Washington DC, A Friday, 5:16 pm
“You’re needed in SIOC.”
“Did the watch commander give a reason?”
“Only to pull you out of a meeting if necessary.”
Entering FBI headquarters’ global communications and operations center, the Director found her deputy standing at the back of the room, a hand curled around his mouth, its fingers splayed from upper lip to chin and below, its thumb tucked under his jaw. His eyes followed two feeds displayed on the opposite wall, both similar command and control hubs, both overflowing with professionals entering and exiting at a rapid pace, forming and reforming ad hoc groups of three or four, their hands gesturing at their own wall-mounted monitors, their discussions sounding like a cacophony, these conversations transmitted through his headset. Flanking him was the director of the FBI’s National Security Branch, who juggled two mobile phone calls, and of a captain from the agency’s Critical Incident Response Group, who relayed orders through his own headset. One at a time broadcasts from four local affiliate stations, CNN, and Fox News began playing on the wall, their crawlers blanked then flashed a breaking news alert. “That’s that then. Word’s out. Get someone from public affairs down here.”
The watch commander for this shift approached her. “Ma’am, White House Chief of Staff’s holding for you, the President wants briefed on this ASAP. And NSA’s looking for an excuse to deploy a military response.”
There was yet to be a situation in which the National Security Advisor didn’t want to include an army detachment. Mauve asked, “Do we know what this is?”
Jason joined their conversation. “Barely.” The deputy director muted his headset’s microphone. “An anonymous caller reported a suspicious package seen on the subway, an inbound blue line car near Federal Triangle station. The engineer confirmed the item on board. Metro Transit authority requested our assistance with evaluation and removal. Bomb technicians are en route. Our DC field office is mobilizing for witness canvassing. Local police are managing crowd control. Transit police have jurisdiction.”
“Get me a direct line to their Chief,” Mauve said.
A mobile was offered. “Already setup.” Before resuming his station, the watch commander said, “There’s a backup landline as well. White House is holding in the executive conference room.”
“Thank you. Effected train’s status?”
“Halted in place. Evacuation in progress of passengers and staff as well as the Federal Triangle station. Any train in range was reversed and diverted.” Jason gestured at real-time videos shot by those affected playing on every news channel then queried the room, “Are we recording these?”
“Yes sir,” a chorus said.
Mauve scrutinized him. Their professional partnership stretched from the bureau Academy through assignment to the same unit after graduation to collaboration when leading separate field offices within and without United States borders, a relationship closer than and outlasting most marriages. “What’s your gut?”
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He glanced at the news feeds; eyes narrowed at a commentator’s suppositions. “How do they get these so-called subject matter experts on-air this fast? Are they hanging in some sort of green room bat cave, fully suited and waiting for a summons?” His attention refocused on Mauve. “In theory, this looks bad. A bomb, or a chemical or viral agent set to disperse near or at a subway stop accommodating three lines and servicing multiple government agencies as well as popular tourist sites. Please put up a map of the area surrounding Federal Triangle.” As Jason ticked off locations, they highlighted. “The Internal Revenue Service, Environmental Protection Agency, Justice, us. On the civilian side, the Smithsonian, the Aquarium, the Mall. During rush hour. On the busiest day of the week. A perfect storm if you want to make a big splash … or harm a lot of people.” He paused.
“But?”
“Tipping your hand? That’s amateurish. The package wasn’t well hidden. If an organization has the smarts and financing to disrupt, terrorize, to detonate a bomb in the middle of a superpower’s capital city, why entrust the gambit to an inexperienced courier?” A small head shake tempered those doubts. “But we’re at the beginning of this, not the end …”
“And we don’t know what we don’t know,” Mauve finished.
An agreeing chin bob executed in slow motion, its accompanying facial expression was creased and grim. “That’s what keeps me up at night.”
Mauve returned after briefing the President and his staff. The bomb technicians and equipment were in place. Their captain stood by a live stream from the site, an underground subway tunnel three hundred feet from the train, which had joined the other feeds on the wall. “Robot’s deployed, imaging in progress.” Pressing the headset closer to his ear, he listened then frowned. “X-ray a no-go. Package must be lined with lead or tungsten. Lucy, I’m switching your mike to speaker.”
On screen colleagues helped an agent into an explosive ordinance disposal suit and switched on the helmet’s video camera. A hazmat suited team from Homeland Security were now also in place. Mauve reminded herself to breathe as the technician approached the suspicious item and carefully settled on her knees in front of a cardboard box sealed with duct tape.
Lucy narrated. “In inches the size is 12 x 12 x 6. A new box, no torn flaps, no stubbed edges. I’m releasing the tape.”
Seconds ticked by.
“Jesus.” Lucy scrambled back, crawling on hands and knees.
“Ask her to clarify,” Mauve instructed.
The technician was back in position before the order could be relayed. Her tone resumed its professional calm. “The box is filled with C-4. Detonator must be underneath it. I’ll have to pull the explosive out. Recommend all personnel retreat above ground. Increase the outside perimeter another fifteen hundred feet.”
Jason and Mauve traded worried glances. Her fingers grasp the small cross worn on a fine chain round her neck.
Minutes ticked by. No one spoke.
“All clear. All clear. All clear,” Lucy said. She stood. “There’s no cap, no wires, no timer. Only C-4. Send in the transport unit.”
Audible sighs of relief erupted throughout the room. Jason pulled off his headset, tossing it onto a table. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Well done,” the director said to Lucy. Then repeated for the group, “Well done all.” Mauve motioned for her deputy to follow. Each kept their own thoughts until the elevator doors closed. “Sit with our spokesman, Metro, and the White House. Find out how they want to present this. You take the evening and late-night interview, Min-jun can handle tomorrow, I’ll do the Sunday talk show rounds. We’ll get a day or two of softball questions until relief wears away for a bullet dodged. Have the DC field office run the investigation. I’ll speak to the President about giving us jurisdiction.” She patted the front pocket of her blazer. “Must have left my phone on the desk.”
On that mobile, two text notifications waited:
Private: Madame Director
Private: Let’s play