Breakpoint (2 page)

“No, we won't,” Fred Calder said flatly, and turned to the three-star Air Force general sitting behind the Defense Department plaque. “General Richards, I assume the Pentagon still has connectivity abroad?”

The Air Force man frowned at being called on, but he pulled out a set of half-glasses and opened a loose-leaf notebook in front of him. He had been a fighter pilot most of his career, but he was now in charge of Pentagon cyberspace activities. The General read, “PACOM reports some degradation to the classified SIPRNET and unclassified NIPRNET, but high-priority traffic is moving without problem on SIPRNET. EUCOM and CENTCOM report serious outages in connectivity on both classified and unclassified networks. Defense Information Systems Agency has initiated an INFOCON ALPHA condition, switching some SIPRNET traffic to unutilized bandwidth on space-based national assets, but four of the seven war-fighting commands are reporting nonoperational mission-critical functions because of NIPRNET outages and, as Jake there just indicated, we cannot prioritize NIPRNET traffic.” With that, the General removed his half-glasses and closed his book.

There was a moment of dead air as some in the room pondered the implications of what the General had just said and others tried to figure out exactly what it
was
that the General had just said.

“I'm sorry, General…is it Richardson? I'm not a military man or really very technical at all. I represent the Commerce Department. Could you or somebody explain what you just said in words I might, well,
understand
?” It was Undersecretary of Commerce Clyde Fetherwill, who had played an important role in the President's campaign in Florida.

Gordon Baxter, a seasoned CIA bureaucrat, leaned forward and activated the microphone in front of his seat. “NIPRNET is Defense's unclassified internet system. SIPRNET is their internet for classified information, Secret and higher. What he said was that more than half of our forces overseas could not fully carry out their wartime missions right now because they do not have unclassified internet connectivity to the U.S.”

Harvey Tilden from the White House seemed surprised. “Is that right, General? Is that really the meaning of your report?”

“Hell, yes,” General Richards replied. “That's exactly what I just finished saying.”

Trying to regain control of the meeting, Fred Calder called upon the industry representatives from Sytho and SpruceNetworks to report on how quickly they could get replacement routers to the beachhead locations. The Sytho man grabbed his mike. “Well, of course, we do on-demand assembly and just-in-time delivery. It's not like we have inventory. If we got a valid purchase order now, we could have routers on location by the time the buildings to house them and the electrical and fiber were restored. Or a little while after that, at the latest.”

Tilden, the White House man, looked upset. “Mr. Chairman, if I may, it seems to me the real issue is…Well, does the FBI have any claims of responsibility…I mean, who the hell did this?”

Without speaking, with a wave of his wrist, Fred Calder invited the FBI representative to speak. The man in the double-breasted suit adjusted his tie. “Special Agent Willard Mulvaine, sitting in for Deputy Assistant Director Murrow. We will be reporting through appropriate channels, but I must be frank—it will be on a need-to-know basis only, of course, in order to protect any potential prosecution and to preserve sources and methods. But, since I have the floor, I need to stress again, Mr. Chairman, that all agencies and the private-sector partners here must provide the Bureau with all information they acquire relevant to this criminal investigation and should not share that information with the media or other agencies of government, be that state and local, or federal. We are the lead agency on this, ah, incident. Sharing information with others could constitute obstruction of justice and make individuals involved liable themselves for prosecution under relevant federal statutes.”

Fetherwill, from Commerce, leaned over to the CIA man who had been so helpful earlier and whispered, “What the hell did he just say? Is he going to arrest us?”

Gordon Baxter answered in a loud voice. “He said that if you give him the dots, he may connect some of them—but he won't tell anybody if the dots paint a picture.
Probably
because he wouldn't know.”

“Mr. Chairman, I object to that lack of interagency comity…” the FBI special agent sputtered.

“Some comedy,” CIA's Gordon Baxter muttered. “I thought CIA was screwed up. The Bureau is FUBAR.” He spoke up louder. “Here's what our analysts conclude with high certainty: This attack was carried out by a nation-state, perhaps subcontracted to a witting or unwitting criminal enterprise. Now all we have to figure out is who.”

