Written in Fire

CHAPTER 19

Owen Leahy was in the shower when the man came for him.

December didn’t often mean snow in northern Maryland, but somehow that was how he always thought of Camp David: bare trees brittle with frost, and a swirl of faint snowflakes. The image stuck in his head even in summer, and he’d find himself feeling chilly, craving extra blankets and hot showers. He’d been standing in the billowing steam for half an hour, thinking, idly tracing the pattern of liver spots on his forearms with water-wrinkled fingers.

Then suddenly there was an officer in a naval uniform in his private bathroom. “Mr. Secretary? There’s been an attack.”

Six minutes later, they were jogging past bare trees and frosted greenery, Leahy’s hair dripping on his suit, tie flapping behind him like a tail. Agents and soldiers were everywhere. Although officially a “country retreat,” Camp David was in effect a fortress, with antimissile batteries positioned in the woods and a nuclear-safe bunker deep underground.

When the president was in residence, the Laurel Lodge conference room served as the Situation Room. Leahy entered, quick-scanning the assembled team: representatives from the armed forces, the intelligence services, the cabinet. Many were new to their posts, replacing men and women who’d been killed in the missile strike on the White House, but he knew them all.

“Madam President.” To the room at large he said, “What’s happened?”

Sharon Hamilton, the national security advisor, said, “A wave of terrorist attacks across the country.”

“How many?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Why?”

“They’re still taking place.” Hamilton gestured to the bank of tri-ds.

After the last year, Leahy would have bet he couldn’t be shaken by footage of disaster. He’d watched the stock exchange fall, seen Cleveland burn, watched American troops massacre each other. And in a way, what was onscreen now was no different. It was just that there was so much of it. The screens were a grid of chaos and fire. Buildings smashed, infernos raging, people running in terror. Civilians spattered in blood, walking hollow-eyed. Children crying in the streets. And on the incident map, red dots glowed across the breadth of the country.

“Jesus. Any pattern to the targets?”

“Mostly military and political. Shooters in city hall in Los Angeles. A suicide bomber in a mess hall in Fort Dix. Two trucks forced the governor of Illinois’s limo into the Chicago River. There was a bomb outside the Federal Reserve—that one was stopped. The safety controls on the natural gas lines to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta were subverted, and the bulk of the complex is on fire. Most devastating so far is a massive explosion at the DAR, bombs apparently planted during the expansion of the facility. The newest building was flattened.”

“Casualties?” He looked to Marjorie May. The DAR director’s cheerful name belied her icy blend of political savvy and ruthless efficiency. But now her voice trembled as she said, “It’s the middle of the workday. A thousand people, maybe more.”

The world wobbled, and for a moment, Leahy thought he might fall down. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white. “The abnorms?”

“I’ve spoken to Erik Epstein,” the president said without looking away from the screen. “He offers condolences and assures us that the Holdfast was not involved.”

“Bullshit.”

Ramirez glanced over, cocked her head. Leahy said, “Sorry, ma’am, but that seems unlikely.”

“Respectfully, I disagree,” Marjorie May said. “I think John Smith is likelier. It’s his MO, and we’ve got a pattern of indicators suggesting he was about to attack.”

“Even so, Epstein is facing invasion. That makes him the real threat.”

“Mr. Secretary, I assure you, Smith represents—”

“I understand,” Leahy said. “I’m suggesting they’ve joined forces. Smith could be functioning as Epstein’s fixer, allowing him deniability. Alternately, maybe Smith fears Epstein capitulating in order to protect New Canaan.” He paused. “Regardless, this provides the political cover we would need to attack.”

“Enough.” Gabriela Ramirez had turned from the screens.

“Madam President—”

“Sit down.”

Leahy pulled out a chair. He opened his mouth to take up the argument again, but the president cut him off. “Listen to me, all of you. ‘Who’ is not important. There are attacks on America happening right now. Our people are dying. The first order of business isn’t assigning blame, and it’s not gearing up for war. Our job is to stop any further attacks. To save lives. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now. DAR. I’m sorry for your losses, but I need you to work through it. Can your people do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. As of this moment, the national priority is stopping more attacks. I want all resources tasked to threat analysis and prevention.”

“I understand.” Director May hesitated. “We’re going to be stretched pretty thin. Many of the people killed today were agents and operators. Plus, on any given day, we have indicators of hundreds of threats. If we’re investigating all of them, we won’t be able to do much else. Including finding the instigator of today’s attacks.”

“I want this situation under control first. Secretary Leahy.” Ramirez turned to him. “What’s your plan for halting the militia attack on the Holdfast?”

Leahy sat quietly. It was a trick he’d developed over the years: fingers on the table, eyes steady but slightly unfocused, like he was performing complex mental calculations. Make them wait. It was particularly effective at managing people who were used to immediate answers to their questions—like presidents. Just before the silence grew uncomfortable, he spoke. “Madam President, I don’t think we should.”

“Explain.”

“Sometimes the best defense is keeping your opponent off-balance. NSOL represents an opportunity to do that.”

“If I make the decision to attack the Holdfast, it will be with United States soldiers.”

“The public is already vocal in their desire for a response. After today’s tragedy, they will demand we strike back. The New Sons allow us to do that without limiting our options.”

“Mob rule is not our way.”

“Stopping the militia will be seen as a demonstration of weakness.” Before she could respond, he added, “There’s also the fact that we can’t.”

President Ramirez raised one eyebrow.

Choose your words carefully. “The retrograde of military forces leaves us in an awkward position.” Looks danced around the room, everyone catching the subtle jab. Ramirez had ordered the retrograde, and though Leahy hadn’t said as much, the hint of blame wasn’t hard to catch.

“Are you saying that our military isn’t currently capable of stopping a crowd of civilians?”

“I’m saying, ma’am, that any incursion into the Holdfast has a good chance of being perceived as an attack. Even if our only purpose is to turn back the militia, there is no way Epstein can be sure of that. Not only that, but the retrograde isn’t complete. There are still numerous vulnerabilities in our armed forces.” Leahy gestured to the tri-d where live footage of the DAR complex ran. The ruined building looked like God had stomped on it. Choking smoke rose from a hundred places, and bodies were strewn everywhere. “Today is a reminder of what abnorms are capable of. If we corner Epstein, there’s no guarantee that he won’t launch an all-out attack.”

He thought about adding more, decided against it. After a long moment, Ramirez turned back to the screens.

Leahy didn’t let himself smile. He wouldn’t have wished for the events of the day, but he could use them. The terrorists continued to miss the point. The more damage they wrought, the more they strengthened the position of men like him. Ramirez had basically ordered the DAR to chase their tails playing defense, and in the meantime, left the field open to those who could see that no game was ever won on defense alone.

Even now, the New Sons of Liberty were pushing deeper into the Holdfast. The drone bombardment hadn’t stopped them; Epstein’s bluff had failed. What came next wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be effective.

You’re going to have your war. The war America needs. Focused, contained, and crucial.

And when it’s over, you’ll still be standing—atop the heap.