The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  Finding a place by the fence, Reece put his truck in park, leaned back in his seat, and took a deep breath. Fuck. None of this was making any sense.

  The excruciating pain hit Reece like a lightning bolt out of the blue. These headaches! Breathe through it, Reece. It’s okay. Breathe. You can do this. Breathe.

  The pain dissipated almost as quickly as it had begun.

  Reece took one more deep breath and exited the vehicle. He straightened his uniform, noting for the thousandth time that he was not armed. He never understood military base policies that prohibited those in uniform from carrying personal weapons on base or even keeping them in their cars. Reece could check out fully automatic machine guns and grenades from the same base upon which he was not allowed to carry his 9mm pistol. Policies created by bureaucrats in uniform essentially disarmed some of the most highly trained and competent warriors on earth. It was only a matter of time until the enemy took advantage.

  Checking in at WARCOM was never fun. The air was different in there even though it was just a few hundred yards from the Teams. The poor quarterdeck watch had the look of a prisoner awaiting execution and did his job with as much enthusiasm. Encased behind thick plastic glass, as they were, they always looked as happy as gas station attendants stuck behind similar barriers in bad neighborhoods.

  Reece turned in his ID for a visitor’s badge and was buzzed inside the labyrinth that was WARCOM. He had been there a few times for briefings and had hated it every time. Haircuts and strict adherence to uniform standards were the measures of success this far from the battlefield. Reece did his best to hide his contempt. Most of the people in the building were too senior to fight when September 11 hit. When they did venture “downrange” it was usually to the safety of a Tactical Operations Center hidden on a sprawling base; an oasis in the heart of bad guy territory.

  Admiral Gerald Pilsner was a short man. Not out of shape, but not someone who immediately commanded respect. He was the quintessential officer in the most derogatory sense of the word. He commanded respect due to his rank, in stark contrast to a guy like Reece, who earned the respect of his men through word and deed. In the world of special operations, your reputation was your currency, and in that sense Admiral Pilsner was a very poor man. He had never commanded men in battle; yet he let everyone out of “the know,” both in the military and out, assume that he did. Behind his back the men referred to him as Lord Fobbit, a wartime take on hobbits from The Lord of the Rings. Fobbits were people who never went outside the safety of the FOB. The admiral was King of the Fobbits. How he had risen through the ranks to become an admiral was beyond Reece’s comprehension, though truth be told, Reece never really spent much time thinking about it. He was too focused on his troops and the mission to pay attention to the politics of senior officers. Reece was built to fight. The admiral was built to administer and take care of his career. While Reece was a professional, the admiral was a careerist, a Massengale in the truest sense.

  In recent years a series of very critical articles had surfaced in the New York Times and Washington Post bringing to light multiple investigations into Admiral Pilsner’s conduct and vindictive behavior when dealing with subordinates. Two members of Congress with stellar military backgrounds had taken personal interest in replacing the leaf-eating admiral with someone more befitting leadership of one of the country’s premier special operations forces, one even going to the floor of the United States Senate to expose the admiral’s nefarious behavior. If any other officer in the SEAL Teams had anything close to what was written about the admiral appear in print, they would have been removed from their post and summarily “retired.” Reece’s guess was that the admiral’s liberal political leanings under a far-left Democratic president had a lot to do with his ability to remain in his position. The admiral was clearly more concerned with force diversity and the push to open the SEAL Teams to females than he was with crushing America’s enemies. Whatever got him his next star. Even so, Reece couldn’t believe this guy could remain in the Navy for much longer, regardless of whom he knew in Washington’s corridors of power.

  Reece made his way to the reception room, where the admiral’s aide sat obediently at his desk in neatly pressed khakis with a gold braided rope around his shoulder signifying his position as a flag aide.

  “Here to see the admiral,” Reece said, noticing the shut door to the senior officer’s office.

  “You’re early, sir,” the aide said in a tone that managed to seem both respectful and condescending at the same time.

  “Well, I just couldn’t wait,” Reece responded in a voice that intentionally signified the opposite.

  “Please take a seat, sir. The admiral is just finishing a meeting and will be with you shortly.”

  Reece looked around the room and took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, briefly glancing at a coffee table adorned with a few horrible Navy-produced magazines. He took the time to relax and organize his thoughts.

  Why does the admiral want to see you? Has to be the op in Afghanistan. Though usually the admiral would wait until all investigations were finished and his CO had talked with him first. Why so soon after the death and funeral of his wife and child? Was it about the tumors? Or to pay his condolences? To make sure Reece wasn’t going to suck-start a pistol? Reece knew his thoughts were clouded by the trauma of recent events, made all the worse by the headaches. Think, Reece. Something is not right.

  The door to the office swung open and out strolled a man who looked like he’d walked off the set of a Hollywood movie. His quick look at Reece betrayed a familiarity not shared by the commando before he moved off a little too hastily.

  Interesting. Wonder who that was?

  • • •

  Captain Howard sat quietly and anxiously as the admiral stared out the panel of windows at the Pacific Ocean. He appeared deep in thought with a pair of horn-rimmed half glasses in one hand, the temple of which rested on his lips. After an extended pause, Admiral Pilsner rotated his chair to face his JAG and placed the glasses on the desk in front of him. “What’s your read on Tedesco? Is he going to stay on the reservation?”

