Threat Level Black (17 page)

The first thing Howe did when he got back to the D.C. area was check into an inexpensive hotel and sleep.

When he woke up eight hours later, it was a little past four
A
.
M
. He decided he would call Blitz and leave a message on his voice mail telling him that he had changed his mind and that, if the job was still open at NADT, he wanted it.

Much to his surprise, Blitz picked up the phone himself.

“Dr. Blitz?”

“Who is this?”

“Bill Howe.”

“Colonel. How are you? Are you all right?” Blitz’s voice was tired and a little hoarse.

“Yes, sir. A little, uh, embarrassed.”

“Nonsense. We’re the ones who messed up: There should have been more people at the airport. Due to the circumstances in Korea—well, I don’t want to make excuses.”

“Is that job at NADT still open?”

Blitz didn’t answer.

It’s all right,
Howe thought to himself.
My own fault.

“It absolutely is,” said Blitz, his words practically gushing. “You’ve changed your mind?”

“If that’s acceptable.”

“Of course it is. That’s great. That’s great. Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m not far from Andrews, in a motel.”

“Can you come over to my office? There are a couple of hurdles—just little egos to gratify, really. But believe me, this is great. Really, really great.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I shave, sir.”

If he’d been less tired, Blitz might have jumped up and done a little war whoop when he hung up the phone. Instead he merely got up and went over to the credenza where he had placed his coffee earlier. A full NSC meeting had been scheduled for seven
A
.
M
., and he needed to have a good handle on his recommendations for an interim North Korean government by then. Iraq stood as an important example: You had to get
way
out ahead of the curve on this, take advantage of the initial confusion and elation, and make the hard choices. The public would follow.

He was also supposed to talk about Israel and the Palestinians, whose latest peace talks had stalled.

His life lately seemed the embodiment of the ancient curse: May you live in exciting times.

He took his coffee mug and went to see if he could find any drinkable coffee down the hall.

Though it was ostensibly several hours before “regular” government business began, Howe found a good number of staffers on duty when he arrived at the West Wing. Security certainly hadn’t been relaxed because of the hour: He was wanded and had his iris scanned for ID even though one of the men at the post recognized him. Upstairs he found Blitz sitting at his desk amid a variety of papers and reports.

“Colonel, thank you for coming over,” said Blitz, who practically jumped from his chair to shake his hand. “You’re making the right decision.”

“Thanks,” said Howe, sitting.

“I’d offer you coffee, but the only place to get it is down the hall in the chief of staff’s office. They make it pretty strong.”

“I don’t really want any, thanks,” said Howe.

“I haven’t had much sleep. I’m sorry if I look a little beat.”

Howe shrugged.

“I’ve made a list of people whom you’ll want to talk to,” continued Blitz, digging through the papers on his desk. He came up with a yellow pad. “Wait until after twelve, though. I’ll have spoken to a few myself by then, and the word will be around.”

Blitz continued talking, digressing into the legal separation between NADT and the government, a matter he had already gone over at least once before and a subject that Howe himself already knew. But the national security advisor’s words had a certain momentum to them once he got going; it was difficult to stop him, even as he reviewed basic history. The arrangement was meant to help expedite the development and testing of cutting-edge weapons; while it had started out for only one project—a high-energy-beam weapon known as a rail gun that, ironically, had been abandoned—the previous administration had found NADT extremely useful for a wide range of projects and encouraged its continued existence. Under unique legislation, the President of the United States could select three of the private company’s seven board members. Those three votes could be counted on for Howe, and Blitz had already sounded out three of the other four board members; all would back Howe gladly.

“I’m sure it will go fine, Dr. Blitz,” Howe managed finally. “I know you’re busy—”

“Yes,” said Blitz. “Why don’t you tell me about North Korea? I’ve seen the report, but I would like to hear it from you.”

Howe summarized what had happened. Once again he remembered and mentioned the small aircraft, which he thought were UAVs.

“I’m not really sure I’m following you there,” said Blitz. “UAVs?”

“Unmanned aerial vehicles, like Predator and Global Hawk,” said Howe. “No report that I’ve seen says that North Korea had them.”

“I see.”

“These were fairly big. They’d have a good-sized payload. You might target them,” said Howe.

“I’m sure they’ve been targeted,” said the national security advisor.

“Well, good, then,” said Howe, not quite sure that Blitz understood. But obviously the man had a lot of things on his mind.

