by Marc Cameron
“Of course there will be those among the Americans who suspect more, but they will be disbelieved. It is their defense mechanism. And even if some do choose to believe, while they stand mesmerized by one battle raging on the board, we will strike from a completely different angle, ending the game while the haughty devils still believe they have beaten us.”
“Would you care to enlighten us with the remainder of your plan?” The fat Iraqi scooped a pile of al-kabsa onto his saucer with a piece of flatbread.
A smile blossomed on Farooq’s face, turning his lips into a pale gash beneath a sparse goatee. “My friend, I would be delighted to do just that. If you would all be so gracious ...” The sheikh raised a hand. Ratib slid back the woolen curtain that covered a heavy glass partition separating them from a dimly lit room.
The men around the table grew pale. The hotel owner’s hand shot to his mouth and he turned away in horror. Nassif, the government man, tried to take another sip of coffee, but his hand shook too badly to get the cup to his lips.
Sheikh Husseini al Farooq reclined against his cushion and yawned. He considered the back of his manicured hand as he spoke. “We are fortunate, I think, to have the laboratories and veterinary scientists so near at King Faisal University. Of course, to do this to animals would be strictly haram. I would take no part in such a thing. Americans are worse than devils to be sure, and Allah, may it please him, will surely sanction our plan. What you see, Allah willing, is but a small taste of what the infidels have in store.”
Zafir stared at the glass, transfixed at the scene on the other side. Tonight was the night he would ask of his master the greatest of all favors—to play a more central part in the game. That’s what the sheikh called it—the Game. And with a man as supremely wise as Farooq pushing the pieces on the board, it was a game they were certain to win.
A rumbling gurgle drew the Bedouin’s attention away from the window. Malik, the fat Iraqi, had vomited in his plate.
CHAPTER 11
10 September, 1520 hours
Andrews Air Force Base
Maryland
Jericho Quinn’s BMW GS Adventure mirrored his personality. It was a powerful bike—tall, gunmetal gray, fast, and intensely aggressive. As a boy, he’d tacked Molly Hatchet’s debut album to the wall above his bed. The cover art was a Frank Frazetta painting of a horn-helmeted fantasy warlord, clothed in dark robes atop a muscular black warhorse—The Death Dealer. Sullen red eyes glowed under the knight’s helmet. Blood dripped from a battle axe in a brandished fist. Vultures circled overhead and steam blew from the beast’s nose. Jericho’s mother hated the painting, complaining that such a dark image was bound to inspire her son toward horrible things. His father, on the other hand, had only smiled and told his mother to be glad that was the only Frank Frazetta art Jericho had decided to hang on his wall.
The album cover did turn out to be an inspiration. Quinn had ridden motorcycles virtually all his life, from the first Honda 125 he used to scoot up and down the beach on while the family dug for razor clams, to the broken-down Harley Panhead he’d bought to tinker with during high school—and a dozen other bikes since. He loved them all for differing reasons. Some were fast, others were nimble, still others were hell on wheels off road. But he was never able to choose a single favorite bike—until he saw his first 1150 GS shortly after he’d graduated from the Air Force Academy. The first time he set eyes on one of the big black BMWs stopped at a light in downtown Anchorage on a drizzly gray afternoon, his mind had immediately flashed to the Death Dealer’s muscular warhorse. He’d sold his Firebird, a Honda CBR sport bike, and a Harley Davidson Road King to buy his first one. Though he’d eventually moved up to the 1200cc model, he hadn’t once been disappointed.
GS stood for Gelande Strasse, German for trail and street. Though the Beemer handled tamely enough on the manicured, vegetarian pavement of Andrews Air Force Base, the 1,200cc was a predator. A two-wheeled raptor, a hundred and five warhorses of beaked meat-eater, built to chew up rougher terrain.
The crossed war axes on his metallic gray visored Arai motocross helmet, complete with blood dripping from the blades, were a custom-painted tribute to the Frazetta painting of his youth.