Through the large plate-glass window in the Board Room wall, Fred Calder looked at the National Communications System's own Big Board, an integrated feed from all of the U.S. internet backbone providers. Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston were now blinking red. And as he watched, thinking of the Wizards tickets he had finally managed to get for that afternoon, and how he would never get to use them, Chicago switched to red and it began blinking, too.

He leaned forward in the chair and let a moment of quiet pass in the room. Then he summarized: “So let me see if I got this right: Some group has crippled the international financial system and degraded our military command control by blowing up obscure, unprotected, little buildings on beaches? We don't really know who did it or why they did it? And it will take us weeks at best to repair the damage? And we don't know if the attacks are over yet? Is that about it?”

There were nods of agreement around the table. Harvey Tilden, the man from the White House, looked pained. “Oh, I can't tell the White House that. They won't like that at all.”

1330 EST
Pentagon Officers' Athletic Center (POAC)
Arlington, Virginia

“I'm open!” Jimmy yelled across the court, then leaped to catch the ball thrown to him in response. He spun, dribbled, and went for the three-pointer. The ball rolled around the rim like a train on a rail, then just dropped in and through. As he raised his clenched fists over his head, Jimmy felt the vibration near his waist and pulled the Bluetooth earpiece out of his pocket. Walking to the side of the court, he pointed to the bench, to Darren, the tech-support guy who never got to play. “You're in.”

“Yah get one decent basket and yah walk off! What the fuck, Jimmy?” he heard a teammate say.

“Detective Foley,” said the voice in his ear, “this is Operations. The Director would like you to meet him at the British Embassy ASAP. Can I tell him your ETA?”

Jimmy Foley looked down at his sweat-drenched T-shirt and calculated how fast he could shower, change, and get on his Harley Fat Boy. “Where's the embassy?”

There was a pause, which at first he assumed was the duty officer on the other end looking up the address. Then, from the officer's tone, he realized it had been stunned silence at Jimmy's ignorance at what apparently everyone in Washington should have known. “On Embassy Row? Mass. Ave?”

“Thirty minutes from now,” Jimmy guessed as he moved into the locker room. “Say, two o'clock.” Turning the corner on the row of lockers, Jimmy's six-foot-two-inch frame almost collided with the frail, naked body of a man in his seventies or eighties. The skin seemed to hang off the old man's body. The POAC, as Jimmy's military buddies called their gym, always had retired colonels and generals doddering around trying to stay fit, trying to recall their younger, military lives. “Sorry, General,” Jimmy mumbled as he deked around the open locker door. He looked at the old man and admired the fact that he was still keeping in some sort of shape. He thought of his father, locked up inside a jumbled mind, staring at a television in an assisted-living home on Long Island. Wouldn't it be great if he could take his dad to a gym and work out with him once in a while?

“That's Admiral, not General, asshole,” Jimmy heard behind him as he threw his clothes on the floor and moved off toward the showers.

1335 EST
Northeast Women's Crisis Center
2nd Street NE, Washington, D.C.

“I gots to get out of D.C.,” the woman on the other side of the desk said. “My man is gonna find me. Thought I saw his ass down the corner yesterday. Only so many battered shelters in this town. He gonna find me.”

Susan Connor looked at the woman. It was possible they were about the same age, but the woman looked older, her eyes sunken, her nose broken. “You're afraid he'll hurt you again if he finds you?” Susan asked.

“He ain't bringin' me fuckin' flowers, sister. Wants his money back, but I done spent all that on the bus tickets, get the kids gone to my momma.”

Susan felt unsure of what to do or say, which was unusual for her. This was really not her world. “I'm sure the people here at the center could get you a lawyer, get a judge to issue a restraining order to keep him away from you….”

The woman's mouth dropped open and she stared at Susan, dumbfounded. “You talkin' 'bout me going to court? When I ain't been arrested? And Darnell gonna care what some guy in a robe say?”

