transferred in and out of no less than three departments.
During that time it will be very hard for her to ignore some of the things she may learn. I
know my superiors would not accept her.” Delapena said this as if Jennings weren’t in the room.
McMahon looked at Kennedy and then at Delapena. “I’ll agree to it, if I get full cooperation.” Delapena nodded and looked at his watch.
“There are some people I need to get ahold of before they head into a meeting.
General, may I use your office?” The general said yes, and Delapena left the room.
McMahon walked back around the table and took a seat.
“General, were you serious when you said you believed the men committing these assassinations are former commandos?”
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The general cocked his head sideways and said, “I was serious, very serious ….
The men we recruit to become Special Forces COMMANDOS are a unique breed.
Dr. Mcfarland, would you please give our guests the psychological profile of the average commando.” The doctor started to speak with clinical neutrality.
“The typical COMMANDO is a man with an above average to high IQ who is extremely fit. He is a man who on the surface seems hard, callous, and emotionally indifferent. In truth, he is an extremely emotional and compassionate person. He is often obsessed with winning. He hates to lose, but is rarely willing to cheat or lie to win. He holds himself to a very high standard of honor and integrity and despises people who lie and lack character. He would, without thought or hesitation, give his life to save the life of a fellow commando. His biggest fear is that he will have wasted his life by not pushing himself hard enough.
He despises people who live their lives unjustly. He dislikes politicians and bureaucrats and displays an open animosity towards them. He is trained to kill in a lethal and efficient manner and, over time, comes to accept it as a just and reasonable way to solve a problem. If you can convince him that a person is bad enough, he will pull the trigger with a clear conscience. Of course, there are exceptions to this, but for the most part this is the norm.” General Heaney let his arm drop down on the table. “I have been involved in the Special Forces for over thirty years, and I couldn’t begin to count how many times I’ve heard one of my fellow commandos say that they would love to kill this
Congressman or that Senator. You see, we are not only taught how to kill, but for our own sanity, we are taught to look at killing as a justifiable action in a world where there are good and bad people, where the bad people are not supposed to win. “Think for a minute about what we ask a commando to do. We send them to do some very ugly things, and we tell them they are doing it to protect the United States of America. As commandos, we rationalize that we are ridding the world of a bad person, that we are protecting America.
What do you think would happen if one of these highly trained individuals realized that the politicians running his own country pose a bigger threat to the security of
America’s future than the religious extremist that he just flew halfway around the world to kill?” The general looked hard at McMahon. “If these men think the real threat facing
America comes from within, that the real threat comes from, quote, ‘a group of old men that are mortgaging the future of the country for their own selfish needs…”” The general let the words of the assassins hang in the air. “Mr. McMahon, I have very little doubt that the people behind this are United States-trained commandos.”
MICHAEL AND SEAMUS O’Rourke WALKED INTO THE PLUSH
RESTAURANT and were greeted by a slight man wearing a tuxedo. Both O’Rourkes were impeccably dressed in dark wool suits. The maitre d’ looked up’ along his thin nose and said, “May I help you?”
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“Three for lunch please,” said Michael. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, I think it’s under Olson.” The maitre d’ looked at his reservation book and clapped his hands together. “Oh, you must be Congressman O’Rourke. And you must be the Congressman’s father.”
“No, I’m his grandfather.”
“Oh.” The maitre d’ looked down at the reservation book. “Senator Olson’s secretary requested a private corner table.” He grabbed three menus from under the podium. “if you will follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” It was eleven forty-five and the restaurant was almost empty. Busboys were shuffling back and forth preparing each table for the busy lunch crowd. The maitre d’ glided between the tables, his chin held high, leading them to a circular table in the far corner.
Stepping aside, he held a chair out for the older of the two O’Rourkes.
Seamus sat down and the maitre d’ pushed in the chair. The maitre d’ stepped back, bowed, and said, “Enjoy.” Seamus grabbed his napkin and asked, “What’s the word on this budget summit that they had at Camp David?”
“They reported on the morning news that they cut one hundred billion dollars from
Stevens’s budget.” Michael raised one of his eyebrows, showing what he thought of the reports. “I take it you don’t believe they actually did it.”
“They reported it as a rumor. That means one of two things: no one knows what actually happened, or it was leaked to test the waters.”
“Which do you think it was?”
“I’m not sure.” Michael looked toward the entrance of the restaurant.
Senator Olson had just entered with his bodyguards. “We’ll find out soon enough.
Erik is here.” Senator Olson and four serious-looking men walked across the restaurant led by the maitre
