Threat Level Black - Страница 38

They had, at least, made an arrest on the person who had leased the warehouse. He was an Egyptian émigré who’d been in America for four years. His name was Said Ahmet, and he claimed he had rented it to people who wanted to store auto parts. The story was so lame that Fisher was tempted to believe it. In the meantime, warrants had been arranged for several business associates of Ahmet, and city detectives were out looking for them. Faud, who had not been connected to the warehouse except by Fisher’s roundabout logic, was now on a list of people to be apprehended but his name and description were not being released to the press.

If Fisher had had his way, nothing would be released to the press, and there would be no press conference at all. But at least the cheese blintzes were good.

“Andy, it’s been great working with you,” said Macklin after the TV cameras shut down.

“You going on vacation?”

“No. The case is closed.”

“No it’s not,” said Fisher.

“Well, yeah, we have to wrap up loose ends and such. But Jeez, Fisher, don’t you ever relax? We celebrate today, take off a long weekend, then come back and kick down doors Monday.”

“Whose doors?”

“It’s a figure of speech. Besides, you’re out of here.”

“How do you mean that?” asked Fisher, shaking out a fresh cigarette.

“Your assignment only lasted until we broke the case. I’m supposed to give you back to the Bureau as soon as I can. The case is closed. We’ll be turning it all over to the U.S. attorney anyway and disbanding the task force. So thanks.” He held out his hand.

“Who says we broke the case?”

Macklin just about crossed his eyes.

“We still don’t understand the connection between the E-bomb and the sarin gas.” Fisher hated stating the obvious, even to a fellow investigator, but there seemed no other choice.

“There is no connection. God, you’re the guy who figured that out. You said—”

“That alone ought to be enough to bother you,” said Fisher, walking away.

Part Four. Heroes and Other Players

Chapter 1

Tyler tapped the keys of his laptop, jotting the notes about the performance of the different weapons systems as the major assigned to brief him continued. Though he wasn’t here to evaluate weapons or the unit’s performance, Tyler let the officer vent. He was complaining about the failure of the coordinated information system that was supposed to provide battlefield commanders with coordinated real-time information from a variety of sources. Potentially revolutionary in design — in theory, the smallest fighting unit would have access to battlefield intelligence that only a few years before would have been hard to get at any level — the system was prone to failure. In place of real-time topographic maps with enemy positions, soldiers had found blue screens on the vehicle displays, laptops, and handheld computers they had carried into battle.

The NCOs were especially bitter, noted the major, as they’d been complaining for months about the systems. Tyler knew that while the sergeants generally ran the show, the upper-level people rarely paid enough attention to their advice. As a captain, he’d worked hard to be different; he knew a lot of other officers — this major undoubtedly was one — did, too, but the split between enlisted and officer was somehow ingrained in the culture.

Somers seemed amused by the failures of technology. He sat back on his metal folding chair, finger against his lip as he listened.

“The key point here,” said the historian as the major’s tirade finally ran out of steam, “is that your people found suitable work-arounds at the crisis point. Which to my mind illustrates their resourcefulness and training. It requires a supportive command structure as well. So, despite the technology screwups, once more the human factor came to the fore.”

“Sure. Of course,” said the major.

“The NCOs and the officers did well despite having one hand tied behind their backs with the technology screwups.”

“And the men.”

“Absolutely,” said the officer.

Had the praise come from Tyler, it would have probably been dismissed as ass-kissing, or worse. But Somers made it sound more important and somehow more genuine. He was right, of course: The fact of the matter was that the Army had done well not because of its cutting-edge doodads — they’d screwed up — but because of its training and a command structure and culture that emphasized personal initiative in combat.

As they turned to the matter at hand, the major proved insightful and well connected; he picked up a phone and arranged a helicopter for a tour of several units to the east in the countryside.

“Did you butter him up on purpose?” Tyler asked Somers as they walked toward the chopper later.

“Butter him up?” Somers made a face. “Sometimes it’s important to state the obvious. We lose track of it. This was the sort of advance that will be studied for a long time. Partly it succeeded because it was made against a demoralized, ill-equipped army that had no reason to fight. But such armies have surprised generals for centuries. Napoléon, Guderian, Burgoyne. Studying failure is instructive,” added the historian as he pulled himself up into the Blackhawk. “The technology has to be straightened out. But we can’t let the shortcomings obscure the successes.”

* * *

Even from the helicopter, the poverty of the North Koreans was clear. Roads were rutted and empty, houses in the countryside were little more than shacks and often in disrepair. The country’s abject state was almost a caricature. How, Tyler wondered, could a ruler so badly fail his people?

The translator, a South Korean on loan to the group, was somewhat prejudiced against the peasants they spoke to after putting down at a forward outpost. He shook his head as he explained that the people had no idea what they would eat when winter came.

“Ask if they have guns,” said Tyler.

The translator practically rolled his eyes, but he asked. There had been rumors that the government had handed out weapons shortly before its fall, but these seemed false, at least here.

“We do not need guns, we need rice,” said one old man when they asked.

They made four stops, spending much of the day talking to anyone they could find: American officers, sergeants, privates, and any North Korean brave enough to come near.

“They think of Americans as devils and look for your tails,” said the translator at one point. He didn’t seem to be joking.

“So?” asked Somers as they trudged toward their temporary headquarters at the end of the day. “What have we learned?”

Tyler smiled at the academic’s pedantic style but played along. “That North Korea is a hellhole and that we have to get these people food fast.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Can they mount a guerrilla campaign?”

“Some of the units are still intact. There are still weapons. But the population won’t support it.”

“I agree,” said Somers. “What’s really interesting, though, is the animosity between North and South,” Somers continued. “You saw our translator, and the people’s reactions to him. They thought he was arrogant.”

“Sure,” said Tyler.

“You don’t think that’s important?”

“Do you?” said Tyler.

“The friction is important,” explained Somers. “I know you’re here basically to see what the potential for resistance is from a military point of view, but the underlying realities are also important. Back home, people think that North and South want to be reunited. They think of Germany at the end of the Cold War. There is a lot of that, don’t get me wrong. But there’s also friction, as we’ve just seen. The North Koreans are looking at us with curiosity. They haven’t formed real opinions yet. But they do know the South. Or at least they think they do. And vice versa.”

“Okay,” said Tyler, nodding.

Somers smiled. “It wouldn’t be a minor matter to you if you were in charge of keeping the peace in a rural town. Think about it. For the most part you’d be relying on South Korean translators, and probably technical experts, to get the water running and electricity flowing. Could you trust what the translators were saying? Could you trust the people he spoke with to be open and honest?”

“Good points,” said Tyler.

“I assume you were pointing out the obvious and not buttering me up.”

Tyler laughed. As they turned toward the administrative building where they’d been assigned space, an MP came up in a Hummer.

“Major Tyler?”

“That’s me.”

“Sir, I need you to come to the secure communications center.”

Tyler started to tell the soldier that he would be along after checking in with the rest of his group, which was waiting inside. But before he could say anything the MP added, “Major, you’re wanted on the line to Washington immediately.”

* * *

Tyler was surprised to find that the call wasn’t from the Pentagon but rather an NSC staffer, who immediately began quizzing him about Tacit Ivan. The major answered the questions warily; he’d of course heard what had happened to Howe and was afraid that someone — maybe even Howe — was being set up as a sacrificial lamb for the failure of intelligence that had led to the botched mission. After a few routine questions about when they’d arrived there and how his men had infiltrated the field, the staffer began asking questions about the airstrip.