The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  “But, sir, he assaulted you in your office in front of a witness! He needs to be brought up on charges immediately!”

  “Leonard, I am telling you no! Do you realize what will happen to my reputation if word gets out that I was beaten up by an O-4?” the admiral asked, referring to Reece’s pay grade.

  “Sir, we can’t let him get away with this.”

  “Let me remind you, Leonard, that I am the admiral and you are the captain. Remember that, when we are in this building.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard muttered, looking at the floor.

  “We are going to document this but will take no formal action. You know what happens if Reece is taken into custody. We have discussed this; it would make it harder to get to him. We have to stick to the plan; we are going to let him walk. I want you to fill out a witness statement that you’ll keep to yourself until such time that we need to create a paper trail. I also want you to take photos of my face, in case we need them later. This evidence will fit into a pattern of behavior displayed by Reece that will leave no doubt regarding his guilt. I have a permanent solution for James Reece, and this fits right into it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  SEAL Team SEVEN

  Coronado, California

  REECE’S TROOP HIGH BAY WAS a gigantic room fitted floor to ceiling with rows of racks to hold the enormous amount of gear it took to remain one of the world’s leading special operations units. Today it was empty, as Reece knew it would be. Putting his code into the cipher lock, he turned the knob and stepped inside into complete darkness, the door shutting and locking behind him with an audible click. Not only was it the depository of all the troop gear; it was also the epicenter of all things to an operator in a SEAL Team. The troop space was a clubhouse of sorts, though more exclusive than any fraternity on earth.

  Gone were the confident voices that had once filled this room, voices of men who were the best in their field. No one was there to shout a greeting, make a joke, or ask a question. No one was busily adjusting gear or packing for the next training trip. Empty. All that was left above the roar of crashing surf was the hum of the air conditioners that never seemed to work properly. Reece stood in silent respect, eyes closed, imagining it as it used to be, filled with life and the unique camaraderie that drew and kept so many warriors in the Teams. The smell of dust and dirt accumulated from training venues across the country and combat deployments around the world were deposited back in this single space in Coronado, California. When mixed with the sweat and added humidity from being so close to the ocean, it gave off a distinctive odor that those who had prepared for war there would never forget.

  His reflection over, Reece reached over and flipped the light switch, immediately illuminating the bay in a fluorescent white glow. Boozer had supervised getting the troop’s gear back to the high bay and it was a mess. It took a few minutes for Reece to find his bags and a few more for him to separate them from the others, take inventory of it all, and then load them into his Land Cruiser outside.

  Before leaving, Reece opened a small lockbox mounted on the wall. It was filled with keys. Reece ran his fingers through the semi-organized keys hanging inside until he found the set marked “Donny” and stashed them in his pocket. After one last look back at his troop space, he shut the door and headed for the armory.

  • • •

  “Hey, sir. How’s it going? I mean, how are you? Uh, I uh . . .”

  “It’s okay, Carl,” Reece said with a warm smile. “I’ll be okay.” Though he didn’t really believe that himself.

  “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you this soon after, well, after you know . . .”

  Carl was the SEAL Team Seven armorer, not a SEAL but a gunner’s mate senior chief from the fleet assigned to Naval Special Warfare. He had been on a deployment to Iraq with Reece a few years back when Reece was leading sniper teams into Ramadi at the height of the war.

  “It’s been rough, Carl. I won’t lie. I’m a bit lost and confused right now. Just need to take some time and get a little perspective on things.”

  Carl was a religious man and looked up to the SEAL officer in front of him. In Ramadi, Carl had seen Reece off on more missions than he could remember. He also remembered the great respect Reece garnered from not only the men under his command but the more senior officers in theater as well.

  “Carl, I’m going out to Niland for a couple days. Need to be with the boys right now.”

  Niland was the Navy SEAL playland just outside El Centro, California, up against the Chocolate Mountains, a place where platoons and troops could shoot and blow things up to their hearts’ content while training to go downrange.

  “Niland?” Carl questioned. “I mean, shouldn’t you go to . . . um, anywhere . . . um, anywhere else . . . you know . . . because . . .”

  “It’s okay, Carl. Just want to get out with the guys and away from all this for a few days. Need to get behind a Mk 48 and throw a few rounds downrange.”

  Now he was speaking Carl’s language.

  “Understood, sir. And, sir? Um, my wife and I are praying for you every night.”

  “Thanks, Carl. That means a lot.”

  “I guess you want to take a couple of toys out there with you?” Carl said, changing the tone of the conversation.

  “Absolutely!” Reece replied with a smile. “Can you grab me two thousand rounds of 7.62 link and a case of the 77-grain Black Hills while I get my weapons?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Well, at least it didn’t look like the admiral had put an APB out on him yet.

  Reece approached a machine on the wall of the armory and inserted his Team Seven ID. This would be the real test. He punched in his personal code, pressed his thumb against a pad on the wall, and looked into an iris scanner. NSW armory security procedures had come a long way over Reece’s career. He could remember a time when there weren’t any security measures in place other than a master lock on a cage full of weapons. The good ol’ days, Reece thought. The machine beeped and blinked green, opening both the door to the armory and the internal door that housed all of Reece’s troop weapons.