Helmet in hand, Quinn stood beside the bike in the sunny parking lot outside AFOSI Detachment 331 Headquarters. A cell phone was pressed against his ear. A black leather Vanson motorcycle jacket covered his light blue uniform shirt. His darker dress tunic was folded neatly in the Touratech aluminum-top case on the back of the bike. The air was heavy with humidity and the scent of newly mown grass.
As an OSI agent, he normally worked in civilian clothes. It made interviewing people who outranked him much easier when he identified himself as special agent rather than a lowly captain. A Court of Inquiry, however, required service dress blues. He didn’t know if it was the gravity of his present situation or his starched collar, but Quinn felt as if someone were sawing off his head. He found it oddly entertaining that he considered himself in more danger now than he ever had in Iraq.
His ex-wife’s attitude didn’t help.
“So ...” Her voice was distant, both in tone and geography. “How did it turn out?”
“What?” He put a finger to his free ear to block the roar of a passing lawnmower.
“That little court thingie.”
It was mind-numbing that Kim would minimize a proceeding that might very well cost him his military career by calling it a “little court thingie.” She did it with anything that frightened her. It was her way of coping, her way of not going crazy in an insane situation. She didn’t mean anything by it.
“Hasn’t started yet,” he said, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He almost told her how the worry was eating a hole in his guts. Luckily, she cut him off.
“We had a cow moose eating my apples along the driveway this morning,” she said. “Mattie couldn’t get to the bus stop so I had to drive her to school.”
It was better this way. Keep things light. “Was she scared?” As if Mattie Quinn was scared of anything. Jericho knew his little girl took after him in the bravado department. He wondered if that fact would serve or damn her.
“She’s fine,” Kim said. “This morning she asked when you were coming home.” She had to slip that in. “You think you’ll get leave anytime soon? I mean, they did keep you over there nearly a whole year.”
“I may get more time off than I want if they boot me out of the Air Force.” He couldn’t help himself. His stomach was in knots and he needed someone to talk to. It turned out to be a mistake.
“Would that really be so bad, Jericho?” You could come back home and spend some time with Mattie—”
“What about Mattie’s mom?”
“You know how I feel about you,” Kim said. She could be very guarded in her words now. He supposed he deserved it with the kind of life he’d put her through.
“And what if I did quit?” Quinn heard himself say. “I could get out and come back to Alaska. How would you feel about me then?”
There was a long silence on the phone. He could hear Kim breathing, as he’d heard her so many times as they lay beside each other in bed, touching but incredibly far apart, not saying the things that should have been said.
“Don’t do this to me, Jericho.”
“So it wouldn’t matter?”
“Of course it would matter,” she said. “Mattie needs you here.”
“And you?”
“You know I do.”
“All right, then,” Quinn said, feeling dizzy even as he said the words. “If they don’t kick me out, I’ll give them my resig—”
“What would you do?” Kim said, suddenly bent on playing devil’s advocate. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re not cut out for normal life.”
Quinn shrugged, gritting his teeth. She had to make things so hard. “I don’t know.... I’d get a job with the Troopers or Anchorage PD.”
“You’re serious?” Kim said, her v
oice a breathless whisper.
“Dead,” Quinn said.
“Listen,” Kim said. “It’s nearly noon here. This is a lot for me to process. I’ve got to run to the store before Mattie comes home. Call me later.”
“Okay,” he said. “I love you.”
“I know you do,” she said.
Kimberly Quinn wasn’t much for good-byes. He’d left her so many times during their three-year courtship and eight-year marriage; he supposed she’d had enough of them.
Quinn flipped the phone closed and traded his leather riding jacket for the uniform tunic in the aluminum case. He took a moment to look around the manicured lawns and shrub-lined sidewalks of the base. He’d just told his ex-wife he would quit the very thing he was best at doing—for her and their daughter. Wasn’t that what good husbands and fathers were supposed to do? He was tempted to climb back on his motorcycle and ride as far as a tank of gas would carry him. Instead, he straightened his tie and walked through the yawning double doors of the red brick building—as a resigned man might walk to his own execution.
