the leader in the eyes. A commander who couldn’t do that did not have the mettle, and thus the right, to send anyone into danger.
Colonel August had also spent a few hours going through NATO’s dossier on General Amadori. Though Amadori had never participated in any NATO maneuvers, he was a top-ranked officer of a member nation. As such, his file was short but complete.
Rafael Leoncio Amadori had been raised in Burgos, the one-time capital of the kingdom of Castile and the burial place of the legendary hero El Cid. Amadori joined the army in 1966, when he was twenty. After four years he was moved to Francisco Franco’s personal guard, the result of a longtime friendship between Franco and Amadori’s father, Jaime, who was the Generalissimo’s bootmaker. By the time Amadori was made a lieutenant in 1972, he was one of the top men in charge of Franco’s counterintelligence team. That was where he met Antonio Aguirre, ten years his senior, who was to become his top aide and most trusted advisor. Aguirre was Franco’s advisor on domestic affairs.
Once he had joined the inner circle, Amadori was personally responsible for sniffing out and eliminating opponents of Franco’s regime. With the death of Franco in 1975, Amadori moved back into the general military. However, his years in intelligence had not been wasted. Amadori rose quickly. More quickly than his accomplishments would suggest. If August had to guess, his promotions were probably the result of having collected compromising data on everyone who had been in a position to help or hinder his advancement.
August was convinced that if a coup were in progress — and it certainly looked as if one were — it had not simply happened overnight. Like the American kid who grew up wanting to be President, General Amadori obviously grew up wanting to be Franco.
August and six other Strikers had made the trip to Spain. Because a situation was developing in Cuba which could require HUMINT, Sgt. Chick Grey had been left behind with a contingent of Strikers in the event they were needed. Grey was a bright and highly capable leader who was due to get his second lieutenant’s stripes very soon.
In Spain, August’s second-in-command would be Corporal Pat Prementine. The serious young NCO, an expert at infantry tactics, had distinguished himself in the rescue of Mike Rodgers and his team during the Bekaa Valley operation. Prementine would be more than able to step in if anything happened to August. Privates Walter Pupshaw, Sondra DeVonne, David George, and Jason Scott had performed brilliantly in that operation as well, just as they had on previous missions. Communications man Ishi Honda was also on hand. Neither Colonel August nor his predecessor, the late Lt. Col. Charles Squires, would have gone anywhere without their ace radio operator.
The Strikers changed to civilian clothes before landing. They were met at the airbase by an unmarked Interpol helicopter, which flew them directly to the airport in Madrid. Their uniforms and gear, carried in oversized duffelbags, went with them. At the airport they boarded a pair of vans and were driven to the office of Luis Garcia de la Vega. August and his team were greeted by Darrell McCaskey, who was awaiting the return of Aideen Marley.
McCaskey and August retired to the small, cluttered office of an agent who was on assignment. McCaskey had appropriated a portable coffeemaker and moved it in here.
“It’s good to see you,” McCaskey said, shutting the door.
“Likewise,” August replied.
“Sit,” McCaskey said.
August looked around. The two chairs beside the door were full of overstuffed folders so he perched himself on the corner of the desk. He watched as McCaskey went to the coffeemaker and poured Colonel August a cup.
“How do you take it?” McCaskey asked.
“Black, no sugar,” August replied.
McCaskey handed him the cup then poured some for himself. August took a sip and set his cup on the mousepad.
“That’s some pretty shitty stuff, isn’t it?” McCaskey said, pointing to the coffee.
“Maybe,” August said. “But at least the price is right.”
McCaskey smiled.
It hadn’t taken long for August to determine that McCaskey was what the elite forces called “TBW.” Tired but wired. The former G-man was exhausted but anxious, running on adrenaline and caffeine. When the rush ended, McCaskey would crash big-time.
“Let me bring you up to date,” McCaskey said. He sipped his own coffee and sat heavily in the swivel chair. Matt Stoll’s small electromagnetic egg was between them, ensuring the security of the conversation. “Aideen Marley is on the way back to Madrid. She was up at the Ramirez boat factory in San Sebastian when it was attacked by General Amadori’s forces. You know about that?”
August nodded.
McCaskey looked at his watch. “Her chopper should be landing in about five minutes and she’ll be brought back here. She went up to find out more about the forces that are rallied against Amadori. He beat her to them. Aideen’s partner on the mission, Maria Corneja, managed to get herself captured by Amadori’s soldiers. We don’t know exactly where Amadori is based. We’re hoping that Maria can find out and somehow let us know. Have you spoken with Mike?”
August nodded.
“Then you have some sense of what your mission is.”
August nodded again.
“Once Amadori is found,” McCaskey said, his gaze locked on August, “he must be captured or removed by terminal force.”
August nodded a third time. His face was impassive, as though he’d just been given the day’s duty roster. He had killed men in Vietnam and he’d been tortured nearly to death when he was a POW there. Death was extreme, but it came with the uniform and it was the coin of war. And there was no doubt that Amadori was at war.
McCaskey folded his hands. His tired eyes were still on August.
“Striker’s never had a mission like this,” McCaskey said. “Do you have a problem with it?”
August shook his head.
“Do you think any of your team will have a problem with it?”
“I don’t know,” August said. “But I’ll find out.”
McCaskey looked down. “There was a time when this kind of thing was standard operating procedure.”
“There was,” August agreed. “But back then it was a first-strike option rather than a last resort. I think we’ve found the moral high ground.”
“I suppose so,” McCaskey said. He rubbed his eyes. “Anyway, you guys hang loose in the commissary. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything.”
McCaskey rose and drained his coffee cup. August stood and took a sip from his own cup. Then he handed it to McCaskey. McCaskey smiled and accepted it. He took a swallow.
“Darrell?” August said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re looking pretty close to flameout.”
“I’m gettin’ there,” he admitted. “It’s been a long haul.”
“You know,” August said, “if we have to go in I need you to be sharp. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if after Aideen arrives, you lay down somewhere. I can debrief her, talk to Luis, come up with a few scenarios.”
McCaskey walked around the desk. He slapped August on the back. “Thank you very much, Colonel. I believe I will take that rest.” He grinned. “You know what sucks?”
August shook his head.
“Not being able to do the things that you were able to do easily in your twenties,” McCaskey said. “That sucks. All-nighters used to be a breeze for me. So was eating junk food and not having my stomach burn like a son-of-a-bitch.” The grin faded. “But age makes it different. Losing a coworker makes it different. And something else makes it different. The realization that just being right doesn’t matter. You can have law and treaties and justice and humanity and the United Nations and the Bible and everything else on your side, and you can still get your ass handed to you. You know what the moral high ground has cost us, Colonel? It’s cost us the ability to do the right thing. Pretty damn ironic, huh?”
