The Threat

“I can run interference for you. But I can’t carry the ball. Understand? The Sit Room has no authority to initiate action.”

“Well, neither do I.”

“Neither do you. Exactly right. But you’re the one who believes there’s a critical situation here.”

Dan nodded, remembering what they’d told him when he reported aboard: Staff did not command. They coordinated. But there had to be a limit, when no one could be reached; had to be a time for someone to make a decision. Accepting too what she hadn’t said: that she still didn’t quite believe him enough to put her own career on the line.

That was okay. She might still have a future in the Navy. Probably even stars, considering where she was sitting now. Whereas he’d written that off a long time ago.

“Deal,” he said.

She nodded and reached for the mouse. Ran the cursor down a column, highlighted a number, double clicked.

They looked at each other as she waited, handset to her ear. “Hello? Major General? Sorry to disturb you, sir. Take a moment and wake up if you need it.

“This is the director of the White House Situation Room. Yes, sir … the White House … That’s right. Not so good, sir. We have a possible problem developing at uh, Standiford Field in Louisville. I’m going to put the man on who knows the most about it. Going to the speakerphone.”

Dan found himself leaning toward the console as a man came on who sounded as if he’d just been awakened. He cleared his throat, reminding himself neither to give his own rank, nor to call the man on the other end “sir.” “Good morning. We — I—have grounds to believe an air freight shipment of stolen radioactive material will be landing in Louisville about”—he pulled Lynch’s note toward him—“1012 local — wait a minute—”

“That’s central time,” Ed Lynch said behind him, and he turned and saw them all in the doorway. Harlowe flashed him a thumbs-up.

“Yes, central time. There are people accompanying it. We believe they may be armed and should be considered dangerous. We need you to—”

The distant voice interrupted, asking who else had been notified. Dan told him, not untruthfully, that the relevant authorities were being informed, but warning time had been too short to prevent the takeoff. The only chance of stopping it now was the Kentucky Guard and State Police on the ground, as it refueled in Louisville.

Roald cleared her throat. “General, we realize we are not in your state chain of command. We recommend you notify your State Area Command on an emergency-response basis. You are not officially federalized. We will just have to catch up to that after the fact — we don’t have time to do this officially and still catch that shipment.”

“I’ve got an Air Guard unit there. At Standiford Field. An airlift wing.”

“The choice of units and forces is yours, but we strongly recommend you take this aircraft on the ground with the best assault team you can lay your hands on. I would also recommend you call in your state police counterparts and whatever radiological emergency-response team Kentucky has available. My next call will be to your governor’s office, letting them know we have passed the ball to you.”

The general wanted to know again what and who were aboard. Dan told him, as closely as he could, hearing hoarse breathing and the scratching of a pencil on the other end. No doubt on a nightstand, a sleepy wife looking on. “That’s UPS flight 3913, coming in from Ontario, California,” he said again.

“I’m on it,” the general said, and the phone slammed down. Leaving him staring at it. Eyebrows raised.

“He went for it,” he said, sounding, even to himself, rather stupidly surprised. “Are you really going to call the governor?”

But she was already punching more numbers. He leaned back, realizing only then that there was no way they could separate his involvement in this, and hers. Whatever she said, she was laying her ass on the rail along with his.

He only hoped they were wrong. That they’d lose their jobs for raising a false alarm. That there really weren’t people who hated America enough to dump radioactives on a sleeping city.

But he was afraid there were.

* * *

Five hours later, exhausted, drained, he was back in the counterdrug office, untouched coffee in front of him, CNN on the office television. He’d watched with Mary, Ed, and Luis as smoke rose over the terminal buildings and shots crackled. Now wavery telephoto images caught clumsy figures in masks and hoods circling a smoking aircraft in the brown-and-gold UPS livery. A fire truck was laying curtains of dirty foam. Behind it response trucks and an armored personnel carrier — not a Bradley, an M113, he thought — stood off.