Lt. Colonel Fargo had gone in first. He still had the pulsing tendons in his jaw and fiery look of retribution in his otherwise vaporous eyes, but his intensity was muted by the post-sunburn peeling of his nose courtesy of his time in the desert—and the way he thought himself impervious to the rules of nature.
After the adrenaline of the rescue had faded and Quinn took the time to consider, he’d not expected things would go this far. His commanding officer appeared to like him—and they had saved two American lives. But, as Fargo was quick to point out, Lance Corporal Diaz had lost his foot, and right now the Monday-morning quarterbacks were using that foot to give Quinn the boot.
As it turned out, Fargo had enough political juice to reach across service lines and seriously screw with Quinn’s career—at least enough to get his boss to convene an official Court of Inquiry.
Waiting, Quinn did what he always did when the going got dicey. He took a dog-eared photograph of his five-year-old daughter from his wallet and stared at her big blue eyes. Poor kid, he treated her like some kind of worry stone. He supposed it was lucky he didn’t get to see her too often or she’d grow up realizing her dad was the biggest whack job in the Air Force.... He wondered how much their relationship would change if he returned to Alaska and went to work for the Troopers. It suddenly occurred to him that if he was discharged he wouldn’t likely find a job anywhere in civilian law enforcement either.
Quinn looked up at the echoing snap of dress shoes on the polished tile floor.
“If it ain’t my ol’ buddy Chair Force.” A friendly Louisiana drawl yanked Quinn out of his self-pity. “That your bike out front?”
Quinn shook off his thoughts and reached to shake Thibodaux’s hand. “Yep.”
The Marine’s kettledrum chest came in handy as a billboard to hold the palm-size placard of service ribbons hanging from his green tunic. A red and blue ribbon signified he’d received the Bronze Star for Valor.
“A Beemer ...” Thibodaux gave a low whistle. “Us lowly enlisted boys can’t afford the German stuff. My KLR is a good enough motorcycle, but I wouldn’t mind keepin’ your BMW exercised, so to speak, while you’re in the brig. It’s what friends are for.”
Quinn sighed. “Good to see someone has faith in me.”
“Corporal Diaz says to tell you hey. He’s pushin’ the envelope to stay in the Marine Corps when he gets his new bionic foot.”
Quinn shook his head, thinking of all the bureaucracy the poor kid would have to wade through on one leg. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Well, beb.” Thibodaux took a seat on the polished wooden bench next to Quinn. “I sure enough owe your ass. Only two months into my umpteenth tour in the desert—but thanks to you, I get orders to come back to the good ol’ U S of A and testify at your hearing. I got to stop off for a visit with my wife and play with the box the kids came in.”
Quinn chuckled. “How many kids?”
“Well, considerin’ how much I’m deployed, we got us a mess of ’em.”
“How many in a mess, exactly?”
Thibodaux winked. “Six ... so far.”
Quinn pictured his little girl again, his dark hair, her mom’s blue eyes.... If that’s what she needed, he would quit. He’d actually do it....
The heavy wooden door beside them creaked open and saved him from his thoughts. The most influential member of the general’s staff, a short, female Air Force major named Babcock peered over a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses—the kind they’d called birth control goggles or BCGs in the Academy. Most reverted back to their more comfortable—and vastly more flattering—styles of eyewear after training ended, but not Major Babcock.
“Captain Quinn,” she said, her face showing as much emotion as a bran muffin. “You’re up.” She gave Thibodaux a quick up-and-down from behind her BCGs. “You, too.”
“Both of us?” Quinn had assumed the general would want to question them separately.
Major Babcock’s heels clicked as she turned, apparently unwilling to use more energy than necessary to explain things. “Both.”
“She’s hot,” Thibodaux whispered.