“Check with me at the end of the week. In the meantime you ought to find a house or something to rent.”

Howe realized he hadn’t even thought of that. He shook Blitz’s hand again, then left to find some breakfast.

It wasn’t as if Tyler had disgraced himself. On the contrary, the ground part of the mission had gone off as well as could be expected given the circumstances, and certainly there was nothing to be ashamed of. But he couldn’t get the feeling of failure to leave him. It felt like a heavy, oppressive thing, a monster sitting on his shoulder.

Tyler and his team had been picked up by Osprey as planned and flown to Kunsan Air Base, also known as K-8, near the western coast of the country well south of Seoul. But rather than the rest they expected, the soldiers were all ordered back to their parent units, which were preparing for a mission to look for refugees from the dictatorship near the Chinese border. Tyler was asked to join an evaluation team being put together by the Pentagon and the CIA; its primary task was to prepare estimates on the capacity of any insurgent groups to mount an offensive within a six-to-eighteen-month time frame.

He had to find his own transportation to a highly classified facility near Wonjun in central South Korea. Distance-wise it wasn’t that far, but the entire country was under what amounted to a lockdown because of the war. Just finding a car and getting gasoline into it was a major endeavor.

The Korea Joint-Mission Evaluation Group had space in a bunkered facility originally built as a backup command center by the CIA but occupied most recently by the South Korean army. It was therefore in scrupulously good repair and so clean that, before descending the double-wide concrete steps that led from the main entrance to the work areas downstairs, Tyler felt obliged to knock the dirt from the sides of his shoes. The masonry walls gleamed, and a visitor might be forgiven for thinking that he or she was descending into a chip fabrication plant or high-tech lab where clean suits and respirators were de rigueur.

Security was being provided by the U.S. Army, and the MPs made everyone show ID and submit to a weapons and bug search. Handguns had to be stowed in a locker under the security team’s control.

Cleared through, Tyler walked down the hallway and turned to the right, descending another set of stairs before reaching a ramp that opened into the operating center. Within a few hours he found himself sitting at terminals in a computer center, tied into various secure information networks so he could update himself on the situation in the North.

Inevitably, doubt about the mission began to haunt him as the hours went on, second and third guesses about his actions and then not even his actions but what he might have done in other circumstances, all seemingly designed by his conscience to convince him he was a failure. It was stupid and ridiculous, but he couldn’t get rid of the voice that nagged at him, calling him a failure.

Tyler read an account of a fierce tank battle about ten miles beyond the DMZ that had taken place on the first night of the war; a squad of American soldiers had become separated from the main body and found themselves confronting a Type 63 light tank. The men calmly and efficiently called in an A-10A, which within a few minutes (eight according to the report) obliterated the tank with its 30mm cannon. Tyler saw himself in the situation and began wondering if he would have handled it as smoothly.

Any objective observer would have laughed at such a ridiculous question. Of course he would have, if he hadn’t found a way to deal with the tank himself. He’d proven himself under fire countless times. Yet, he couldn’t seem to convince himself.

Tyler worked his way through a number of assessments, doing his best to focus on his task. By the time of his group meeting at three, he had a good enough handle on the situation to know where he had to look to get the data he needed. Arriving early for the session, Tyler sat and filled two pages of a yellow pad with questions that would be important to answer; he was starting on a third when the head of the group, a CIA officer named Clarissa Moore, came in with most of the rest of the members. There were several new faces, including a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff J-5 planning department and an Air Force historian who had been added to provide a broad context to the situation. The historian was dressed in civilian clothes and Tyler gathered that he was a retired colonel; his name was George Somers and he certainly looked the part of a historian, with white beard and hair around his balding head, and a heavy tweed sports coat even though it was quite warm in the bunker.

Moore made the introductions and then briefly summarized the situation in North and South Korea, along with some of the developments in nearby countries including Japan and China. She then turned to the group’s latest instructions from Washington. The NSC had asked them to prepare a report no later than the end of the week—and to base that report on “firsthand inspection of the situation on the ground.”

“Basically, they want to see the dirt under our fingernails,” said Moore.

She tapped her right hand on the conference table. Her own nails were clipped so tightly, there was no chance of any dirt hiding there. The CIA officer was about forty, with a trim body but a face that showed her experience. She wore no jewelry save for a simple set of earrings that peeked out amid the lower strands of her hair.

“So we need to put an itinerary together,” she said, “determine where we have to go, what we have to see, people to talk to. A lot of this will be the obvious, of course. And then I’ll need a small group of volunteers and someone to coordinate.”

