Zombieland, the sixth floor
Nick was back from the big meeting, and all waited for his account and direction. He’d worn his best suit, blue with banker’s pinstripes, peaked lapel, white shirt, red ancient madder tie, black Alden Long Wings. He looked like a Washington power player.
“Good news, bad news,” he said. “Anybody want to pick the order?”
Nobody did. Maybe the game wasn’t appropriate for them, as they were tired from the hours spent on The Problem, and eager to move on, and had no need for Nick’s charm, though on many other occasions they’d appreciated it.
“Boss,” said Chandler finally, “whatever.”
“Okay, nobody cares,” said Nick. “So I’ll start with the good. And it’s really good.”
He paused, smiled.
“Congratulations to you all, and I suppose to me too. At the top levels, they are extremely pleased and extremely eager. They believe your work represents a major victory over the threat of jihad in the West and the opportunity for a major victory. Not only have we saved a life and prevented the political and cultural chaos that would ensue from a terrorist event against a high-value target, they see a chance to be proactive and turn it into a major advantage. Even as I speak, that response is being organized. There’s just enough time to set the trap, and the people involved are talented and skilled enough to bring it off.”
“We ought to be on the Acela for New York right now,” said Neill. “I’m packed, and I’ve told my wife—hmm, what was her name? Wendy? Susie? Something like that—anyway, I’ve told her we’re going.”
“Neill, we’ve all worked long hours and gone without spousal visitations,” said Nick, “but the point is taken: you want it done fast so you can get back to normalcy. Me too. But that brings me to the bad news.”
He paused. “We’ve been fired.”
He let it sink in.
“I don’t see this as an insult, a gesture of contempt, a reaffirmation of the principle that no good deed goes unpunished. It’s not ‘Thank you very much, but what have you done for me lately?’ It’s simply the way the system works, and I should have prepared you better for it.”
“Is it politics?” Swagger asked.
“Well, I’d rather not speculate on meaning,” said Nick.
“Does this kind of shit happen in Israel?” Swagger asked Mr. Gold.
“Never. Except every day. And twice on most.”
“From a management point of view, I see the issue,” said Nick. “If we’re up there, we’re another layer that has to be briefed, kept in the loop—and, worst of all, listened to. We just get in the way of the Incident Command staff and turn it all murky. We think it’s our turf, and we’re hardwired to protect turf. Maybe we make different calls than they do, maybe we know too much, which can be as destructive as knowing too little. Maybe—and they’re right on this—Nick Memphis doesn’t have the experience to run something this big and complicated, and maybe the loyalty his people feel toward him clouds their judgment. Not saying it’s so, just saying that’s how it could be seen. And, once seen, it has to be avoided.”
“And maybe some Bigfoot wants the credit,” said Bob. “And maybe someone has a debt to be paid or wants to advance a protégé up the ladder. Or maybe someone thinks Nick’s shoes ain’t shiny enough or he should have worn cotton socks instead of wool ones, which he would have learned if he’d gone to a university that didn’t have ‘State’ in its name.”
“These are silk,” said Nick. “My only pair. So it’s not that.”
“So what happens to us?” asked Chandler.
“We stay here. We are copied on everything but asked to comment on nothing. If questioned, we answer to the best of our knowledge. On operation day, we will set up in the Command Center and will be able to follow the action by uplink to the New York Field Office in real time. We get a front-row seat, watching it all go down. That’s what everybody wants—and I do mean everybody.”
Again silence, as each tried to work his or her way around what was deemed necessary by upper management.
“I smell the White House,” said Neill. “I smell Mogul.”
