sir.”

Oh good. A sense of humor. “Officially I’m working on counter-terrorism in Washington DC, with the particular assignment of trying to think like a terrorist. I suppose that I’m considered appropriate for this because I lived in a Muslim village in a country in which we don’t officially have any soldiers. Never mind that the terrorists I’m supposed to be outthinking were all educated in American or European universities.”

“So your assignment gives you a valid cover for traveling all over the Washington area,” said Coleman.

Since that was what Reuben had been about to explain, he had to pause and skip ahead. “My real assignment is to carry messages to and conduct negotiations with various persons of the anti-American but officially non-terrorist persuasion.”

“Are they non-terrorist?”

“They claim to be helping us counter the terrorists. Some of them might be. Some might not. I believe I’m probably being used to spread disinformation and sow confusion about American plans and motives.”

“Which is why these people haven’t been arrested.”

“Oh, when the time comes, I doubt they’ll be arrested.”

Coleman nodded. “You bring them messages. Who gives them to you and tells you where to go?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”

“So I guess I won’t be picking up your mail.”

“I can tell you this much. My assignments emanate from the White House.”

Coleman whistled softly. “So he negotiates with terrorists after all.”

“Don’t suppose for a second that the President has any idea what I do,” said Reuben. “Or that I exist. But I have verified for myself that my chief contact has complete access to the President and from that I conclude that I am an instrument of his national policy.”

“And yet you hide from lip-readers with telephoto lenses.”

Reuben refolded the map. “Let us look at Fort McNair.”

Together they walked to the railing near the water and looked across the channel at the fort. “There it is, Captain Coleman. The home of the National Defense University and half the Old Guard. You know, the guys who dress up in Colonial Army uniforms to wow tourists and foreign dignitaries.”

“Also where the Joint Force Headquarters of the National Capital Region is.”

“Three weeks ago, I turned in—as part of my official duties—a report on likely targets in the Washington area and how I, if I were a terrorist, would attempt to attack them.”

“I’m betting Fort McNair was not one of those targets.”

“Al Qaeda doesn’t give a rat’s ass about real estate. They did that in zip-one, but all the terrorists who attacked commuter transportation in Europe and plotted to hit buildings and subways in the States are really just wannabes. Al Qaeda trains them and encourages them, but these are not Al Qaeda’s own operations.”

“You think they’re through with symbolism.”

“The way they see it, they can’t afford to make any more empty gestures. And with all respect to those who died on 9/11, that was an empty gesture. It made us angry; it goaded us to a brief moment of national unity; it led directly to the fall of two Muslim governments and the taming of many more.”

“They want to hurt us this time, not just slap us.”

“They have only one target that makes any sense at all,” said Reuben.

“The President,” said Coleman.

They stood in silence, looking out over the water.

“So let me put this together,” said Coleman after a while. “You came up with practical, workable plans to kill the President of the United States and turned them over to your superiors at the Pentagon. But you also fear that you’re being observed even when you come out to the tip of Hain’s Point, a city park where a bunch of schoolchildren climb all over the statue of a giant rising out of the earth.”

Reuben waited for his conclusion.

“This spot is part of the plan?” said Coleman.

“Part of the best plan. The simplest. The surest. Oh, lots can still go wrong. But each part of it is well within the reach of any terrorist group smart enough to think of it—and disciplined enough to keep its mouth shut during the training phase.”

“Not the clowns we’ve been catching.”

“The clowns keep us busy and give us a sense of complacency. ‘Our counterterrorism is working,’ we tell ourselves. But we haven’t come up against the big boys since 9/11. Since we routed them out of their hidey-holes in Afghanistan.”

“Do you sail?” asked Coleman.

“No,” said Reuben. “I leave that to the SEALs.”

“I grew up sailing. My dad loved it.”

Reuben waited for the moment of relevancy he was sure was coming.

“You learn to see the water’s surface and notice things. For instance, we’ve got almost no breeze right now, hardly a ripple on the Washington Channel here.”

“Right.”

“But did your plan involve something underwater? Something that passed right through here?”

“Yes,” said Reuben. “And therefore my plan suggested that the Joint Force install additional listening, sonar, and imaging devices in the water of the channel.”