Page 2 of Cross Down
General Grissom letsthe president lead the way.
A female Secret Service agent wearing a black pantsuit with a white blouse opens the French doors; she’s backed up by another agent wearing tactical gear and holding an automatic weapon. On the Oval Office patio, a closed-off area terraced with small trees and bushes, the president takes one wrought-iron chair and Grissom takes the other.
“This is what we’ve learned,” Grissom says, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. A weathered pink scar runs across the top of his right hand, courtesy of militants in Somalia. “It’s like a swarm of wasps flying in random directions, seeking out targets, attacking, disappearing, then attacking again. Car bombs, one attempt at a dirty bomb, poisonings, shootings, attacks at malls and shopping centers. At first it was the randomness that confused law enforcement and intelligence agencies. What was the point? And the terrorists who were captured, they were a mix: Teenage boys. Honorably discharged veterans. Even a few goddamn grandmothers. Angry wasps out there, each attacking for a separate reason. They’re anti-government or anti-liberal or anti-conservative. No real thread connecting them.”
The president says, “So where’s the wasps’ nest? The source?”
“Good question, sir, and we’ve narrowed it down. We have located a few lines of financing and other support from Iran, China, Russia, and some Mexican cartels. Nothing that would stand up in a court of law. But this support is deep and widespread. The previous attacks, they were practice. Domestic terrorist cells are planning assaults, and, sir, they’re coming here. To the District.”
The president sags in his chair. “When?”
“Possibly within a week. The chatter—some open communications and some partially deciphered e-mails—is pointing to the attack coming soon.”
“Any chance it’s just random chatter? False flags?”
Grissom shakes his head. “With two or three threats, that’s possible. But no, these threats are too deep, too specific. There is a lot of anger and bitterness out there among Americans, sir, and someone is expertly tapping into that resentment, firing people up and pointing them at us. During the January sixth riots, most of the protesters were initially peaceful, crazed though they might have been. It took only a small number of hard men goading the demonstrators to turn that crowd into a violent mob that threatened our institutions.”
Grissom looks the president in the eye. “The American people are normally a peaceful lot. But in these troubled times…they can be molded, shaped, encouraged to commit violence. That’s what we’re up against, sir.”
The president says, “What do we do, then?”
“Sir, I’d like to have a principals’ meeting as soon as possible. Perhaps this evening, with you in attendance, and representatives from the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the DC Metro Police. A task force to take the lead and try to prevent future attacks.”
“And you?”
“I’d be there, of course.”
The president smiles. “This task force will need a leader.”
“The head of the FBI or Homeland Security should take that role, sir. I’d be on hand with the military to supply any resources they need.”
The president shakes his head. “I’m thinking of someone else, General. Someone I can rely on and who won’t bullshit me.”
“The secretary of defense?”
The president says, “You.”
Grissom is startled into silence. He hasn’t been this surprised since that hot morning in Mogadishu when a brother-and-sister team who sold sweet tea outside the main gate delivered Russian-made F-1 hand grenades in the battered cups.
“Mr. President, the civilian leadership won’t like it,” he says. “Pushback and resistance won’t work in our favor.”
“The civilian leadership will do as I say or they’ll be replaced. But if I put you in charge, what has to be done?”
Grissom thinks for a moment. “We’ll need a presidential finding. And a confidential executive order temporarily suspending Posse Comitatus.”
“Remind me, how many military bases do we have domestically?”
“Nearly five hundred,” Grissom says.
With more confidence in his voice, the president says, “That’s an incredible resource that would allow the military—working with civilian law enforcement—to respond quickly to emerging threats if we find out that these attacks are coming from within our borders. Which you believe they are, based on the traffic analysis of the encrypted messages.”
Grissom hears sirens racing by beyond the grounds of the White House. “That’s a good point, sir,” he says.
“Then you’ll take the lead?”
He rubs his hands together for a moment. “I will, but reluctantly, sir. Mr. President, you have tough decisions ahead. Restriction of civilian movement, control and oversight of the internet to prevent the spread of misinformation and fake news. Your administration may have to consider a temporary declaration of martial law. I don’t envy you, Mr. President.”
The president says with a wry look on his face, “You ever see the side-by-side photos of presidents on the day they’re inaugurated and the day they leave office? It’s all there, all the burdens, all the decisions, in the lines on their faces and their white hair.” A faint smile. “That’s why we get the big bucks, right?”
