“I know this puts you between a rock and a hard place, Top, and no offense is intended. We just had to get here in a hurry for a special job, and someone decided this was the quickest way.” Rawls paused. “We won’t be here long.”
“And when we leave, we won’t be coming back,” added Stone. “Like Staff Sergeant Rawls, I don’t like big- footing anybody, but we don’t write orders.”
Master Sergeant Turnbridge calmed down. “Okay. Okay. Just burned my ass for a moment there. The orders are legitimate, so although I don’t have much to offer other than cover, my armory is open to you. I’ll furnish whatever you need. We can go pick it out now, get the serial numbers, and you can sign it out.”
“Sorry, but we cannot do that, either, Master Sergeant. We don’t sign for things. We just get stuff and are not supposed to bring it back. When we go, we’re gone.”
“My name is on that inventory list. I’m responsible for it!” said Turnbridge.
“Right. After we pick out what we need, you just send a classified message to the man whose name is on those orders, and he will erase all traces of those weapons from your Serialized Inventory List. It will be as if they were never here. Then they will be replaced with identical weapons carrying the proper paperwork.”
Turnbridge rubbed the prickly hair on his scalp. “Ain’t that some shit. You know, boys, I’ve been around the Corps for a long time, and the only people I know of who can operate like that aren’t even from Force Recon. We talking Task Force Trident here?”
Darren Rawls and Travis Stone just looked at him. “What kind of groceries you want?” Stone asked.
18
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY
CIA DIRECTOR BARTLETT GENEEN arrived at the White House at two o’clock on Wednesday morning to personally brief President Graham Russell in the Oval Office. The only other person in the room was the president’s chief of staff, Robert Patterson, a popular former congressman who had been with Russell since their days as football teammates at the College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. Patterson was a fierce protector of his friend and possessed a pit-bull, take-no-prisoners political temperament. The lights were subdued against the white walls, and small flames threw a soft glow from the fireplace. This was not the routine Presidential Daily Brief, which a ranking Agency official would deliver later in the day, but the president had wanted a final talk with Geneen before going to bed after the surprising release of the American captives.
“That was a slick piece of work, Bart,” said Bobby Patterson, shaking the CIA director’s hand as soon as he entered the Oval Office. “Congratulations.”
The president, sleeves rolled up, also gave him a warm welcome. “Have you spoken with the soldiers?”
“No, sir,” Geneen said. “We put them straight into Walter Reed Hospital out in Bethesda for thorough medical checkups. One has a bad cut on his arm, but other than that, there is only some bruising. We let them telephone their families, and that was how the news leaked.”
“Nothing but good,” said Patterson. “Other than allowing some family members in to see them,
Geneen nodded in agreement, the old spymaster already a step ahead. He knew how to orchestrate such events. “Of course. We will begin the full debriefing only after they are recovered. That will be a couple of days.”
Patterson softly clapped his hands. “Nothing but good.”
“How about the agents who were involved? Does this change anything on the strike against the terrorists who killed the other boy?” The president was clearly anxious to be kept up to speed with the pending assassinations.
“I spoke with the agent who brought them back, a bright young woman named Lauren Carson, and she says everything was in place for the hit when she left. We have had no word from the strike unit about any postponement. So we can assume it is still on.”
“That would make it quite a haul,” said President Russell. “Get both prisoners back and take out the terrorists who killed our soldier.”
“Yes, sir, it would. The situation is under control for now, and it is only noon over in Islamabad, so nothing is going to happen for a while. It would be a good time for you to catch a few hours’ sleep. Go ahead. I will be spending the night in the Situation Room to monitor events from there.”
Russell yawned in a reflex to the mere mention of some sleep. He was exhausted. He had been in office for less than a year, his long days dominated by the economy, which was slogging through a recession. There had been some slight increase in the gross national product during the past month, and the stock market had a solid upward bump, but the prisoner release would overshadow everything for at least two news cycles. He welcomed anything that would keep the news positive. “Yeah. I’m tired. What about you, Bobby?”
“I’ll stay with Bart. Good night, Mr. President.”
PATTERSON AND GENEEN WALKED down to the White House mess for some late coffee or an early breakfast. Scrambled eggs and fresh blueberry muffins, with a side of grits for Patterson, were on their plates when they settled in at a corner table. Unlike a regular cafeteria, the mess kept cooking all the time, for there were staff members coming in around the clock, and if the president suddenly decided he wanted a tuna salad topped with four-inch slices of coconut and olives stuffed with walnuts, he could have it. After two o’clock in the morning, though, even this place was unusually quiet.
“You think the Middle East will ever cool off?” Patterson asked the director.
Geneen looked up owlishly. “You mean will they ever settle down and live a Western-style existence like us? No. There’s really no solution for that tinderbox. Our goals have to be limited to keeping Israel alive and safe, sustaining the region’s oil production, blocking terrorism where we can, and preventing nuclear-tipped missiles from flying around. That’s the best we can hope for in our lifetimes.”
The chief of staff chewed his muffin and drank some coffee. “Defusing these incidents one at a time is like trying to drain a swamp with an eyedropper. Hard to measure progress. At least we’re doing something by keeping the fight focused over there.”
“Look, Bobby, I’ve been in this game for a long time, and I have seen incredible turnarounds in other countries that began small. We encourage the good guys. Tonight we take a couple more of the bad ones off the board. That cannot hurt our interests.”
Patterson smoothed his napkin. “It will be a surgical strike, right? You trust these guys. No collateral damage. The Predator was a mistake.”
Bartlett Geneen let that pass. He did not need to let Bobby Patterson know that it was the CIA call to let that one fly based on Jim Hall’s contact from his old source. The Predator led directly to the release of the prisoners. “I know them both. They are the best at what they do, but there is a risk-reward situation in everything we do. I feel good about this one. I really do. It will rattle the cages of every fanatical leader by sending the message that he might be the next one in the scope of a long rifle.”
Patterson finished his coffee. He had another job to do today. Let the spooks do what they do, but he was also charged with keeping the president politically safe. The prisoner release was an unexpected bonus. He would build on that if the snipers picked up these scalps.
