The Threat

In the conference room, the two pilots who happened to be on duty at the command center, one Customs, the other Air Guard, were telling Quintero it was impossible for the F-16s to have knocked such an aircraft down with only a close pass, when the same analyst who’d come up with the tail-number list knocked. He closed the door behind him.

He’d contacted Medellín air traffic control. They said HK 4016 was under contract to Ecopetrol, the Colombian state-owned oil company. Then he’d called the duty desk at the U.S. embassy in Bogotá, who had managed to contact Ecopetrol.

“All right, tell us,” Quintero said.

They were still trying to confirm, the analyst said. But it looked like the aircraft that had just disintegrated had indeed been on its way to Florida. But not to Miami, and not to a drug conference. The embassy trade rep, routed out of bed, said it was probably en route to a meeting with the Tampa Export Association on behalf of the Corporación Invertir en Colombia, the Colombian National Investment Promotion Agency.

“Who was aboard?” Quintero asked after a reluctant moment. Dan saw that the analyst no more wanted to tell them than they wanted to hear.

The traffic controllers and the night desk at the embassy weren’t entirely sure yet, he said. They were still checking. But early word was that the primary passenger had been the eldest son of the new president of Colombia.

8

The phones began ringing, and mounted to a discordant crescendo.

Quintero ordered a cutter dispatched to the crash site. Even at flank speed, it wouldn’t arrive till midmorning, but it was the closest rescue asset between Miami and Nassau. Then he sat like a brooding gargoyle, watching the wall display as if he could by sheer will make onrushing time rewind. He took a call from Atlantic Command in Norfolk. The handset clattered when Quintero put it back in its cradle. It rang again instantly. “You take it,” he said to the duty officer. “If it’s JCS, I’ll talk. Otherwise I’ll get back to them.”

Bloom said, “This is a disaster. A fucking disaster. Who’s going to tell the Colombians?”

“I’d say that’d be the White House,” Quintero said. “Right, Dan?”

Dan tried to think. “Well … it really should be State, since the initial notification will come through the embassy. I’ll let my boss know, though, so Mrs. Clayton can tell the president. He’ll want to make a consolatory call.”

Right after he fires me, Dan thought. He didn’t think he was to blame. But you didn’t have to be responsible to be guillotined. Only junior enough.

“It’s the CINC, on the conference room speaker,” the deputy interrupted. “The public affairs officer’s in there already. He’s getting together a release, to get our version on the street first.”

Quintero closed his eyes. When he opened them again he looked resigned. He nodded to Dan. Then went into the room and closed the door.

Unwillingly, but knowing he had to, Dan placed the call to Sebold’s home number. The director came awake instantly. No doubt over the years he’d been roused many times with bad news. He asked how they could be sure the fighters hadn’t fired. Whether their gun cameras were being checked. What Quintero and Dan were doing to get help to the crash site. He closed with the unadorned remark that there’d be repercussions. What they’d be, he didn’t say.

When he hung up Dan kept the handset against his ear to get a moment to think. He broke out sweating as the reality of what had happened penetrated another layer, like molten metal thawing its way through successive deposits of ice. By some unimaginable chance, they’d managed to kill the son and heir of the first leader who’d shown the inclination to rein in terror in the largest exporter of cocaine in the world.

By chance … but even as he thought it, he knew that had to be wrong. This was no coincidence. That night, of all nights. That

aircraft, out of all the hundreds in the sky. No. It was too horribly perfect.

Some malevolent intelligence, some malign strategy must lie beneath.

His fists were clenched. His jaw hurt. He felt as if he ought to, no, he had to do something. He was only here as an observer, true. So a press release could mention White House participation. But he wasn’t used to being surrounded by panic, confusion, and not doing anything. Command meant you gave orders, took action. Any action! That was Navy doctrine. Any action was better than none. Even the wrong move could confuse the enemy, blow his timetable, screw up his plan. Sitting on your hands, waiting for the situation to clarify itself — that was the freeway to defeat.

When he looked up everyone in the center was looking at him.

Of course they were. Wasn’t he the guy from the White House?

He slid down, past two people holding up phones in his direction, and bent over the comm console. Glanced at a tote board with frequencies and call signs.