by Larry Crane
“But it is terrorism. And I don’t want...”
“Fuck what you want,” barked Copeland from the shadows. “You’ll do what you’re told to do. Any more questions?”
Sydney sank deeper into her couch.
“Leave her alone,” Lou said. “She’s the only one here with half a brain.”
“So, we’re finally going to hear from the man,” said Copeland from the back. “Going to find out where we’ve gone off track. Okay, pal. Let’s go. We don’t have all night.”
“Where do I start?” Lou asked rhetorically.
“Start at the beginning.”
“From the beginning, the whole crummy concept stinks.”
“This is General Robert E. Lee talking I guess, huh? General Robert E. Lee.”
“No, this is common sense talking, Copeland.”
“Keep talking, smart guy.”
“All right. What about guns? What about communications? What about explosives, contingency plans, training, rehearsals, control, chain of command, discipline, conditioning, clothing, rations?”
Copeland shouted from the shadows: “Hold it! Just hold your frigging mouth, General Robert E. Lee! All of that comes under the heading of command and control, at the discretion of the local commander. We issue the broad outlines of the mission, you fill in the gaps.”
“Just like all great strategy, huh? Hatched by some half-baked staff man at headquarters with no true experience in the field.”
“Give us the benefit of your experience, Louis,” Stanfield interjected. “One point at a time.”
“You said there was going to be no need for guns,” Lou said.
“Who said anything about guns?” Copeland said, pushing his way into the center of them.
“What if the toll guard resists or pulls a gun?” Lou asked.
“He doesn’t have a gun,” snarled Copeland.
“Is he going to roll over and play dead in his little tollbooth?”
“You’ll be carrying guns, but there’s no need to shoot at any time,” Stanfield interjected.
“What happens when police arrive?”
“There aren’t going to be any police,” Copeland said, quieter, teeth clamped on the end of a cigarette.
“Have you told them that?”
“If you’re well organized, they won’t have time to react.”
“You guarantee that?”
“I don’t guarantee anything,” Copeland said, as the end of his cigarette blazed in the flame of the Zippo.
“If they shoot, then what?”
Copeland took a long, sucking drag on his Marlboro and expelled a cloud of smoke that enveloped Lou. “Then nothing,” he said.
Lou cleared the cloud from around his face with his hand, like batting at wasps. “In other words, Copeland, there’s a damned good chance that somebody’s going to die out there.”
Copeland stared straight at Lou and shot the lit cigarette into the corner of the room where it exploded in a spray of sparks against the wall. The silence split the space between them like dynamite. Then Copeland smiled.
“I wouldn’t say that, pal. I would say there’s hardly a chance at all. But that’s really up to you now, isn’t it?”
The real question was the one nobody asked: who of them takes the fall? These two? Never. Buck? Ha! And what happens if the whole thing turns to dung? Red eats dirt? Tasha? He knew the answer. It was whoever got caught holding the bag, and there weren’t all that many of them with a hand in it to begin with.
“There’s no shooting,” Lou said, sighing audibly.
“None,” said Copeland.
“But we carry guns, for the effect, and the guns have ammunition in them?”
“Right.”
“Did you ever know a group of men to go out somewhere with guns and ammo without firing?”
“There will be no firing, Cook.”
“Why nine o’clock? Why not three a.m. when the place is deserted?”
“We want coverage. That’s the name of the game. Media coverage.”
“You want to get out of there on foot?”
“That’s right.”
“Why not use one of the trucks to get out of the general area at least?”
“You’d be picked up. They’d trace the truck. They have to be destroyed.”
“What training do these people have? The girl? These guys? What do they know about escape and evasion? How are they going to make it in the boonies for a couple of days, constantly on the move, no sleep?”
“Anybody can go twenty-four hours without sleep,” Red piped in. “The men will get the job done, believe me.”
“How about you, Tasha?” Lou said, looking at the girl.
She squirmed on the couch and shrugged without answering.
“What good can she possibly do?”
“I explained that, Cook.”
“A man could go dressed as a woman.”
“It won’t wash. I want the guard to report that there was a girl named Tasha along on this thing.”
“How about commo? How about control?”
“Red has radios.”