  “I think you sold him, sir. To a guy like that, being part of your team is a big deal. These guys all want to touch the SEAL magic, and you just made him feel like he was your best operator.”

  “Let’s hope so. We need him to stick with the plan. He’s the one I’m worried about, but he’s also our best link to the Hartleys, and without them, we have jack shit. This thing has gotten out of control. I have worked my entire career to build an impeccable reputation as a commander. Under my leadership, the Naval Special Warfare profile has risen above what anyone before me could have imagined. Why so many have tried to keep this organization’s capabilities below the radar is beyond me. When Washington thinks of special operations, they think of me. I am the SEAL Teams, as far as the public is concerned. I cannot have my reputation or the reputation of WARCOM destroyed by James Reece.”

  Not wanting to mention the sore subject of the New York Times and Washington Post articles critical of the admiral’s leadership, Leonard Howard leaned forward, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He will be here any minute, sir. Do you have a plan? Should we have him arrested?”

  “No. We’ll threaten to charge him with everything under the sun, of course, but we don’t want him in custody, where he’s protected. We want him out there, adrift. You will be my witness that he’s a loose cannon, that he’s gone apeshit and is capable of anything. I am going to make him lose his cool so that everyone in this command sees it on his face when he walks out of this office. After that, no one will question what happens next.”

  “How are you going to make this guy lose it, sir? I don’t get the impression that James Reece is easily rattled.”

  “It will not be a problem, believe me. Reece may be a combat leader but he’s got to be a ball of raw nerves at this point and I’ll touch every one of them.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure you’re right ab
out that.”

  Pilsner looked at Howard’s facial expression and frowned. “You’re not going soft on me, too, are you?”

  “No, sir, not at all. Just want to make sure we have all the legal angles covered.”

  “Good. I need everyone focused on getting this thing back on track. Let’s get Reece in here. I’ll do the talking.”

  “Yes, sir.” Howard smiled.

  • • •

  An excruciatingly long fifteen minutes passed before the door opened again. This time it was Captain Leonard Howard, the admiral’s judge advocate. He was slight of frame and, from reputation, slight of character. The admiral certainly surrounded himself with like-minded bureaucrats.

  Not offering a handshake or greeting, he said, “Lieutenant Commander Reece, the admiral will see you now.”

  Wonderful.

  Admiral Pilsner’s office was almost exactly as Reece expected it to be. A large desk positioned opposite huge windows facing the Pacific Ocean. A million-dollar view, though Reece was sure the facility had cost the taxpayers considerably more than that. Scanning the admiral’s office, Reece noticed the walls were not adorned with the usual trappings of a life spent in the armed forces; rather there were pictures of the admiral in uniform at various functions with the who’s-who of Washington’s political and military elite: higher-ranking flag officers, what looked to be a few well-dressed civilians that Reece didn’t recognize, and even the secretary of defense. The pictures all seemed to be the receiving-line variety, each from a military-specific charity event set up with backgrounds denoting their cause. The admiral sure seemed to be having a good time while soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines fought and died on foreign soil. On a credenza in the corner sat a UFC championship belt given to the admiral as a gift in exchange for a tour of the BUD/S compound that he arranged for an MMA welterweight fighter. To its left was a Seattle Seahawks football helmet, the admiral’s home team, signed by the players and coaching staff, another gift for a motivational tour before they played the Chargers. Apparently the BUD/S compound had gotten very popular in recent years. Quid pro quo.

  On the desk, Reece noticed a Ka-Bar knife sitting in a presentation stand, obviously never used and presented to the admiral as a gift for a staff job at some point. It was rumored he liked to pick it up to intimidate his non-Trident-wearing staff.

  Was the Admiral’s desk on a platform? What on earth? Yes, it was. It was subtle but it was still a platform. Reece remembered reading something once about J. Edger Hoover having an office desk built on a platform so he could look down on those who entered his office. It was all about power.

  “Sir.” Reece nodded toward the admiral.

  The admiral continued to write something down without looking up at his guest. Reece glanced from the admiral to Captain Howard, back to the admiral, and then out the window. He was not offered a seat.

  “What the hell happened in Afghanistan, Commander?” the smaller man finally spat out.

  “Uh, sir?” replied Reece.

  “You know,” said the admiral, finally looking up. “Your tremendous fuckup.”

  Reece shifted his gaze to the JAG, whose face remained unchanged.

  “Sir, I take full res—”

  “You are damn right you’ll take full responsibility. This is a huge black eye for our community. Those men are dead, and you tarnished the hard-earned reputation of this brand!”

  Brand? What the fuck is this guy talking about?

  “Sir, there is no one to blame here but me. I was the ground force commander. The responsibility lies with me.”

  “We’ve already established that, Commander. What we haven’t established is why.”

  Why?

  This obviously was not a condolence call about Reece’s wife and daughter.

  What is this about?