“It’s pretty early to be going north,” said Colonel Yorn, an Army officer with extensive experience in both intelligence and artillery. “The situation there is hardly stable. I doubt there’s much to be gained from seeing it up close.”

“Should we discuss this?” asked Moore.

“I’d just like to hear the argument in favor of going up there,” said Yorn. “We’ll simply be diverting resources and attention from people who probably already have their hands full. It’s not a question of safety,” he added. “It’s a question of usefulness.”

“Tyler?” asked Moore.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“That wasn’t quite the question,” said Moore. “Will we get useful information?”

Tyler’s thoughts wouldn’t focus. He wasn’t an intelligence expert and wanted to say that; on the other hand he understood the importance of actually being on the ground so you knew what was going on.

“It makes sense to see what we see,” he managed finally.

“I agree with the major that it would be worthwhile,” said Somers, sitting next to him. “Colonel, you’re right that it’s pretty chaotic up there right now. But I’d like face-to-face time with some of the soldiers on the scene. Not just the commanders, mind you: You can’t get an accurate assessment from just the officers. No offense.”

“It is a point,” admitted Yorn.

They discussed it awhile more. Tyler didn’t take part in the discussion. It seemed moot with Washington pushing it, but as a screw-up he really didn’t feel he had anything to add. When the debate ended, the consensus was that the trip would be more useful than not. Moore turned to him.

“Would you coordinate the trip?”

“Of course,” he said, without hesitation.

Howe bought the newspaper but found the classifieds useless for finding an apartment. The listings were sparse near NADT’s Virginia headquarters, and it occurred to Howe that he wasn’t even sure what he could afford. General Bonham had lived in a gated condo community with its own security people; did he need a place like that?

He decided he would ask around the NADT campus to see if anyone had any ideas, and a little past nine
A
.
M
. he was about a mile from NADT when he spotted a small real estate office set back on a hill off the county highway that led to the campus. The building itself was an old Victorian-style farmhouse similar to the one where his mother lived, though in much better shape. Howe pulled up the long, winding driveway and parked in the gravel lot off the macadam. Inside he found a receptionist who bore an uncanny resemblance to his hometown librarian, complete with pink-rimmed bifocals and tightly wound curls.

“Yes, dear?” asked the receptionist.

“I’m looking to rent either an apartment or a condo,” he said.

Before she could answer, the phone rang. Howe stepped back from the desk, his gaze wandering to the left side of the foyer. An old-fashioned steam radiator stood in front of the wainscoting, its thick gold paint glowing. The woodwork behind it had several sets of reveals as the panels stepped back to the wall. Whoever had restored the house had done a painstaking job; all of the original details shone through. Howe thought of his friend Jimmy’s business and felt a stab of guilt, as if his decision to take the NADT job meant he was letting him down.

“Are you being helped?”

Howe turned and found himself staring at a woman about thirty years old. She wore a black sleeveless top and a matching skirt that came nearly to her knees; her light-brown hair had a gentle wave in it as it fell just behind her shoulders. She had a few freckles on her face, which was one of those that seemed naturally inclined toward smiles rather than frowns. Her eyes were blue, and she raised the brows as she waited for him to answer the question.

Howe found himself suddenly tongue-tied.

“I, uh, I’m looking for an apartment or a condo, I guess. Something not that big.”

“Married?”

When Howe didn’t answer right away, the woman smiled and held her hand out to him. “I’m not trying to pick you up,” she told him. “Just find out how big a place you need.”

“No, I know. I’m not.” Howe stifled a sudden urge to smack himself on the side of the head. “I’m single,” he added, still fumbling to explain. “I’ve just taken a government job, actually; it’s a job with a company that does a lot of work for the government, but it’s not actually a government agency per se.”

“Per se?” Where the hell did that come from,
he asked himself.

“I’m Alice Kauss,” said the woman, holding out her hand. It felt warm and slender in his, yet the grip was firm. “Come on into my office and let me take down some information. Then we’ll see what we can come up with.”

She spun on her heels and walked into what would have been the parlor area when the house was first built. Howe followed across the parquet floor to a sleek metal desk that sat before a covered fireplace toward the back. Somehow the ultracontemporary furnishings looked perfectly at home in the old-fashioned setting.

Not that Howe was able to pay much attention to his surroundings. As they worked through the basic questions, he tried desperately hard not to stare at Alice’s cleavage and found himself folding his arms over his own chest.