“We’ll get ’em,” Red chimed in again.
“Wonderful. You got batteries?”
“Yeah.”
“Will they work? Who says these guys’ll do what they’re told to do? What if Red refuses? Is he a dead man?”
“That’s up to you, Cook. You’re in command.”
“Who’s the demo man?”
“You’re a Ranger.”
“Was. What kind of explosive do you have, Red?” Lou asked wearily.
“Let’s just say that there are ways of getting anything you want in the way of military equipment and ammunition, Cook. If you got the bread, you can get the goods. Believe me.”
“I said what kind of explosive?”
“What kind do you want?”
“Say I want C-4.”
“How much?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“You got it.”
“How about the trucks? Where do they come from?”
“We have them.”
“Is there a rehearsal? Any training?”
“There’s no time for that.”
“Okay, then the big question is: when is this three-ring circus supposed to come off? Tomorrow?”
“Close, pal. The day after,” Copeland said.
“I’m gone.”
Lou got up quickly and was out the door before anybody could react.
Stanfield and Copeland were up and out right behind him as he strode toward the front of the motel. He felt them at his back as he stood on the sidewalk in front of the office, scanning Route 17, immersed in the chaotic din of the truck traffic, buried in the furious buzzing that swirled around his head. He turned to face the two of them.
“Both of you guys know as well as I do that this whole thing is crap. I’m not buying it. There’s no way I’m going to have anything to do with it.”
Chapter Thirteen
“All right, Christopher, let’s just say we heard you,” said Copeland. “Those other shmucks are content to know exactly what they already know and no more. You get a few more details.”
“We don’t work for Buck; at least not all the time,” said Stanfield. “Let’s just say that we’re involved on a short-term basis. It’s in and out for us, too. Bang-bang and it’s all over. And that’s how we want it to go. Fast and sweet. We want to get through with this assignment as soon as we can.”
The two of them stood on either side of Lou, close.
“Now, we happen to know something about radical and terrorist activities and groups. Fact is, we’ve been infiltrating and monitoring these kinds of organizations for a long time. And this operation is about par for the course for these people.
“It’s not far removed from a plan that we know of that was supposed to come off back in ’80 when Reagan was running. We’re just adapting the idea to this particular time. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out ther
e’s an election going on, nor the effect that an event like this could have, taking place so close to election day.
“Let’s just say that the ‘ins’ happen to believe in using all the resources at their disposal to bring about the desired aim of electing a president. So much for that.
“Now, why you? You’re smart. You’ve been around operations that depend on timing and guts. We need a guy who can handle a maniac like Red and his bunch of goons. Did you see his face when we mentioned the Airborne Ranger bit? He was drooling. Frankly, we were going to go with Red and his bunch until the lady heard about it. From then on, we had to get hold of someone with a little more on the ball. Patricia got you for us. She got a few hundred brownie points for the brainstorm, even though she stole it from us. So there it is.”
Who were these people? Harvard MBAs doing some kind of case study, with Patricia Buck providing the practical experience? Lou could visualize them poring over huge spreadsheets in the research department; Buck checking in from time to time to see how the plans were coming along; Stanfield delivering some high-blown briefing that sounded like a second Operation Desert Storm; Copeland sitting back, letting the tall one do all the talking. Stanfield had all the hot air and outward show of confidence and polish. Copeland was the brain, the stabilizer. Whenever Stanfield’s facade showed the merest hint of cracking, Copeland came in to carry the day. The catch in the whole charade was the same as the flaw in all schemes conceived in the laboratory: it lived in a Petri dish. It had nothing to do with real life and real guts.
“I told you I was out. It’s crazy. I’m out. I don’t want to know you two or anything about this free-for-all. Understand?”
“And I said we heard you,” said Copeland.
“Listen, Louis, people take chances, and succeed, every day,” said Stanfield. “You don’t have to be Schwarzkopf to pull these things off, just smart. If the operatives who blew up the Marines in Beirut can walk away from it unscathed, you can do this forty miles north of the city. Who says anybody gets caught?”
“Patricia Buck means nothing to me. I don’t know what you have on the rest of these people, but what you have on me isn’t worth shit.”