  Reece grabbed a wheeled dolly for moving heavy items and made his way down the hallway, passing the other troop weapons cages until he arrived at the one he was looking for. He still had his personal weapons from deployment that he had never turned in, but still wanted to upgrade his stash for what was coming. Be prepared.

  Reece gazed around the large cage, mentally taking inventory. Though it was called a cage it was really a room-size partition filled with instruments of death. Before Reece were rows and rows of rifles, pistols, shotguns, sniper weapon systems, extra NODs, AT-4s, LAW rockets, Mk 48 and Mk 46 machine guns, claymores, boxes of C-4 blocks, and data sheet for breaching; it was a gun nut’s wet dream. Reece finished taking stock and began loading the dolly with the tools of his trade.

  CHAPTER 20

  Shady Canyon Estates

  Orange County, California

  “MIKE. MIKE. MIKE?”

  “Uh, what? Uh, sorry, honey . . .” Mike Tedesco responded, dropping his cell phone and reaching for the pacifier on the counter toward which his wife was not so subtly gesturing, then quickly looked back into his uneaten cereal bowl as if the answers to some unanswered question floated among the Cheerios.

  Janet Tedesco looked at her husband and sighed. He had been more detached than usual over the preceding months. Maybe the back-and-forth trips to D.C. were getting to him? Maybe it was his almost daily commute up to L.A., though he never complained about it. She knew he lived in Orange County only because she had grown up there and loved it. Her friends were there, and her parents lived just thirty minutes away. Her mom and dad could look after their three children so Janet could attend many of the never-ending stream of lavish political fundraisers and charity events that were Mike’s domain. Mike was always thanked and toasted for being the piece of the puzzle that linked all the others. This made her immensely proud.

  Mi
ke Tedesco was technically a business consultant but everyone who knew him referred to him as a “fixer.” He was connected in some way to just about everyone who mattered in Southern California, from studio executives to key political figures. His friends called him “1D” since he appeared to be one degree of separation from just about anyone you’d want to meet. Tedesco was one of those people who are good at everything. He was the guy you hated in school because he never had to study and would beat you at golf on his worst day. His good looks and Ivy League education, combined with his athletic talents, gained him great favor with both sexes, but he was a surprisingly devoted husband and father.

  From the outside looking in, he had the perfect life: a home on the golf course in Shady Canyon, Orange County’s most exclusive private community; an incredible condo in Maui; and a mountainside ski retreat in Deer Valley. An always-new Range Rover for his wife and Bentley for himself completed the Southern California twist on a Norman Rockwell painting. Unlike many of those with whom he associated, he would have been just as happy, if not happier, as a river guide or ski instructor. He just happened to be good with people, and the truth was, he sincerely liked helping them.

  His challenge was juggling all his competing demands and making it all work. He lived in a constant state of guilt, probably from the two years he had spent in Catholic school early in life. His conscience ate away at him every time he was called to a meeting in D.C. or was stuck in traffic on the way to and from L.A. It was time spent away from his beautiful wife and children. He wanted out of the fast-paced life to which they had become accustomed.

  Mike also had a plan. He had a dollar amount in mind, and when he hit that number he would retire. He could spend time with his family and travel on their schedule, not someone else’s. Strangely, he did not feel the need to continue to accumulate wealth and prestige like so many others in his circle of “friends.” Once he hit his number, he would fade away.

  Two years ago, connecting the players in the business plan that Steve Horn had outlined seemed harmless enough, even commendable. Mike would get to build the team that would purchase, clinically test, and market a drug that would block the effects of PTSD before it even took hold. A neuro pathway beta-blocker that would revolutionize the medical treatment of future veterans, preventing the destruction caused by the psychological toll of war; a mental prehab for warriors. Mike had gone to enough military and veteran group fundraisers over the years to have seen and heard the stories of those whose lives were completely altered by what they had done in combat, and this was a way for him to contribute more than financially. Mike’s involvement in “the Project” was not purely altruistic. Success in this endeavor would put him well above his number and allow him an escape from the trappings of his current life.

  Fund-raising and supporting these foundations was a way for Mike to atone for the guilt he felt for not joining the military himself. If he was honest, it was because he was ashamed. Those nuns in Catholic school had certainly done their work. He had left his job as a congressional aide and was working in the Manhattan financial sector on a beautiful Tuesday morning in September when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. Rather than rush to help, Mike ran the other way. When others headed for recruiting stations in the wake of 9/11, Mike found refuge at the USC Marshall School of Business. It was there that he discovered his real talent lay not in the analytics, nor the leadership of business, but rather in the art of relationships and the nurturing of those relationships until they could be monetized.

  One of his closest mentors was a former California congressman who had failed in his own bid for the presidency a decade ago when one of his many affairs hit the media. At the time, Tedesco thought that his best horse had fallen but it looked as if he was about to get a second shot at the title: that same congressman’s wife was the current secretary of defense and a shoo-in for the Democratic presidential nomination next time around.