“How much?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?” His eyes met hers. The blue irises glimmered in the light from the halogen on the desktop.

“Your price range?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

Howe realized he had to do some more thinking before he was ready to rent a place, but now that he was here he couldn’t just get up and walk out.

“Well, how much do you make?”

He smiled at her.

“We haven’t settled on a salary yet,” he said.

Alice put down her pen. “So you’re more in the exploratory mode right now,” she said.

“Yeah. I—listen, I do need a place. I’m just not sure exactly what I need. It shouldn’t be too expensive or that big, but on the other hand, I mean—”

“You don’t want to live in a slum.”

“Right.”

“And you want to rent or buy?”

“Rent. I think.”

There were people in the front hallway. Alice’s phone buzzed but she didn’t answer it.

“I have an idea, William.”

“You can call me Bill, really.”

“Bill.” There was that smile again, this time full force—not phony, and definitely disarming. “I have a closing in about fifteen minutes. I think that’s them out there, a little early. And then I have a full slate for the rest of the day. But if you come back around four-thirty, say, I can take you to a few condos and you can get an idea of the market. If you can afford it, you’ll probably do a lot better buying. What do you think?”

“Of buying? I don’t know. I guess.”

“Because of the market. But we can talk about it.”

“Great,” he said, standing. “Real great.”

NADT had been envisioned more as a think tank than a weapons development company, and those roots showed in its headquarters buildings. The ultramodern buildings were located well back from the road behind manicured lawns and gardens. A range of security sensors, from cameras to motion detectors, maintained constant surveillance of the grounds, but to the naked eye the place seemed deserted until you passed a row of evergreens a few hundred feet off the road. At that point a pair of security guards and the small kiosk appeared a few feet ahead.

Howe had been told that devices were planted in the roadway a bit farther along that could paralyze car engines with an electromagnetic pulse, and he had seen firsthand some of the weaponry the NADT security force had at its disposal. But for all that, the guards appeared almost nonchalant, unfailingly courteous, and friendly; indeed, they were tested and graded on these qualities, with the overall goal of presenting an image to the world—or, more specifically, visiting politicians and high-ranking military people—of absolute self-confidence and efficiency.

Unfortunately, that image had been largely that: an image. The security staff had not exactly covered itself with glory in the Cyclops One fiasco. While the problems at NADT had been caused by Bonham and some of the investors, not the security people or the engineers and scientists and grunts who did the real work, one of his first tasks would be to determine if anyone else should be sacked because of it.

A difficult task. Just about everyone he knew here was dedicated and hardworking, serious and proud of the job they did. A lot were ex–military people, though of course that wasn’t a carte blanche endorsement, either.

“Colonel, good morning,” said Nancy Meile, meeting him just as the two gate men cleared him and his vehicle to proceed. Meile, about forty and a former partner in a private security firm, was the security director. “Rumor true? You’re taking the job?”

“A few hurdles left,” he said.

“I hope you take it.”

“Why?”

The question seemed to take her by surprise, and she didn’t answer right away. “I think you’ll do a good job.”

As an officer advanced through the ranks of the military, he or she couldn’t help but become aware of the various political games that were played. For Howe, the gamesmanship was a severe negative: In his opinion it detracted not just from the mission he and his comrades had to accomplish, but from the bedrock duty and loyalty to one’s oath and the country itself. The relative lack of games in the development projects he’d gotten involved in with NADT, as a matter of fact, was one of the attractions.

As head of NADT he’d have to devote considerable energy to playing those political games. But not with his staff.

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” he told Meile. “I want simply to understand what needs to be done.”

His words felt a bit too stiff in his mouth, but he at least got the thought across; he could see it register on her face.

“I’d be happy to talk with you at length when you think it’s appropriate,” she said.

“I’ll take you up on that,” said Howe, putting the car in gear.

He drove to the main building, a low-slung, modernist affair whose main floor served merely as a reception and processing center for the offices located in the bunkered floors below. Because of its unique relationship to the government, NADT was considered a possible target for a hostile government, and the protections against attack and, perhaps more importantly, spying were diverse. A copper sheath surrounded the different sections, rendering eavesdropping devices useless. Sixty feet of earth and concrete would keep any but the most powerful American bunker-buster bomb from damaging the heart of the complex.

