When they train you to be a Delta, they teach you a lot of different things, and one of them, of course, is hand-to- hand combat. Well, most of the shit they teach you, you can’t practice it all the way through, like breaking a guy’s neck for instance. I mean, how in the hell do you practice breaking a neck? Anyway, I’m on one of my first missions and my job is to take out a sentry who’s walking patrol. I’m sitting there with my partner. We’d crawled over a hundred yards to get to this one bush, and we’re waiting for the guard. When the guy passes by, I jump out and grab him. I
execute the move just like my instructors taught me, but nothing happens. Luckily, my partner was right there to finish him off with a knife before he could make any noise. The point of the story is that I was the elite of the elite. I was a Delta Force commando, and I
couldn’t pull it off. Don’t get me wrong, I know several guys who have managed to perfect the move, but they are few and far between. It’s just too difficult to learn. Your typical hit man or assassin would have slit Fitzgerald’s throat or put a bullet in the back of his head.”
Kennedy pondered Mitchell’s comments and then asked, “Based on what you’ve heard, who do you think did it?”
There was a long pause while Mitchell thought about the question. “My gut reaction…” Mitchell stopped and looked out the window. “My gut reaction is that this operation was pulled off by United States Special Forces commandos.”
McMahon took a deep breath and said, “Please elaborate.”
“I was in the Special Forces for almost fifteen years… I’ve worked with Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, Marine Recons, I’ve met them all. Do you know what the one thing is they all have in common?”
“No.”
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“They all hate politicians. The two professions couldn’t be more fundamentally different. Commandos live by a warrior’s code, honor and integrity above everything. Do what you say and mean what you do.
Politicians just say whatever will keep them in office. Now, where you run into the problem is when you have the unprincipled, honorless politician telling the principled, honorable warrior what to do. The way the relationship works, with the politicians in the position of authority, they’re destined to foster disgust and animosity among the troops. “I
don’t know of a single Special Forces soldier who thinks Washington isn’t run by a bunch of idiots. We’ve had operations exposed because those damn fools don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. We’ve worked for months planning missions, and then had the plug pulled at the last minute because some politician didn’t have the guts to authorize it.
You have to understand the mentality of a commando.
They’ve given everything they have to this country, and in return they see those whores selling America down the drain. I don’t mean all of them. There are some good, honest politicians, but they are a rarity.
Most of those guys are lying, misdirected egomaniacs. They think it’s just a game.”
Mitchell paused briefly. “There’s a lot of hate and distrust between the military and
Washington. There always has been, and it’s even worse when you start talking about
Special Forces personnel.”
“So, you think the letter is for real?”
“Who knows?”
Mitchell paused again and looked out the window. “If I had to put money on it, I’d bet it’s for real. Shit, turn on the radio, go to your local bar, people are sick of the way this country is run ….
These murders weren’t committed as part of a plot to derail the Stevens administration. They were committed the morning of the vote because the vote assured the assassins that all of their targets would-be where they wanted them to be. My bet is that these guys are ex-United States Special Forces commandos and they mean everything they said in that letter. Which of course means that unless these idiots start taking their demands seriously, you’re going to have more dead politicians on your hands.”
DIRECTOR ROACH STOOD IN THE KITCHEN OF his SUBURBAN
MARYLAND home. Sunday-morning mass was at eleven-thirty, and they would be leaving shortly, but first he wanted to scan the morning press shows and see what type of lines the administration would be floating.
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Speaker Basset was the featured guest on Inside Washington, a weekly political talk show. Roach was leaning against the counter, looking at the small color TV next to the sink. His youngest child walked into the room and opened the refrigerator door. Roach bent over and kissed the top of her head. “Good morning, Katie.”
“Hi, Dad.” Katie Roach was twelve years old and had not been a planned pregnancy.
Her next closest sibling was eight years her elder. Patty Roach had given birth to the youngest of the four Roach kids at the age of forty. Two of Katie’s brothers were in college, and the oldest boy had already graduated. Roach often caught himself smiling at
Katie and thinking how much his and his wife’s lives had been blessed by this wonderful little girl. The youngest of the Roach clan stood motionless in front of the open refrigerator door, her eyes scanning the shelves, searching for nothing in particular. “Dad, can I have a can of Coke?”
“May I have a can of Coke,” Roach corrected her, and patted her on the head. “Yes, you may have a can of Coke.” Katie snatched the can from the door and scampered out of the kitchen.
A moment later Patty Roach came around the corner. “Brian, I don’t want her drinking a can of soda before mass.”
Without taking his eyes off the TV, Roach replied, “Honey, she’s twelve years old, a little sugar isn’t going to kill her.”