  That he was a trusted confidant of one of the most powerful couples in Washington only bolstered his standing in both the financial and political communities. Mike was the bridge between big money and big power.

  Unfortunately, the outcome of this particular bridge-building project had gone horribly wrong, and the actions of his partners had chilled him to the depths of his soul. What started out as something that could both save lives and help Mike reach his number had turned into a nightmare. To Mike it felt as if he had ordered the killing of the SEAL Team himself, though he did not become aware of the connection of the Project to the highly publicized ambush in Afghanistan until Admiral Pilsner and his JAG had briefed him yesterday, no doubt at the suggestion of Steve Horn. Perhaps Steve knew Mike was the weak link and had to be kept in line. Psychologically, having Mike read in by the SEAL admiral with whom he had sat at many a Naval Special Warfare Foundation charity event carried more weight than hearing it from Steve himself. The message was clear: if SEALs were willing to kill other SEALs to keep this project alive, it must be for the greater good.

  But to walk out of Pilsner’s office and actually see the face of one of the men Mike had a part in destroying was almost too much to take. There sat the true hero, a cancerous tumor growing in his brain, his troop and family dead, oblivious to the array of forces lining up to further dismantle his life and ultimately destroy him.

  Mike was the weakest of the group. He knew it. And he knew that if he showed any signs of that weakness, the others would not hesitate to feed him to the wolves. This wasn’t checkers, nor was it chess. It was three-dimensional poker, and Mike was going to have to play it out while bluffing if he was going to finish the game. Wait, not finish the game, but survive the game. His goal now was to make it through this disaster with his life and the lives of his wife and children. If he could just keep his head down he could deliver both his family and reach his number. Then he would be done with Steve Horn and his ilk for good.

  He would atone for his sins in this life or the next, of that he was certain. God would punish him. The burden of his involvement he would carry alone, all the way to the grave and whichever way he was headed beyond it.

  CHAPTER 21

  Balboa Naval Medical Center

  San Diego, California

  DR. PAUL RUSSELL FINISHED his regular shift at Balboa Naval Medical Center and waved his goodbyes to the floor staff. He contemplated stopping at the gym on the way home but he’d been on his feet all day and just couldn’t find the motivation. At forty-eight, his lack of drive was catching up to him, and he could feel his belly tugging against his loose-fitting scrubs. He walked through the maze of corridors that left visitors perpetually lost and headed for the staff section of the parking garage. He put the key into the door of his aging Volvo station wagon and climbed inside. His black nylon briefcase, swag from a medical conference, sat on his lap as he reached for the door to swing it shut.

  As Dr. Russell slammed the door closed, an unseen hand grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head back into the head restraint. The muzzle of a handgun pressed tightly into his neck under his jaw, gagging him.

  “Look in the rearview mirror,” the voice said from behind him. “Do you remember me?”

  Russell hesitated and then glanced toward the mirror without trying to move his head. He immediately recognized the face of James Reece.

  “Yes, I know who you are.”

  “Why did you tell me I was clear when you knew about the tumor?” Reece asked calmly.

  “I don’t know anything about a tumor,” Russell stammered, trying to maintain some semblance of control and failing miserably. “Your labs and scans aren’t even back yet. All they told me was to clear you no matter what was wrong with you. They were gonna kill my family.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “It was a DOD security guy of some kind. I have his card in my bag, I’ll gladly give it to you. Please don’t hurt my kids.”

  “Reach slowly into the bag and get me the card. Anything but a card comes out of that fucking bag a
nd you’ll bleed out before they can get you into the ER.” Reece shifted the muzzle of the Glock 19 slightly and pressed it firmly against Russell’s carotid artery.

  Russell’s hands shook as he rifled through the unorganized bag, looking for the card.

  “Here it is. I found it.”

  “Put it on the armrest to your right.” Russell did as he was told. “What exactly did this guy tell you?”

  “He knew everything. He knew I was having an affair with one of the nurses here at the hospital. He told me that he’d kill my wife and kids and make it look like I did it to get them out of the way so I could be with her. I don’t even want to be with her!” Russell said in desperation. “He said that you’d be coming through here on the way back from overseas and that I was to clear you ASAP no matter what your condition was. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Dr. Russell closed his eyes tight, wincing. Suddenly the hand released his hair, the back door clicked, and the gun was off his neck. He felt the weight of the Volvo shift and heard the rear door slam shut. He glanced at the armrest; the card was gone. He shifted his bag to the passenger seat and realized that his scrubs were soaking wet. He had pissed himself. He sat in the car for twenty minutes, trying to stop shaking, before starting it up and speeding home to his wife and children.

  • • •

  Reece was starving as he drove away from Balboa and realized that he hadn’t had anything other than coffee in more than twenty-four hours. He headed for an old-school Italian sandwich shop that he’d been to a couple of times over the years. It was a family business and the kind of place with no surveillance cameras and no one asking questions. When he pulled into the vintage strip mall, he found the parking lot mostly empty. The grocery store that had anchored the building had long since moved to a newer location and left a series of independent businesses in its wake, each trying to take advantage of the relatively inexpensive rent.