“Okay,” said Nick, “maybe you do. Off the record, this was always in the cards, we just didn’t see it. But upper floor reads the Juba operation as a win-win. You all know there’s a cloud over the Bureau, and maybe a big triumph helps it go away. That’s the first win, and you better believe the Director is hot for that one. Then there’s the White House. You all know that elections are coming up, and if Mogul can get a victory over Islamic fundamentalism, that’s another big win. If he looks like a hero, it’s big enough to get him that second term. So everybody’s salivating, and intelligence concerns, strategic implications, and plain old justice just go out the window. Too much to be gained, in that superficial Washington way, with no downside. The best I can offer is, you’ve really pissed off the CIA, and they want in. But since it’s our baby, Mogul won’t let them in. So in the eternal war in Heaven between the angels, our side has won a big one, and you are the angels that did it. Recompense will come in many forms—promotions, Glory Wall photos and letters, commendations, everything that should make good little boys and girls happy. Swagger gets a new BarcaLounger at Bureau expense. And when it’s all over, Mr. Gold, maybe there’ll be enough Juba pie left over to send to Israel. Wouldn’t that make you and the boys in the black cube happy?”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Gold.
“It should even make Mrs. McDowell happy,” said Nick.
“What have these geniuses come up with?” asked Swagger.
“It’ll be run out of the New York Field Office, with a lot of New York SWAT and aviation thrown in. Real big, but I think it’ll work out.”
“Are you afraid to tell us?” asked Neill. “Is that why you’re buttering it up?”
“Neill,” said Chandler, “show some respect. Nick has been with us and behind us every fucking step.”
“You’re right,” said Neill. “Sorry, Nick, I misspoke.”
“Emotions running high. Everybody, please drop down into second gear, okay?”
He waited a few seconds.
“Okay, there’s a countersniper technology that turns on luring the bad guy to shoot through a microphone pickup field. It’s called Boomerang II, much improved from Boomerang I, from the folks at Raytheon. Maybe Swagger can explain it better.”
“I can’t,” said Bob.
“Anyway, the microphones yield data that the program can solve, and, in one millisecond, get you velocity, caliber, weight. But, most important, it can source the bullet. I mean, fast. They’ve used it hooked to artillery in the sandbox, and they can send a flight of 105 howitzer shells to point of origin inside a second. Takes care of the sniper and the city block or village in which he was hiding.”
“How do they get Juba to shoot in the right spot?” asked the annoying Neill.
“They’re arrayed, under camouflage, around the podium. They look sort of like a ball with spikes sticking out of it. The hardware isn’t gigantic or obtrusive, and it flashes the data back to the receiving station, in the Incident Command van.”
“So they’re going to get Juba to shoot over the microphones, then track him and blow him up?” asked Neill. “Bye-bye, Queens.”
“No. They get the read back to origin, and instead of sending 105s after him, they send assets that were put in place the night before—that is, NY SWAT teams airborne in choppers. They feel they can get them on-site inside a minute or two from various hidden locales, rappel the boys onto the rooftop while squad cars beeline in from just outside the zone, and, in that way, take him alive.”
“Meanwhile,” asked Swagger, “is Mogul dead?”
“No. The heavyset blond guy isn’t Mogul. He’s career Secret Service, in a blond wig, said to bear a pretty good resemblance to the real thing. Under his blue suit, white shirt, red tie below his zipper, and Elvis rug, he’s packed in enough Level IV Kevlar to stop a truck, no problem with a bullet that’s traveled eighteen hundred yards and whose velocity is way down, under a thousand pounds, like a handgun. From a hundred yards out, he’ll convince—let alone a mile out. First shot, he goes down, behind the armored podium. He’s risking a headshot, but that’s the name of the game. He’s a stud.”
“I’ll say,” said Swagger. “I wouldn’t do that job for all the money in the world. Or all the glory.”
“Anyhow, maybe Juba goes down hard, and it’s just a kill and a great success. But, Jesus, if they get him alive, what a bonanza. A live terrorist with a long and interesting past tasked with and almost succeeding at taking down Mogul. Everybody looks great, the Bureau looks fabulous, our real enemy, the CIA, looks pitiful, Mogul gets to strut and brag and do photo ops with the head of NYPD SWAT and the blond guy in Kevlar. Meanwhile, the interrogation and trial go on all through election season.”
“Too many moving parts,” said Swagger. “Wrong goal. Goal should be to stop him—first, last, and only. ‘Capture’ is overambitious bullshit. If you don’t fixate on ‘stop,’ it can go south hard and fast.”
“Our masters have spoken,” said Nick. “It will be as it will be.”