It’s for the good of the country.
The phone rang twice, and Young contemplated hanging up and claiming that he dialed by mistake. But as much as he hated what he was doing, his sense of duty held fast.
“I can’t believe you don’t have more important things to do,” J.D. Blunt said as he answered. “Aren’t there rallies for you to attend?”
“Michaels is barely in the ground,” Young said. “My advisors at least wanted to wait a week before I hit the campaign trail in earnest. Something about the optics of it all.”
“I guess they don’t realize the future of the republic is at stake,” Blunt said.
“You sound like a partisan hack.”
Blunt chuckled. “If the shoe fits . . . No, seriously, I just think Peterson could make us vulnerable to these terrorist pukes popping off bombs like they’re fireworks on the Fourth of July. I guaran-damn-tee you that he’ll eliminate Firestorm.”
“That’s why I called.”
“You’re not going to eliminate it, are you?”
“Of course not. But I need your help to make sure none of what we talked about happens. Firestorm needs to survive. And the only way that’s going to happen is if I become President.”
“Well, how can I be of service to you?”
Young sighed. “If things continue to hum along as they have, Peterson is going to win without attending another rally if he doesn’t want to. So I need some help, if you know what I mean.”
“I catch your drift. Big Peterson scandal in November would go a long way to squelching his momentum and casting you as the candidate the people should see you as—the champion for the every day American and a staunch warrior against terror. What more could any red-blooded citizen of this country ask for?”
“I’m hoping that’s enough because I don’t have the luxury of crafting some savvy slogan to woo voters. My message will be simple and straightforward: Peace and Prosperity for Generations to Come.”
“The country will rally behind that kind of campaign.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for, but I’m also not naïve enough to think that Peterson is planning a takedown of me. He’s going to cast me as another extension of Michaels and trot out all the tired attacks.”
“At least Peterson doesn’t have time to dig too deep on you.”
“You know he won’t find anything.”
“I’ll make sure he won’t find this either. I’ve got some trusted contacts over at the NSA who feel likewise regarding Peterson. I’ll give them a call and find out what they can unearth on him.”
“Make it happen,” Young said. “And don’t contact me with any news about what you find. I want to at least have some plausible deniability.”
“I’ll keep you insulated from the whole ordeal. In fact, we were just speaking today about the election in general, and I was giving you advice as your friend, right?”
“Absolutely. Good luck, J.D.”
Young hung up the phone and shuddered about what he just put into motion. He buzzed his secretary to bring him a cup of coffee then wondered if he’d ever be able to put what he’d just done behind him.
CHAPTER 4
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
THE JEEP SKIDDED TO A HALT just outside the infamous Camp Delta. Home to some of the most vile terrorists in the world, the detention facility appeared intimidating. Given the backdrop of the exquisite blue water rolling ashore from the Caribbean Sea, the prison sat in stark contrast to its surroundings.
Alex pressed her hand on top of her hat, which the wind threatened to rip away. Hawk offered to take one of the bags she’d lugged to the facility for their interview with Tabari Sharaf.
“For all the flack this place catches, it sure is beautiful,” Alex said as she scanned the area.
“I’d vacation here,” Hawk said. “Of course, this beach would be more scenic if this eye sore wasn’t here.”
The base commander, Evan Patrick, cleared his throat as he gestured for his guests to continue.
“If this eye sore wasn’t here, you’d have several more of these thugs to track down all across the desert. Besides, the Caribbean is full of better places to vacation.”
Hawk nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
“But we’re not here to discuss that, now are we? You two have some business to conduct—or so I hear,” Patrick said.
“Never been on a more important mission,” Hawk said.
“Well, hopefully one of these numb nuts here can be of assistance to you,” Patrick said, gesturing toward a nearby checkpoint. “After you.”
Hawk and Alex walked side by side across the dusty safe zone. Hawk watched the prisoners on the other side of the series of barbed wire fences shuffle around. He decided that calling Camp Delta a prison was a misnomer, at least in the sense of any detention facility he’d ever seen in the U.S. The entire encampment seemed designed to create discomfort on every level. Sentries loomed over the compound, guns trained on the captives, ready to squeeze off several rounds should any mischief occur. The scant recreation area was completely fenced in, including the sky above. But that might have been five-star accommodations compared to their destination inside—Camp Five Echo, the facility’s disciplinary block.
Accompanied by three guards, Patrick ushered Hawk and Alex through several posts inside until they reached the holding zone for non-compliant detainees.
“I’ve heard about this block,” Alex whispered. “Human rights groups are always trying to shut it down.”
“They’re always trying to shut down everything,” Hawk said. “They wouldn’t be happy if these punks were put up