The vice president for operations was a cherubic man named Clyde Delano; he had worked for various government agencies under both Republican and Democratic administrations for close to thirty years before coming to NADT. A chemist by training, the years had magnified his academic demeanor. As he took Howe on a tour to meet some of the scientific and research staffers, he launched into a discussion of World War I, apparently because he’d been rereading Keegan’s history of the war over breakfast. He asked Howe what he thought would have happened to Europe if America had not entered the conflict but remained neutral.

“Never really gave it much thought,” said Howe.

“Very different world,” said Delano. “Maybe Germany wins. Maybe the stalemate goes on for a decade.”

Howe tried changing the subject—he wanted to know what Delano thought needed to be done at NADT—but the vice president for operations simply demurred, claiming he hadn’t given it much thought. Howe found a similar reluctance to speak freely among the upper-level scientists he met, who failed to loosen up even over lunch in the company cafeteria, a facility that would rival many a D.C.-area restaurant. Meals here were free, a perk that helped compensate for the long hours and stringent security measures and discouraged people from taking off-campus breaks.

After lunch, Howe went over to the president’s office, which had been vacant since the disgrace of General Bonham. All of Bonham’s personal belongings had been removed, leaving the shelves and desk bare; the only things that remained were a few yellow pads and an old-fashioned Rolodex phone directory. Howe idly flipped through the directory: There was his name, along with a long list of contact numbers and addresses.

He took out the list of phone numbers Dr. Blitz had recommended he call. But instead of picking up the phone, he found himself thinking about Delano, who had functioned as Bonham’s second-in-command. Clearly they were not going to be a good match; he needed someone else to take his place, someone he could trust.

Bringing someone else in from the Air Force would send the wrong signal, he thought; and besides, he wanted someone with better contacts with the administration and Congress, his weaknesses; someone in the service wasn’t likely to have them.

He thought of Harold McIntyre, the former NSC assistant for technology, whom he’d worked with before. Though McIntyre could be a bit of a playboy and partyer, he had a good feel for who was who among the contractors and his standing with the administration was impeccable. He also liked Howe—not surprising, since Howe had led the mission that rescued him from India after war broke out there. McIntyre had left government following that incident, and that was a complication: Howe thought he might have had some sort of emotional collapse because of the stress he’d undergone.

McIntyre’s name was in Bonham’s directory, with his phone number listed. Howe picked up the phone, hesitated a moment, then punched in the numbers.

An answering machine picked up.

“This is McIntyre. Leave a message.”

“Mr. McIntyre. Bill Howe here. How are you? Listen, I’ve been offered a job and, uh, well, I wanted to—”

The line clicked and a tone sounded.

“Colonel Howe?” said a distant voice.

“That you, Mac?”

“Yes, sir. How are you?”

There was a slight tremor in his voice, the sort of quality a freshly minted lieutenant might betray when he chanced to come face-to-face with the base commander. Very unlike McIntyre, Howe thought, though it was definitely him.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Not that well, actually.” McIntyre laughed. “I, uh…well, they have me on Paxil.”

“That a painkiller?”

McIntyre laughed again. It was a light, self-deprecating laugh. “Antidepressant. Supposedly, I have some sort of, uh, like, uh…”

“Delayed stress?”

“Yeah, something like that. Combined with depression.”

Howe tapped on the desktop. He didn’t want to subject the poor guy to more pressure.

“I heard you were up for that job over at NADT,” said McIntyre. “Bonham’s job. Head of the whole shebang.”

“That’s right,” Howe told him.

“You ought to take it,” said McIntyre.

“That’s the reason I’m calling,” said Howe. “I’m trying to get opinions on the place.”

“Colonel, I’ll give you a whole rundown if you want. Anything you’re looking for. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me, Mac.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

McIntyre spoke as if he were a junior officer, though during McIntyre’s time in the government—which was only a few months ago, after all—he’d been the one with more authority. He would be absolutely loyal if he took the job. But Howe couldn’t offer him the post; the poor guy would feel obligated to take it, and then he’d fall apart.

Still, Howe could pick his brain.

“Maybe you could give me some background,” said Howe. “Informally.”

“You bet. When? Now? This afternoon?”

“I’m kind of tied up today. How about tomorrow—lunch, maybe?”

“You got it, sir. You got it.”

They made an appointment for noon at an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant near McIntyre’s condo.

“What do you think of this Korea thing?” asked McIntyre.

“You’re following it?” asked Howe.

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed again. “I get a kick out of some of these commentators. CNN even called me.”