force projection” to lasso contracts for new ships and planes and weapons systems. “Build whatever the fuckers want,” Gates said. He would have nothing to do with that side of the company, as long as it made a lot of money.
In return, he demanded an unlimited budget that would not be answerable to them. Let the lawyers and accountants figure out how to hide it from the 1RS, but it had to be a totally black account and available when he wanted. “Gates Global is expanding and you don’t need to know the details,” he told them. “Stop thinking in millions and start thinking in billions. You all will make a lot of money and nobody will ever be indicted for anything if you keep your mouths shut and stay out of my way.” He stared around the room and then abruptly walked out, leaving no doubt about who was the company’s new leader.
Gates’s vision was that the United States military was going right back to where wars are always won, with boots on the ground. It was the topic he knew best, because he had walked many miles in those boots, humping a pack and carrying an automatic rifle. Teams of highly trained Special Operations soldiers would fight the country’s future conflicts because the national defense could not be entrusted to acne-pimpled National Guard soldiers or fat-ass regular army colonels. In his plan, the private units could be combined in any size, from the lethal two-man Shark Teams that did special jobs all the way up to battalion size or even bigger. Gates was building the preeminent private security company in the world, and that was only the first step.
Gates, Buchanan, Reed. The three people standing before the fireplace, holding crystal glasses of scotch, would redirect the enormous and ever-growing Pentagon budget to fund private armies, with Gates Global positioned to provide everything from bullets to beans, transportation to firepower, for a nice price. Other major corporations could handle infrastructure needs or be front companies to keep the Gates name out of tricky situations. PSCs were the future. American soldiers did not need to spill their blood abroad when mercenaries could do the same job better, faster, cheaper, under no political restraints, and without press coverage. He would draw upon the Pentagon’s resources as needed for the big stuff like close air support and satellites and aircraft carriers, but all of that eventually would come under his umbrella, too.
Just a little tinkering was needed to get the plan past the Democrat and Republican politicians and the media howlers. That should be simple enough when America endured the worst siege of terrorist attacks in its history and thousands of U.S. citizens were slaughtered in shopping malls and hospitals and homes. Enraged and frightened citizens would demand that they be kept safe!
Civilian police were not up to the task. American troops would be needed to protect American shores and borders and cities and towns when martial law was imposed. To fill the vacuum abroad, Gates Global would be given the grateful appreciation of the nation to fight Washington’s foreign battles. After a few years, the door would open wider for stateside operations as well. Martial law would morph into a new, firmer way of running the country under a banner of national security.
It was time to implement Operation Premier while Senator Reed had the legislative clout and Buchanan could deliver the executive branch.
“So, Ruth Hazel, now that Senator Miller is out of the way, where does it leave our privatization bill?” Gates brought those harsh eyes to her.
“I will bring the American Defense Act before the subcommittee next week and fast-track it through the full committee, both in closed sessions. When Operation Premier creates a significant domestic terrorist strike just before the vote, the House of Representatives will respond with a similar bill and a conference committee will rubber-stamp it. It will be political suicide for any of them to oppose defending America while the blood of innocents is in the streets. Gerald should see the bill come down to the White House in no more than thirty days.”
Buchanan nodded. “I will brief the President and endorse the act. That crap in the Middle East has tortured him enough, the media is always bitching about it, and he’s anxious to get out of there. There are a lot of fronts in the war on terror, and something decisive hitting in the American heartland will give him the political cover to readjust his sights and bring our troops home.”
“You’re sure that he will sign the privatization bill?”
“Absolutely.” Buchanan lifted his own eyes and looked at his comrade’s. “If we wrap up the one remaining loose end.”
Gates laughed out loud. “You mean with General Middleton?”
“Middleton cannot be allowed to testify before my committee!” Senator Reed said firmly, putting down her glass and crossing her arms. “He’s only a one-star, but he is influential as hell with his books and lectures about the value of a professional military that answers to elected civilian officials. Together, he and Miller would have stopped us cold. They were planning a public relations offensive on this, including getting television networks to cover the hearings. Open hearings!”
“Which is exactly why they are not in Washington today,” said Gates. “We have gotten rid of Miller with the heart attack, and the general has been kidnapped and will not survive the adventure. Neither can be traced to us.”
Buchanan shuffled a toe of his tasseled loafer into the thick carpet. “I have been riding the Pentagon and the intel services hard. When your people reveal the location, the Marines will launch a rescue operation, just as you predicted, Gordon. I will let them do it, of course, reporting the plans directly to me.”
Gates nodded. “The Sharks and some of the Rebel Sheikh’s militia boys will be ready when Force Recon guys arrive in Syria. Cameras will record the destruction of most of the assault force, but a few Marines will be allowed to fight their way into the house where Middleton is being held.”
“And they will all be killed together in the shootout, on video,” Reed said. “Another military debacle.”
Gordon Gates smiled. “I want to add one last piece to the scenario, Gerald. Just imagine that in the middle of the shootout, a U.S. Marine is actually shown to be the one who kills General Middleton.”
“How could we possibly arrange that?”
“Simple. You, my friend, take one of the best snipers on the CIA roster and order it done. Remove him from the chain of command. When the rescue fails, the sniper is to make certain that the general’s vast knowledge of homeland security information does not fall into enemy hands.”
“How does he survive that initial ambush?” Buchanan scratched his ear.
Gates knew the capabilities of a good operator and waved away the question. “The firing will not be very heavy, and if he is any good at his job, he won’t have much trouble being among those getting to the right house.”
“Would he actually do it? Shoot the general?” asked Senator Reed.
“Only if it was a direct order from his commander-in-chief in the White House,” said Buchanan. “When the last members of the rescue team are being wiped out, the sniper becomes both our insurance policy and a fall guy for any blame. Then he is also taken out. End of a tragic fiasco.”
“You boys can take care of that, Gordon. All I care about is that Middleton not show up before my committee.” The senator brought the conversation back to center point. “He could wreck everything.”
“Excellent. Excellent,” said Gates. “So that brings us to decision time on Operation Premier. Senator?”
“It has to be done,” said Reed.
“Don’t go vague on us, Ruth Hazel. Say exactly what you mean, not some political bullshit. You agree that we will prepare the Shark Teams for the theater attacks. We must be absolutely plain with each other. After all, the three of us essentially are staging a coup.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Gerald?”
“Yes. Do it.”
“Me, too. Yes. It’s unanimous.” He flashed that enigmatic smile again. “Now let’s have a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine to salute this historic creation of New America.”
CHAPTER 11
KYLE SWANSON WATCHED the television report silently, his arms crossed. Bradley Fucking Middleton! The general’s picture came on the screen, a stock photo of him in full dress uniform and an American flag in the background. It was not a face that Kyle ever enjoyed seeing. Every time they met, something bad