  Why? That is a damn fine question. Why? It suddenly clicked. The admiral wanted to test Reece to see if he was going to open up about the mission and tactics being pushed from higher. It had not been clear at the time exactly who “higher” was. Now Reece knew.

  Reece’s eyes didn’t leave the admiral’s, but they changed from merely serious to ice in less than a second. Reece thought he could see the admiral visibly shrink back in his seat.

  “Sir, that mission came from higher authority,” Reece said slowly in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “No, it did not, Commander Reece. Do not shirk your responsibility. You were in charge and you failed. You failed your men and this nation.” The admiral stood, finally hitting his stride. “NCIS will finish their investigation shortly. They will find you negligent, and I intend to see you court-martialed. In the meantime I am ordering Captain Howard to pull your security clearance and start Trident removal procedures.” Reece stood stone-faced, looking straight through the fuming one-star in front of him. “The list of charges against you is a long one, Commander, and I am going to ensure that when the military justice system is done with you there will be absolutely nothing left!” Sweat began to bead up on the admiral’s forehead and upper lip, spit escaping as he almost shouted, “And, while we are going down this path . . .” The Admiral continued, standing and moving to the side of his desk, the platform putting him more or less on the same plane as Reece. “You couldn’t protect your men, you couldn’t protect your family, and it is high time you paid a price, not just for your failures but for the tarnished legacy your father left on the Teams.”

  Reece’s jab caught the admiral off guard, his nose exploding in an eruption of blood as the bone and cartilage broke beneath Reece’s left fist. Before the admiral could react Reece had already dropped his weight, pivoted his hips, and delivered a right cross to the already broken nose with such devastating power Howard thought the admiral might be dead on his feet. Reece practiced restraint, but one wouldn’t know that from the left hook that caught the admiral’s jaw and dropped him to the ground with a heavy thud.

  Howard had never in all his life seen such a transformation as the one he had just witnessed. He watched in horror, his back pressed against the office wall, hoping it would envelop him and protect him from what appeared to be the very incarnation of pure rage.

  Reece took a step toward Howard and stopped.

  Leave him, Reece.

  This is what the enemy must feel like when these guys come hunting them, Howard thought.

  The look in Reece’s eyes left no doubt in Howard’s mind that Reece would have no qualms about killing him and leaving him dead on the office floor. His eyes were cold, and the JAG could only think of one word: death. Although it was warm and Howard was perspiring profusely, his body inadvertently shivered.

  “Add that to the list,” Reece hissed, moving to the door and closing it calmly behind him.

  Howard slumped to the floor in disbelief, thankful to have escaped Reece’s wrath and unable to take his eyes off the body of the unmoving admiral.

  • • •

  Back in the Land Cruiser, Reece took a deep breath. It had taken all his discipline to look as natural as possible as he hurried down the WARCOM stairs, turned in his visitor’s badge, and made his way across the parking lot to his vehicle. What next? None of this was making any sense. No mention of the tumors. Did they really not know?

  Reece knew the admiral was a spiteful politician, only concerned with his next rank. The articles in the Washington Post were a testament to that vindictiveness and the man’s true character. The question was, how would someone with such a weak inner constitution react to being knocked out in his own office? Would he use the power of that position to throw the book at his subordinate commander, or would he be so embarrassed to such an affront to this authority that he would keep it quiet and try to attack indirectly? Reece assumed the latter but he wanted to be ready for the former. Regardless, his security clearance would be gone as soon as Howard could pull himself together and get to a phone, which meant he would no longer have access to any Naval Special Warfare facility. Reece glanced at his watch. It would take
the admiral and his guard dog JAG a little time to recover and come up with their game plan, or so Reece hoped.

  Reece put the Cruiser in drive and headed for Team Seven.

  CHAPTER 18

  ADMIRAL PILSNER LEANED FORWARD in his chair, elbows on his desk, with one hand holding his head and the other pressing an ice pack to the right side of his face. With tissues stuffed into his nostrils and blood staining the front of what had been an immaculate uniform, he shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. The events of the past hour had left him shaken and humiliated. At least Howard was the only one to see it, he thought.

  Sitting in the comfortable leather chair in front of the admiral’s desk, Leonard Howard was anything but comfortable. Continually squirming and looking anywhere except directly at his defeated boss, the captain was relieved only by the fact that Reece had directed no physical violence toward him.

  Against his better judgment, he broke the silence. “Sir, it is over for Reece. Assaulting a flag-level officer is beyond the pale, even in this community. I will have him in shackles and up for court-martial by the end of the day. We will keelhaul him, sir! He will not get away with this! We will strip him of his rank, revoke his security clearance, remove his cherished Trident, and have him before a judge within weeks. He will spend the next decade in Leavenworth breaking big rocks into small rocks.”

  If it hadn’t hurt to talk so much, Pilsner would have cut his JAG off sooner. He knew his nose was broken and was thankful his jaw had escaped the same fate. Both eyes had swollen and would soon blacken. He had instructed Howard to have his aide cancel all appointments for the remainder of the week. He would have to come up with a believable excuse for the broken nose and bruised face that would allow him to escape with some dignity.

  “Captain Howard,” Pilsner began in a nasally tone, unbecoming of his station, “we will do no such thing.”