Terminal Compromise

"It turns out that h.o.m.osoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones died."

Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which only provided a view of another office building across the street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.

"Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General Young: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearing on the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you and Rickfield don't see eye to eye."

Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that described the illicit relations.h.i.+p between General Young and Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.

"Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly.

"No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two and two and, well, it does raise some questions."

"I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious to answer."

6 P.M., Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you p.i.s.sing off and why?" Bob Burnson met Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street from Treasury at 6:00 PM.

Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and reluctantly accepted that for Scott's a.s.sistance in Tyrone's investigation he would get an exclusive.

For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew, just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems.

"I've been running into all sorts of bulls.h.i.+t here, CI, and don't forget our midnight rendezvous."

Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?

"What are you planning?" Bob asked them both.

"Scott's going after h.o.m.osoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get a few answers."

"And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too."

"Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean.

There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think it's about time to turn a few screws."

"Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's b.u.t.ton you're pus.h.i.+ng has pushed the Director's, whose aides have been all over my a.s.s like stink on s.h.i.+t. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi- cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the work while our a.s.ses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A perfect case of CYA."

"But?" Tyrone suggested.

"But," Bob said, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A Government approved horse s.h.i.+t here, but I'll be f.u.c.ked if know why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage stuff."

"They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid

"Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen.

"Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob.

"The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick for my blood. I hope you understand."

"Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks."

Friday, January 15 New York City

Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until 10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough commute.

He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to pa.s.s on to his audience.

At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd.

Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th.

Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.

Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He pa.s.sed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home.

By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the conversations from their police band radios.

At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city.

Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight - a ma.s.sive traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At 8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians nervously slipped in and around the chaos.

Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown from an airplane. The traffic computers.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus- sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed.

The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad- cast System so they could communicate with the half million drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat- tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen- tial government services were shut down for the day.

The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the National Guard was called to a.s.sist the local police. Sonja compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Good morning, Sonja?"

"Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?"

Sonja sipped her coffee.

"It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly.

"Something wrong?" Sonja asked.

"I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you."

Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to Scott Mason any more. I'm getting out."

"Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion.

"I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange- ments. You know what I mean?"