Empire

Tidal Basin

Reuben saw Captain Coleman approaching, but showed him no sign of recognition. Coleman was supposed to be sharp—let him figure out which of the people near the tip of the island was his superior officer.

Instead, Reuben looked out over the water of the Washington Channel to Fort McNair, headquarters of the U.S. Army Military District of Washington. He knew that the soldiers working there took their job seriously. In the post-9/11 era that meant vigilance, trying to prevent attacks on the two most symbolically important cities in America—Washington and New York. He knew how they monitored the skies, the waterways. He knew about the listening devices, the camera scans, the aerial surveillance.

He also knew what wasn’t being done. Weeks after he had completed his report, and still nothing had been done.

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.”

“Which they haven’t done.”

“Which they haven’t done yet.”

Coleman pointed toward the water only a few dozen yards from where they stood. “There’s something under the water—there, there, there, and there. Maybe more farther out, but those four are the ones I can see.”

Reuben couldn’t see a damn thing.

“As a sailor, I’d be wondering if the disturbance in the tidal flow—it’s a rising tide, for any landlubbers present—hid a sandbar. It doesn’t, because all four of them are moving, slowly, with the tide.”

“Inward. Toward the city.”

“That’s the way the tide goes, sir.”

Reuben laughed. “So you’re suggesting that right here, when I happen to be having an unscheduled meeting with my new assistant, is the exact time and place that they’re launching exactly the attack that I planned for them?”

“Is there any reason why your presence here would confer immunity from attack?”

“I still can’t see them.”

“Sir, they’re making decent progress toward the city. I’ve never seen dolphins stay under the water in such perfect formation while making so much disturbance on the surface above them. In case you were thinking it was really big fish.”

Reuben pulled out his cellphone.

The bars kept going up and down, and the “Out of Service Area” message kept coming up, then going away.

Coleman had his cellphone out. It was showing the same thing.

“We’re getting jammed,” said Coleman. And without further warning, he dropped to the ground, fully prone. “Get down, sir!”

Reuben understood what Coleman believed—that someone obviously knew they were there, and might start shooting at any time. “Do five pushups immediately. One-handed,” said Reuben. “Then laugh like it’s a joke.”

Coleman did as he was told, then bounded back up to his feet, laughing. “You think they want us alive,” he said.

“They don’t jam cellphones when they plan to kill the caller,” said Reuben.

“You’re being set up,” said Coleman. “You’re the fall guy.”

“They have a complete set of plans for this terrorist operation, written by me, and I’m right here at this site.”

“Who knew you were coming here?”

“I always come here.” Reuben started walking toward Coleman’s car. “Get your keys out,” said Reuben. “You’re driving.”

“I’ve watched the movies. I know how this plays out. My car is going to get shot up and wrecked and fall into the river, and your car will be fine.”

“My guess is that my car won’t start,” said Reuben.

They kept up the casual walking until they were in the car. “Drive gently for a while,” said Reuben. “How fast were those underwater things going?”

“Slow swimming speed,” said Coleman.

“But this is the area where Fort McNair maintains listening devices.”

Coleman drove around the curve of the point and started back up toward the ranger station.

“A little faster now,” said Reuben. “If they’re following my plan, then they’ll switch on the submersibles and make a lot better speed the rest of the way up into the Tidal Basin.”

“And we’re going to intercept them where?”

“We’re going to the ranger station to make some calls on land lines. And to get some guns and some guys who know how to shoot.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Coleman. “They get out of the water, take off their scuba gear, and run across the Mall and attack the White House from the Ellipse? That area is so blocked off and guarded that they’ll be dead before they get close.”

“They get out of the water, they set up their rocket launchers just above the retaining wall at the inside of the Tidal Basin, past the Independence Avenue bridge.”

“Rocket launchers,” said Coleman, nodding.

“You can’t see the White House from there—the Washington Monument is up on a hill, and the White House is invisible. So for the past couple of weeks, they’ve been practicing how many degrees to aim to the left of the monument in order to hit the White House. And they’ve got the range set to the micron. They probably know how to put one through any window in the White House that they want.”

And they were at the ranger station.

They parked the car illegally and ran inside, ignoring the remonstrances of the park ranger who followed them in, shouting, “Intruders!”

Great. Here there was something approaching vigilance.

Reuben had his ID out and was flashing it to the security guard and then to the receptionist. “I would appreciate your close attention,” he said, almost softly, though with a great deal of intensity. He didn’t want them to be afraid, he wanted them to obey. “There is a possible attack on the White House coming out of the Tidal Basin at any moment. It will be a rocket attack. We need to notify the President to get low and get out. We need troops mobilized and sent to the Independence Avenue bridge at the Tidal Basin. And we need the best rifles you can muster with all the ammo you have at hand.”

