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branches in capturing and decoding enemy SIGINT. So when, for example, a Navy submarine tapped an undersea Soviet communications cable, or one of the Air Force’s many electronic surveillance overflights picked up hostile transmissions, they were relayed to the CSS for evaluation and, if necessary, action.
    But the CSS chafed at being a bystander and, using the “No Such Agency” cloak of anonymity, quickly moved into the void, coordinating covert strikes on Soviet assets with the utmost plausible deniability—“accidents” were amazingly common—and establishing its own presence as a service to be reckoned with. Still, resistance from the uniformed services kept it in the shadows of its birth, where it lurked now—the incognito, but highly effective, muscle arm of the NSA.
    â€œSpecifically, Section 6.1.21,” added Rubin.
    â€œWhat’s that?” interjected Hartley.
    â€œShut the fuck up, Bob,” barked Tyler. “Remind me again what that is,” he asked Rubin.
    â€œIt’s the section of the NSDM that says that the CSS may ‘perform such other functions as the Secretary of Defense assigns.’”
    â€œWe’re talking about a Branch 4 operation, sir,” said Seelye. “It’s that simple.”
    â€œRemind me again what Branch 4 is?”
    Seelye ignored the question. “Sir, Branch 4 was established precisely to deal with situations like these, so unless you’re prepared to see kiddie corpses start flying out those windows, we strongly advise you to let us get this operation up and running ASAP.”
    The president’s gaze drifted from face to face to the TV set on the other side of the Oval Office, to Edwardsville and the two dead teachers. Finally, it alighted on Rubin. “And your advice is, Howard? Branch 4 or…?”
    â€œOr surrender before anybody else gets killed and run the risk of impeachment from Senator Hartley’s party for dereliction of duty. It’s that simple.”
    The president glanced over at Hartley, who silently nodded his assent. “General?”
    â€œI’ve been involved in counterterrorism since the 1980s,” said Seelye, “and if this isn’t a job for Branch 4, then nothing is. We need to get in there, take them out, and disappear.”
    The president was confused but convinced. “So how do we do it?”
    â€œGet ‘Devlin.’ Now.”
    â€œWho’s Devlin?” asked Hartley.
    â€œShut the fuck up, Bob,” ordered the president.
    â€œMr. President, sir,” objected Hartley, “you invited me here and—”
    Tyler ignored him. “Who’s Devlin?” he asked.
    â€œâ€˜Devlin’ is the code name for Branch 4’s most trusted and highly skilled operative,” explained Seelye, with uncontrolled pride. “He’s an expert in cryptology, in electronic surveillance, in marksmanship, and in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, he’s the best we’ve got.”
    The president’s incredulous look begged Seelye to continue. “Nobody knows his real name. If it exists on record at all, it’s buried deep in the NSA files. Operationally, however, he used a rotating series of other pseudonyms, never the same one twice. Not even we know what they are when he goes into action.”
    President Tyler was incredulous. “You mean to tell me that the United States government has an anonymous operative we can’t really control?”
    â€œNo, sir,” replied Seelye. “Not the United States government. We do. The three of us in this room.” Seelye caught himself, looked over at Hartley. “And one member of congressional oversight.”
    If Tyler regretted his decision to let Hartley sit in on the meeting, his face didn’t betray him. “Go on,” he ordered, glancing over at Hartley with an unspoken warning: shut the fuck up, Bob.
    â€œImagine a platoon of high-tech