Lance looked at him with confusion. “What?”
“They picked a woman to be the first commander of the Minuteman IV,” his buddy explained. “Even with a GPS and a map, chicks still get lost. Picking Stafford just put the ‘miss’ in missileer.” He elbowed Lance even harder and laughed. “Get it?”
“Get with the program, caveman. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“Tell that to my wife. Every time I get paired with a woman on alert, she throws a fit. She says, ‘I don’t want any of those whores locked in a room alone with my husband for twenty-four hours.’ I don’t get any for a month after that, dude.”
Lance shook his head. “You’re a jerk.”
Cyndi arrived on stage and stood at attention between the two generals. Rayburn looked over and motioned for McNeil to step away. The one-star general grudgingly did as he was told. A photographer snapped a picture of Cyndi and the smiling Rayburn. It showed up on the front page of the base newspaper the next day.
A huge expanse of gently rolling high prairies on the northern edge of Warren AFB had been set aside for its cemetery. The long history of the base necessitated plenty of room to bury all its fallen. Clusters of gnarled and twisted crabapple trees dotted the landscape. A bitter wind caused the naked branches to shiver.
Major Pierce threaded his way through rows of perfectly arranged white headstones. At thirty-seven, the Delta Force operator had a weary, battle-hardened face that belied his relatively young age. His chiseled jaw was accompanied by an intense look of anger. The rage in his coal-black eyes wasn’t the kind that comes from getting cut off in traffic. These were the unnerving eyes of a highly trained killer.
In keeping with the need to conceal his affiliation with the secretive unit, Pierce wore civilian clothing both on and off duty. His job permitted a level of autonomy that few in the military understood.
He knelt in front of a headstone, removed his glove, and brushed away the snow that had piled up against it. The inscription on the headstone was now visible: E-6 Daniel J. Johnson, 1989 – 2019. Made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.
“Hey, Johnson. It’s been a while.” The hint of a smile crossed his face. “Man, we really kicked some ass in Peshawar. You should have been there. We…” Pierce paused the retelling of his last mission. He couldn’t stop reading the last sentence on the inscription. The longer he knelt at the grave, the more anger churned up inside him. He looked around to be certain he was alone. “The team hasn’t forgotten what they did to you. They’ll pay. Trust me, they’ll pay.” He got up, stood at attention, and saluted the headstone. Pierce turned and headed back to his car.
Sitting alone in the back of his staff car, General McNeil was already on his second shot of Johnnie Walker. His driver knew from past experiences to keep quiet when his boss was in one of his irascible moods. The dismissive treatment in front of his troops by Rayburn had only served to intensify the loathing McNeil felt for the man. “I’m the one who spent countless nights and weekends getting Alpha One ready to deploy, not that pompous ass!” he muttered. McNeil slammed his glass down on the armrest. Expensive alcohol sloshed onto the floor. “I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to these people, and now I’m being thrown overboard like a rotten fish.” McNeil tossed back the remaining scotch in his glass and reached for the bottle again.
Pierce was about to get into his car when he saw the dark blue sedan approaching. He went around to the front of his car and stood at the ready. As the staff car got closer, Pierce caught site of the single star on the front license plate. He turned his back to it. The car sped by without even slowing down.
Pierce started his midnight-black Dodge Charger and cranked up the volume on the local rock station. Despite the subzero temperature, he left the heat off. The major depressed the clutch, shifted into first gear, and stomped on the gas pedal. The 6.4-liter V8 roared as he bolted away from the curb. As he raced by the front gate, his cell phone rang. Pierce looked down at the screen and cussed under his breath. The caller was familiar. Pierce held his phone to his ear. “What do you want?” After listening for a few moments he ended the call by saying, “I’ll be there.”
At exactly 1630 Major Pierce walked into General McNeil’s outer office. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a puffy down-filled winter jacket that made his muscular frame look even bigger and more intimidating. “I’m here to see General McNeil,” he announced.
Miss Crawford pecked away at her keyboard with two fingers, typing yet another pointless report. Without bothering to look up, she chomped on her gum and said, “Office hours are over. Come back tomorrow.”
Pierce marched over to Crawford and leaned down. Veins in his temples were bulging out. In a frighteningly calm voice, he said, “Bitch, get your boss out here. Now.”
Crawford looked up and jerked back in fear. She fumbled with the intercom box and flipped a switch. “Sir, there’s someone out here to see you.” She moved her chair as far away from the Special Forces operator as she could.
McNeil emerged from his private office. “I figured it would be you, Major Pierce.” He flicked his hand. “Go home, Miss Crawford. You’re done for today.”
Crawford grabbed her purse out of the top drawer then slammed it shut. “Gladly.” She couldn’t get out of the office and away from Pierce fast enough.
McNeil walked over to his secretary’s desk and sat on the edge, trying to project a relaxed, friendly demeanor. “I saw you at the cemetery. Visiting Sergeant Johnson, I presume.”
“That’s none