“Tell us where to go and we’ll shoot,” said the guard.

“We’re Special Ops,” said Coleman. “We know how to use them.”

There was only a moment of hesitation. Then men began running. The bad news—but fully predictable—was that the receptionist said, “The lines are dead.”

To which Reuben said, “Then somebody get in your ranger jeep and get to a building that still has a phone. The Holocaust Museum. Not the Jefferson Memorial.”

The good news was that they were up-to-date weapons that seemed clean and had plenty of ammo. Reuben and Coleman grabbed them and ran for the car. There was a ticket on the windshield. Coleman turned on the windshield wiper and after a few swipes it blew away as they drove back along Buckeye Drive and then under the 395 overpass. “Who had time to write us a ticket?” said Reuben.

“It was probably an envelope filled with anthrax,” said Coleman. “That’s why I didn’t take it off by hand.”

“No, don’t turn there—we’re not going to try to shoot from the Jefferson Memorial. The Independence Av bridge and the cars on it will block any kind of clean shot.” Reuben directed him up to West Basin Drive as he checked to make sure both weapons had full clips.

“You realize this is Friday the thirteenth,” said Cole.

“Screw you,” said Malich.

They drove among the tourist cars until they came to Independence Avenue itself, which was completely blocked going toward the bridge, and had no traffic coming the other way.

They stopped the car and ran for it. Not that far along the bridge—but too far, if the terrorists had already made it out of the water long enough to have traffic blocked.

When Reuben and Coleman got onto the bridge, they saw two rocket launchers being set up simultaneously, while a guy with a protractor—a simple junior-high protractor!—was standing at a particular fence post and now was indicating where the launchers should be aiming.

Another guy—there were only the four in wet suits, as far as Reuben could see—was standing in the westbound lanes, which passed behind the retaining wall and did not go over the bridge. He was holding a sign.

“There’s more guys than that,” said Coleman. “Somebody cut those phone lines.”

“I wonder what that sign says,” said Reuben.

Whatever it said, it was enough to keep the drivers in place without much honking. And because of the blockage going that direction, traffic was stopped cold the other way, too. It would delay any military vehicles that might attempt to stop them. And delay was all they needed. With these guys, there’d be no escape plan. Though if they did happen to live long enough to get away from the Tidal Basin, they’d no doubt run to the Holocaust Museum and start killing Jews and Jewish sympathizers—which is what they would assume the Holocaust Museum would contain. Oh, yes—and schoolchildren.

Reuben knew they wouldn’t get that far.

He and Coleman had line of sight. They got down, and—

And a bullet pinged into the guardrail.

So they dropped down prone and sighted under the rail. They both fired.

The guy with the protractor spun and dropped. A shoulder wound, probably, thought Reuben. “Were you aiming at him?” he asked.

“No,” said Coleman. He’d been sighting on the guy with the sign.

“Then I must have been,” said Reuben.

One of the boneheads in the car behind them had rolled down his window. “Is this, like, a war game?”

“This is not a drill,” said Reuben calmly. “Get down inside your car as low as you can.”

By now the guys with the launchers were lying flat, still preparing their launch. There was no clear shot at them.

The guy who had held the sign was firing at them. And Reuben and Coleman couldn’t get to a different position, because now the shots hitting around them were pretty steady. The close ones were not coming from the guy with the sign.

“They’re not trying,” said Reuben. “Wherever their sniper is, he could kill us anytime.”

“Just trying to pin us down,” agreed Coleman.

“Shoot for the launchers themselves,” said Reuben.

“I’m left,” said Coleman.

But by the time he said that, Reuben was already firing at the left-hand launcher. Which their bullets knocked over. And by the time they corrected to aim for the other, the rocket had launched.

Reuben guessed that their sniper would be unable to resist watching for the explosion when the rocket hit. So he got up and ran to a different position and Coleman followed him, and there would be no last stand in the Holocaust Museum because they got all three of the remaining wet-suit guys… as they watched the column of flame and the plume of smoke rise above the grassy hill of the Washington Monument.

“Either they hit the White House or they didn’t,” said Reuben. “We’ve got that sniper to catch.”

“He was shooting from over to the left of the World War II Memorial,” said Coleman.

“And you can bet he’s got a car.”