Quinn looked at the big Cajun as if he’d lost his mind. “Well, you’re certainly not a credible witness.”
Base Commander Lt. General Ted Powers was a straight shooter, and it was common knowledge you didn’t want to be in his sights, especially when he was pissed—which, at the moment, he was.
The balding general slumped behind a raised wooden table scowling under a forehead furrowed with wrinkles. Lt. Colonel Fargo gloated at the table set aside for what would have been the prosecution had it been an actual trial court.
The general gave a cursory nod as Major Babcock led in her two charges. The clack of her stark, black shoes echoed off the tile in the cavernous room. Her perfectly creased blue uniform slacks swished as if she’d starched the polyester.
Quinn snapped to attention as he approached the commanding officer. He’d expected a colonel or even a one-star. Fargo must truly have had some juice to manipulate the system and get a three-star general to hear a complaint like this one.
Four men in dark suits whom Quinn didn’t recognize sat at the back of the room in a double row of wooden chairs.
“Thank you for attending these proceedings, Gunnery Sergeant Thibodaux.” Powers shuffled some papers and put on a pair of skinny reading glasses. He glanced up at Quinn and motioned at the table opposite Fargo. He spoke crisply as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Be seated, Captain. This won’t take long.”
Fargo’s gloat grew bolder with that. Thibodaux sat, ramrod-straight in a wooden chair along the far wall, broad shoulders silhouetted by a row of windows that ran from floor to ceiling.
“Captain Quinn,” General Powers began, “I’ve been reviewing your record... .” He scanned the documents in front of him as if he was searching for something in particular.
Fargo shot a smirk across the aisle. Quinn tried to ignore him, since anything less than choking out the miserable excuse for an officer would give him little satisfaction.
The general shut the folder with such obvious finality it was easy to see he’d come to a decision. “You have a stellar background, Captain Quinn. There’s no disputing that. There is, however, this issue regarding following the orders of a senior officer. Do you dispute that Colonel Fargo had tactical command of the operation that led to the charges he’s levied against you?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you dispute the fact that Lieutenant Colonel Fargo ordered you to wait to mount your rescue until he was able to return to your location?”
“No, sir,” Quinn said, his meager hopes falling fast. The general was merely going through the pre-court martial formalities. Quinn had already made his case for disobeying what he considered to be a foolish order. It was all in his report. He saw no reason to waste effort defending himself now. Fargo would enjoy that too much.
General Powers peeled off his reading glasses and pushed away from his desk.
“Captain Quinn,” he said. “I want to be clear about this—for the record. Have you and I ever met?”
Quinn took a deep breath wondering where this was heading. “I have not had the pleasure, sir.”
“Well, if we had met,” the general went on, “there would be zero doubt in your mind that I am a stickler for obedience.”
“Yes, General,” Quinn said, trying not to slump in defeat.
The general shifted his gaze to Lt. Colonel Fargo. “You would agree, would you not, that obedience to a superior officer is imperative?”
Fargo gave a smug nod. “I would indeed, General Powers.”
“Outstanding. We are all in agreement.” Powers leaned in to the desk microphone, close enough that his voice reverberated around the room. “My orders to you, Lieutenant Colonel Fargo—and I assure you that no matter the military branch in which you serve, the orders of a general officer bearing three stars will hold some sway—my orders to you, are to stand down with these ridiculous charges.”
Fargo blinked as if he was staring into a fan, dumbstruck by the sudden turn of events. “Sir, I must—”
“You must obey my orders,” the general snapped. “I have nineteen letters—not e-mails, mind you, but genuine handwritten letters—including one from a Marine Corps general, and one from your commanding officer in the United States Army—all lauding the efforts and accomplishments of Captain Quinn and Marines Thibodaux and Diaz.”
Powers put on his reading glasses again. “Here’s one that struck me in particular. And I quote: ‘I have no doubt that the Iraqis who held us captive were only seconds away from taking our heads. Were it not for the heroic actions of...’ ”
