Read Online The Scorpion's Gate by Richard A. Clarke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard A. Clarke
Ads: Link
counter the Iranians.”
“Bloody mess, tragedy really,” Douglas said as he looked at the floor and shook his head.
“Yes, yes it was, Brian. I thought it was the right thing to do. Shit, everyone thought they had WMD. But with us gone, it’s still a mess. The Shi’a aren’t going to be able to put down that Sunni insurgency. It’s been going on for years and no sign of letting up. The Kurds are probably going to formalize their independence and then we’ll see what Baghdad tries to do about that. They won’t let Kirkuk go. It’s all been an awful waste of men and money. And for what, so that Iran can tell the democractically elected government of Iraq what to do?” Brad Adams was not playing the part of an American admiral now. “Listen, Bri, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for a week in Tampa and Washington. Should I go or is this attack on the base here going to happen that fast?”
“I’m leaving for London tonight myself, Brad. We think it’s a couple of weeks off, but we can’t find any sign of an Iranian al Qods Force here in town yet, just reports. If we find out otherwise, we’ll shoot up a flare.” Douglas was thinking he was glad to be working again with this big Baby Huey–looking American sailor. He was Ivy League, not off the Annapolis cookie-cutter assembly line, and he had proven again and again in Iraq that he could be trusted, and could get things done.
As Brian Douglas drove out through the Hollywood stage-set archway, a second armored Humvee was pulling into place. The Marine sticking through the roof cocked the M60 machine gun and pointed it down the access road.
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
R ussell MacIntyre got out of the beat-up taxi on Delaware Avenue, on the north side of Capitol Hill, where that gentle rise falls off toward Union Station. It was cold and damp, threatening to snow, so it did not look unusual that he had on a hat, pulled down low. None of the staff exiting out the back doors of the Senate office buildings were looking up anyway; they were rushing to the Metro station to get home, or at least to a warm bar.
MacIntyre entered through the back door of the Hart Senate Office Building, the newest of the three edifices that housed the personal and committee offices of the one hundred United States Senators. The sign on the door said “Staff Only.” MacIntyre flashed a badge to the three Capitol Hill policemen who stood around the magnetometer and X-ray machine. “It’s okay, sir, just step through,” the tall African-American police sergeant said, waving his arm. “Don’t worry if it goes off.” The value of the badge was that in some places where it was recognized, the security force expected that you were armed and didn’t mind. MacIntyre was not carrying, although he was entitled to. The Intelligence Analysis Center he helped to manage was really not an operational unit, so he thought it would be a little odd and unnecessary to carry the Glock that he had been issued.
He had entered the Hart Building Senate Office through the back door into the basement level, but instead of taking the elevator up, MacIntyre opened a door and took the stairway down. At the B-2 level, he entered a corridor with a maze of pipes hanging under the low ceiling. It was not an elegant part of Capitol Hill.
Halfway down the corridor, he paused before a door with a sign that said only “SH-B2-101.” He went to pick up a phone on the wall, but before he could place the receiver to his ear, the door lock buzzed and he pushed it open. Inside, a woman who looked to be in her sixties smiled at him from behind her desk and said, “Go on in, Rusty. The Senator’s waiting for you.”
Inside, the office was elegant: dark wood paneling, thick maroon carpeting, green leather chairs, brass fixtures. MacIntyre thought this is what Santa Claus’s office would look like if Saint Nick became the CEO of the North Pole. It was, in fact, the hideaway office of the Chairman of
“Bloody mess, tragedy really,” Douglas said as he looked at the floor and shook his head.
“Yes, yes it was, Brian. I thought it was the right thing to do. Shit, everyone thought they had WMD. But with us gone, it’s still a mess. The Shi’a aren’t going to be able to put down that Sunni insurgency. It’s been going on for years and no sign of letting up. The Kurds are probably going to formalize their independence and then we’ll see what Baghdad tries to do about that. They won’t let Kirkuk go. It’s all been an awful waste of men and money. And for what, so that Iran can tell the democractically elected government of Iraq what to do?” Brad Adams was not playing the part of an American admiral now. “Listen, Bri, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for a week in Tampa and Washington. Should I go or is this attack on the base here going to happen that fast?”
“I’m leaving for London tonight myself, Brad. We think it’s a couple of weeks off, but we can’t find any sign of an Iranian al Qods Force here in town yet, just reports. If we find out otherwise, we’ll shoot up a flare.” Douglas was thinking he was glad to be working again with this big Baby Huey–looking American sailor. He was Ivy League, not off the Annapolis cookie-cutter assembly line, and he had proven again and again in Iraq that he could be trusted, and could get things done.
As Brian Douglas drove out through the Hollywood stage-set archway, a second armored Humvee was pulling into place. The Marine sticking through the roof cocked the M60 machine gun and pointed it down the access road.
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
R ussell MacIntyre got out of the beat-up taxi on Delaware Avenue, on the north side of Capitol Hill, where that gentle rise falls off toward Union Station. It was cold and damp, threatening to snow, so it did not look unusual that he had on a hat, pulled down low. None of the staff exiting out the back doors of the Senate office buildings were looking up anyway; they were rushing to the Metro station to get home, or at least to a warm bar.
MacIntyre entered through the back door of the Hart Senate Office Building, the newest of the three edifices that housed the personal and committee offices of the one hundred United States Senators. The sign on the door said “Staff Only.” MacIntyre flashed a badge to the three Capitol Hill policemen who stood around the magnetometer and X-ray machine. “It’s okay, sir, just step through,” the tall African-American police sergeant said, waving his arm. “Don’t worry if it goes off.” The value of the badge was that in some places where it was recognized, the security force expected that you were armed and didn’t mind. MacIntyre was not carrying, although he was entitled to. The Intelligence Analysis Center he helped to manage was really not an operational unit, so he thought it would be a little odd and unnecessary to carry the Glock that he had been issued.
He had entered the Hart Building Senate Office through the back door into the basement level, but instead of taking the elevator up, MacIntyre opened a door and took the stairway down. At the B-2 level, he entered a corridor with a maze of pipes hanging under the low ceiling. It was not an elegant part of Capitol Hill.
Halfway down the corridor, he paused before a door with a sign that said only “SH-B2-101.” He went to pick up a phone on the wall, but before he could place the receiver to his ear, the door lock buzzed and he pushed it open. Inside, a woman who looked to be in her sixties smiled at him from behind her desk and said, “Go on in, Rusty. The Senator’s waiting for you.”
Inside, the office was elegant: dark wood paneling, thick maroon carpeting, green leather chairs, brass fixtures. MacIntyre thought this is what Santa Claus’s office would look like if Saint Nick became the CEO of the North Pole. It was, in fact, the hideaway office of the Chairman of
Similar Books
