The Archangel Project by C.S. Graham

the unimaginable: over the course of a political career that spanned nearly three decades, he had made no real enemies inside the Beltway.
    Clark Westlake cleared his throat. “There are a few things we thought you should be aware of, sir,” he said, and launched into a discourse on the repercussions of the rise in Chinese fuel consumption and the situation in Somalia.
    Beckham kept putting. He putted through Westlake’s witty retelling of the latest sex scandal to rock the British government. But when Westlake started talking about a new Iranian missile test, Beckham looked up.
    â€œWhat did you say this missile is called?”
    â€œThe Kowsar, sir. The Iranians are claiming it has a new kind of guidance system that can’t be scrambled. And that it’s invisible to radar.”
    â€œIs it?”
    Westlake shrugged. “We don’t know for sure yet. ButIranian radar isn’t particularly advanced. It’s more likely the Kowsar can evade Iranian radar but not ours.”
    Beckham gave his golf ball a soft nudge that sent it rolling into the cup. “So what’s the significance?”
    â€œThe Iranians are claiming the Kowsar as their own development. But sources suggest the missile is actually Russian-made. Acquired either from China or the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe Revolutionary Guard is holding maneuvers this week. They’ve code named the exercise ‘Great Prophet.’”
    Beckham lined up another ball. “We hold maneuvers and test missiles all the time.”
    Westlake laughed. “Yeah. But we’re the good guys.”
    â€œThe Iranians might argue with that.”
    Westlake studied the VP’s craggy, half-averted profile. It was the kind of stupid remark Beckham was always coming out with. How did you answer something like that? “Our concern is that the timing of the maneuvers and the missile test is not coincidental, sir. There are indications the mullahs are gearing up their defenses against a possible retaliatory strike.”
    Beckham slowly raised his head, his jaw going slack. “You mean, a strike from us? In retaliation for what?”
    â€œA new terrorist attack on American soil.”
    Beckham went to stand before the window, the putter dangling forgotten from one hand. “Is there any indication such a terrorist attack is imminent?”
    â€œI’m afraid so. There’s been a lot of chatter lately.”
    â€œWhat kind of chatter?”
    â€œMuch of it’s in code, sir. Plus we’re still having problems getting good linguists. We know the Iranians are behind something that’s going down soon; we just don’t know what.”
    Beckham breathed a long sigh that came out sounding both worried and, oddly, annoyed. “These are dangerous allegations, Clark. Dangerous and troubling.”
    â€œTroubling, sir?”
    The Vice President kept his gaze on the darkening scene outside the window. “My contacts in the intelligence community tell me you’ve been cherry picking high threat information. Creating the image of a threat that isn’t really there.”
    Westlake was startled into giving a quick laugh. What the hell kind of contacts did T. J. Beckham have in the intelligence community?
    Beckham kept his back to the room. “I still remember Colin Powell’s speech before the UN. You remember the one, don’t you? The irrefutable evidence of Iraqi weapons of mass destruction that weren’t there, the meetings between Saddam Hussein’s people and al-Qa’ida that never actually took place, the yellow cake from Niger that didn’t exist outside of evidence forged by some murky foreign intelligence service. Like most of my fellow Americans, I sucked it all in. I believed it, and it was all lies. Lies, or a mistake. I’m not sure which is worse—or if it even makes much difference to the tens of thousands of young