Their pursuit of him ended quickly. Now the choppers were coming in and military vehicles were jouncing over the lawns and here was Reuben in civilian clothes carrying a rifle and so he had to stop for a conversation. It wasn’t long—Coleman’s uniform helped—and soon there were soldiers and choppers in pursuit of the sniper. But what kind of pursuit was it when nobody knew what he looked like, what he was driving, or where he might be going next?

“Did any of those clowns from the ranger station get a message to you, or did you just come when somebody reported shooting?” said Reuben.

“The choppers went up,” said the lieutenant, “when the cellphones started jamming.”

“And you didn’t send them to the Tidal Basin?” asked Reuben.

“Why would we do that?” asked the lieutenant.

Which meant that indeed, no one knew about the plans that Reuben had drawn up. Except, of course, the terrorists who had followed them.

There was nothing useful to do now except get to the top of the hill and see where the rocket had landed.

It had taken out half the south facade of the West Wing.

“Where was the President?” asked Reuben. He was talking to himself, but by now the lieutenant, who had climbed the hill with them, was talking over a military wavelength.

“At least twenty,” the lieutenant repeated. “Including the President, SecDef, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

How strange. For the death of a village wise man, Reuben had been able to keen and wail in grief. For the death of a President he respected and admired, he didn’t have a tear or even a word. Maybe because he knew the old man in that village, and he didn’t know the President, not personally.

Or maybe because Reuben hadn’t drawn up the plans that killed the old man in the village.

Not that Reuben didn’t feel anything. He felt so much that he was almost gasping. But it wasn’t grief. It was resolve. Gnawing at him. He would do something. There must be something he could do.

The lieutenant turned to them with a face like death. “They got the Vice President, too.”

“He was in the same meeting?” said Reuben, incredulous. “They’re never supposed to be in the same place.”

“His car was broadsided by a dump truck and pushed into a wall. He was crushed.”

“Let me guess,” said Coleman. “The Secret Service killed the truck driver.”

“The truck driver blew himself up.”

Reuben turned to Coleman. “They’ve got a source inside the White House,” he said. “How else would they know what room the President would be in?”

Coleman touched his elbow and Reuben allowed him to lead them away from the lieutenant. “At least you know it wasn’t timed solely to coincide with your being at Hain’s Point,” said Coleman. “That was just a bonus for them.”

“The question is, do I go public about the plans I submitted, so the FBI can start trying to trace the leak?”

“Love those headlines: ‘Presidential Assassination Planned in Pentagon,’ ” said Coleman.

“Or do I sit tight and let the Pentagon quietly set me up as the scapegoat?”

“Either way, your career is over,” said Coleman. “Sir.”

“You sure lucked out with this assignment,” said Reuben.

“Hell of a first day on the job, sir,” said Coleman.

Then it was time to stop pretending this wasn’t tearing them up.

“We’ve been under fire together,” said Reuben. “My friends call me Rube.” He knew that Coleman probably wouldn’t be able to bring himself to use the nickname. Not with a superior officer.

“My friends call me Cole.”

The lieutenant coughed. “Sirs, I’m being asked to bring you in for debriefing. I believe those are your bullets in the bodies down there, right?”

“Well, technically not our bullets,” said Reuben. “They were borrowed weapons.” He was still in the black humor of combat.

So was Cole. “We did aim the weapons from which they were fired, and we did pull the triggers.”

“Are they all dead?” asked Reuben. “We were under pressure and moving, and I’m afraid we probably shot to kill.”

“They were strung with grenades,” said the lieutenant. “They weren’t going to be taken alive.”

“Lucky thing we didn’t hit any of the grenades,” said Cole, “or there’d be no body left to identify.”

There was the unmistakable sound of several grenades going off in series down by the Tidal Pool.

“Bastards!” shouted the lieutenant.Then he ran down the hill toward the chaos of mangled bodies and screaming survivors.

“They booby-trapped themselves,” said Reuben, sick at heart. “Apparently killing the President wasn’t enough.”

“You didn’t plan all of this,” said Cole. “You couldn’t have planned for a White House insider.”

“But I did,” said Reuben. “I said they either had to have a devastatingly powerful weapon, or reliable intelligence—not only about whether the President was in residence, but also exactly where he was inside the building.”

“Yes, but putting that in the plan doesn’t give them the resources,” said Cole. “They can’t just magically say, Alakazam, and they’ve got a White House source.”

But there was a guy in the White House who knew all about Reuben and his projects. “I thought I was on two different assignments,” said Reuben. “One from my day job at the Pentagon, one from my White House guy.”

“Shit,” said Cole. “They were working you from both ends.”