“Look, we can help.” Susan stopped as she heard the tone in her earpiece. She pressed the receive button. “Connor here.” The woman shook her head and wandered off to sit with three others watching a television.

“Ms. Connor, this is Operations. The Director is at the U.K. Embassy and wants you there now.”

“On my way,” she said, getting up from the old metal desk. “ETA fourteen hundred. Out.”

As she moved quickly out of the cafeteria, Susan heard the woman call after her, “No need you comin' back, with that kind of advice, bitch.”

Susan sped up Massachusetts Avenue from the Women's Crisis Center on Third Street, through the underpass at Scott Circle, around the rotary at Dupont Circle, darting the new, Chinese Chery K522 through the Sunday-afternoon traffic. In her head she kept hearing lines from a twenty-year-old song by Tracy Chapman: “Last night I heard the screaming, loud voices through the wall.” Every other Sunday, Susan tried to help out at the shelter. Was it her way of atoning for her own success, of trying to reach out to others of her own race? Whatever had motivated her to start, she had almost convinced herself that she was doing no real good and should find some other way of giving back.

The Chery, built in Shanghai, was powered entirely by ethanol from switch grass. Its engine kicked in as she accelerated on the open stretch approaching the British compound. She smiled at the statue of Churchill outside the fence line. Winston was one of Rusty MacIntyre's heroes. She wondered why Rusty was at the British Embassy on a Sunday afternoon and, more important, why he wanted her to join him. She had worked with MacIntyre for only two years now, but they had been through a lot together. When he'd become director of the Intelligence Analysis Center last year, one of his first acts had been to put her in charge of the new Special Projects Branch. It was a job that made it exciting to go to work every day. She never knew what off-the-wall tangent Rusty would dream up next, only to have it appear in the headlines a month later.

As she shifted the car into park at the first guard booth, a motorcycle shot past her and skidded to a halt by the gatehouse. Two Royal Marines appeared from behind the gate. Both lowered short, Fabrique National P90 light machine guns. “Ho, I'm a friendly,” the biker yelled, peeling off his helmet.

Susan recognized Jimmy Foley, the NYPD detective who had just arrived on loan to the Intelligence Analysis Center. Her boss, Rusty, had assigned him to Susan's team at Special Projects a week ago, “to give you guys some street smarts,” he said. Susan was still trying to figure out Foley. He was handsome, easygoing—everybody
else
had instantly taken to him.

“Foley,” Susan yelled out of the car window, “don't get shot. It'll look bad on my record.” Foley laughed, reluctantly handing over his .357 SIG-Sauer to the embassy security guard.

1350 EST
British Embassy
Washington, D.C.

As Susan and Jimmy walked into the grand foyer of the embassy, they seemed, amid the grandeur, out of place and an unlikely couple. Foley, tall, freckled, and in a polo shirt and jeans. Connor, short and black, was wearing a blouse and chinos. Neither was dressed for the British Embassy. The last of the departing luncheon guests were getting their coats from the staff. The luncheon had been in honor of the visit of Sir Dennis Penning-Smith of the Cabinet Office, where he served the U.K. as the intelligence coordinator. As the British Ambassador said good-byes at the door to the usual suspects he had invited to brunch with him and his honored London guest, Sir Dennis walked into the library with Sol Rubenstein. Sol had recently been promoted to the position of director of national intelligence. Behind the two Intellocrats walked Rusty MacIntyre, the head of the U.S. Intelligence Analysis Center, and Brian Douglas, newly installed as deputy director for Operations of the British MI6, or as it is officially known, the Secret Intelligence Service.

“…no proof yet,” Rubenstein was saying as he lit a cigar. “But it has to be China, of course. Some sort of shot across the bow over Taiwan. They really wanted to scare the shit out of Taiwan to effect their election. What happens? The voters, in a show of defiance, elect the Independence Party in an upset instead, and we announce our support. Beijing said there would be consequences. Maybe this is the beginning of the consequences. A signal to us to stay away while they get ready to do something to Taiwan—or they will hurt us here in ways we had not even thought about.”