charisma, and energy Kevin Martindale possessed. Their goals meshed perfectly: William Hitchcock wanted political influence, and Kevin Martindale needed financial backing for another run at the White House.
“What’s up?” Martindale asked.
“A potential shit storm in Turkmenistan,” Hitchcock said.
“Let me guess: The Russians are squawking that you’re moving too quickly, and they want you to give up some of your fields. No problem. After what my Night Stalkers did to Sen’kov’s plans in the Balkans, the Russians won’t give us any hassles.”
“I
“Oh, shit, that’s not good,” Martindale exclaimed. “Threatening your pipelines?”
“A small band of insurgents from Afghanistan kicking ass and taking names. They’re knocking down Turkmen army bases, capturing weapons, and recruiting followers faster and easier than the Pied Piper,” Hitchcock said. “Problem is, the Turkmen government isn’t doing anything to stop them. In fact, I think the government might secretly be supporting them.”
“And the Russians would love to see the Taliban blow up some of your facilities.”
“Exactly. We need to convince the Turkmen government to fight these Taliban bastards, but without involving the Russian army. I know that your administration negotiated the original deal with Niyazov for those oil leases. Can you go back to Ashkhabad and try to convince the government to turn these Taliban assholes away?”
“That should be no problem,” Martindale said. “You realize that it might be in our best interests to make contact with the Taliban leaders themselves — grease their palms a little bit to keep them from just torching your pipelines?”
“I was hoping to avoid that… but, yes, I’ll agree to it,” Hitchcock said. “The Turkmen think those Taliban insurgents won’t dare take on the regular-army bases at Charjew — that they’ll just take over a few pumping stations in the east, collect some ransom money, and split. But these guys keep moving westward, and they’re growing in strength. If they take Charjew, they could gain control of almost half our facilities in Turkmenistan.”
“No problem,” Martindale said confidently. “I’ll speak with Gurizev and find out what he has in mind. Knowing him the way I do, I’ll bet he’ll be crying to the Russians to stop the Taliban, but I know he’ll take help — and money — anywhere he can find it. But unless I miss my guess, we won’t have to rely on the Turkmen. Most Taliban raiding parties stay in the field just long enough to collect money for their tribes. We pay them enough, and they’ll be gone like a puff of smoke back to whatever caves they came from.”
“So you’ll go to Turkmenistan, then?”
Martindale looked a little apprehensive. “I’m not so sure that’ll do any good,” he said. “The Turkmen don’t like outsiders, especially Westerners, and they like their under-the-table deals done well beyond arm’s length. Besides, frankly, that place gives me the creeps. I’d rather go in with a pretty strong security advance team.”
“No chance of Thorn providing anything like that,” Hitchcock pointed out. “What about your Night Stalkers?”
Martindale took a pensive sip of his drink. “Disbanded. They got beat up pretty bad in Libya before they finally slapped down Zuwayy. Thorn offered to return their military rank and privileges to them, and they took it. But that’s exactly who I’d like to bring with me.” He nodded confidently at Hitchcock, trying to hide his feelings of dread. “Don’t worry. I’ll start the ball rolling from here — the threat of my coming to Turkmenistan should force Gurizev to cooperate. If necessary, I’ll go to Ashkhabad and explain the facts of life to him. As for the Taliban, just be prepared to offer them some ‘protection money,’ and they’ll leave your pipelines alone. Of course, the fact that we’re ‘forced’ to pay protection money will be another strike against Thorn. After all, what kind of president will Thomas Thorn be if he won’t send in troops to protect American economic interests overseas?”
“You don’t think he would intervene, do you?”
“I don’t see any evidence at all that he’s inclined to do so,” Martindale said. “But he’s got some tough advisers and military leaders working for him who could convince him otherwise. You never know with him. But I wouldn’t count on Thorn doing a damned thing. If we can convince Gurizev to send some troops in, and at the same time pay the Taliban fighters some protection money, I think your pipelines will be safe.”
“Excellent,” Hitchcock said, the relief evident in his voice. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you, Kevin.”
“Just be sure my campaign war chest stays topped off,” Martindale reminded him.
“My pleasure… Mr. President,” Hitchcock said. “You won’t have to worry about money as long as you’re out there on TransCal’s behalf.”
“Good,” Martindale said, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. The Secret Service agents immediately announced that their charge was on the move. “I’ll get started right away. Put an extra three million in the operations account — that should be more than enough.”
“You got it. I’ll be sure your campaign account has a few extra million in there for your ‘consulting help’ on this as well,” Hitchcock said. He shook hands warmly with the former president. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. President.” As they shook hands, Hitchcock added, “I’m still open to heading your reelection campaign, Kevin, and eventually running your White House staff.”
“I know, Bill,” Martindale said. “But you don’t know the White House battleground well enough yet.”
“TransCal has a hundred times more employees than the White House, and I run every aspect of the company,” Hitchcock said. “I can do the job. You’ve gotta give me the chance.”
“I know you want this, Bill, but trust me, you’re not ready for the political spotlight yet,” Martindale said earnestly. “You can’t run the White House like a Fortune 500 company — the bureaucrats, the political hacks, and the press inside the Beltway will drive you to homicide in no time. You’re helping me now more than you know. Once we make it back to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, I’ll bring you in on everything. But for now you’re more effective behind the scenes.”
“Okay — for now, Kevin,” Hitchcock said, obviously disappointed. “But I want to assure you, I’m more than just deep pockets. Let me prove it to you. You won’t be sorry.”
“Thanks, William. You’re definitely on my short list. But unfortunately, no matter how much money you have, we can’t do it without the party’s support, and that means taking actions and formulating policies with which the party can build a strong nationwide platform — and we can’t start picking staff and appointees without the party’s input. Let’s keep our eyes on our plan and timetable. We maintain the momentum going in foreign affairs, energy policy, and the military; we stay in the media spotlight, and the party will be kissing our boots and agreeing to anything we want before you know it. They’ll be begging us to make you chief of the White House staff.”
“Sounds good to me, Kevin. Sounds good to me.”
They shook hands again. “Don’t worry about Turkmenistan, Bill. It’ll all be over in a couple days, and we’ll come out of it smelling just fine. It’s in the bag. Thorn will be sitting around cross-legged, confused, and clueless while we solve yet another brewing foreign crisis right under his nose.”
“What if he or his administration is already doing something about Turkmenistan?” Hitchcock asked. “How do you know we’re in the lead on this problem?”
Martindale shrugged and replied with a smile, “I’ll ask him. I’m the former president of the United States — I should be able to make some inquiries and get some briefings from his staff. Besides, Thorn believes in open government. He or his staff will tell me everything. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just send my spies into the White House and find out everything my own way.”
“With all due respect, Rebecca, this is the most harebrained stunt I’ve ever heard of,” Colonel John Long, operations-group commander of the 111th Bombardment Wing, snapped. He was standing out on the underground flight line of Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base with Rebecca Furness, Patrick McLanahan, Dean Grey, and the ground team, getting ready to brief the ground crew prior to their flight mission. Long and Major Samuel “Flamer” Pogue were to fly in the second EB-1C, parked beside Rebecca’s, as the alternate mission aircraft.
“You’ve made your opinion plain to everyone, Long Dong,” Rebecca said quietly. “Keep it to yourself.”
“It’s my job to point out potential policy mistakes by our senior officers,” Long retorted, raising his voice so everyone could hear and plainly refusing to take the hint, “and this is one perfect example. Completely untested, unverified, a disaster waiting to happen.”
“We copy all, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan interjected. He wanted to chew the guy out for voicing his opinion