“Louis, listen to me, carefully. The other two owe certain people money, big time. When this is over, they’re out from under. That’s them. With you, we’re talking a quarter of a million dollars annually for the rest of your life.”
“Fuck the money. You go back and tell Patricia to fuck the money.”
“Do you really think it’s only Patricia Buck? Do you really believe that? Louis, Jord Bliss, the president of the United States, just happens to be giving a speech at the Waldorf Sunday night. Check it out.
“When the word flashes that the bridge is in flames, he flies out to the scene from the West Side heliport and takes charge. Two days before the election. You’re smart. You know as well as I do that, with the effectiveness of television coverage today, the right event can completely modify public opinion in the space of a couple of hours.”
“This half-baked load of bullshit would make Jimmy Carter’s hostage rescue disaster look like a moon landing,” Lou snarled, walking away from them. “You’re amateurs. A day and a half to prepare for this? You’re nuts.”
“You talk about operations hatched in a test tube? What about naïve statements about presidential campaigns, bright boy?” Copeland growled, grabbing Lou’s shoulder, spinning him around.
“This is high pressure, pal. Poll results come in daily, hourly. The president is down seventeen points nationally. The man wants to be reelected. Numerous others want him in the White House. Yeah, if we knew we needed something this drastic a week ago, we would’ve allotted more time; but this is here and now, and we don’t have time.”
“This is his last, best shot at turning this disaster of a campaign around, Lou,” Stanfield crooned. “The man himself has no firsthand knowledge of the details of the plan. Of course, he has to stay one or two operatives away from the real action of covert operations, but he knows that he has to take a chance or just roll over. It’s all or nothing. He knows this.”
“Tell Patricia I’m out.”
“You think you have to do all this protesting shit for the record. It’s in your fucking blood,” Copeland hissed.
“I’m out, understand? Out. Tell Patricia to shove the account.”
“Hold it, just one second, Lou,” said Stanfield. “I get the feeling that you have the idea that Patricia Buck is getting all the credit here. That you’re some kind of chess piece to be shoved around the board; a faceless, second-rate bellboy or something. Louis, come on. An official, whose name I cannot reveal to you, but who is close to Jord Bliss, our president, has personally reviewed these plans, to include your selection as the man to lead it. Bliss, through this official, has absorbed your entire file. He indicated that he wants you. More than that, he needs you, Lou. It sounds as corny as hell, but, well, just think about that.”
“I don’t believe a word of it. Bliss himself wants me but doesn’t personally know about this fucking operation? Bull-fucking-shit. I’m not an idiot.”
Copeland stepped in: “You know what, pal, what you were told about Bliss wanting you is true, but you don’t need to believe that to comprehend that the end game in this operation creates the equivalent effect, and makes it true. Let me paint you a picture since you can’t do it yourself. The man is in Manhattan giving a speech on the night that a terrorist attack lights up the Hudson Valley. The attack unfolds in plain sight to millions, and Bliss is compelled to act, compelled to do the one thing that has any decent chance to pull the election out. If you’re saying that there’s no way in the world that he would jump in a helicopter and fly to the scene of a terrorist attack underway forty miles upriver from him, I’m saying you’re fucking crazy. In his dreams he couldn’t come up with a better scenario, and it carries zero risk for him. Does he want a miracle to save the election? Yes. Are you that miracle? Yes. Is wanting a miracle equal to wanting you. You figure it out.
Then it was Stanfield again: “Listen Louis, we know who you are. We know all about you. We know more about you than your worst nightmare would allow, including how you managed to hold onto those eagles when they should have been ripped off your shoulders. You don’t believe there’s an executive branch connection to all of this? Where does this information come from? Think about that.”
“Hey, Louis, let’s be civil here. You see the big picture. You see the implications. So, I presume you can visualize yourself taking on a whole new role in the service of your country. You’ve always operated best as a lone wolf anyway. It’s in the record. You get it done, whatever it is. This brokerage stint was just an interlude with you. Now, if this operation goes over as planned, you’re a natural to gravitate over to a covert mode in various national security initiatives.
“Okay, it’s hypothetical, but anyone with half a brain can see that it’s made for you. You’re in direct contact with the man. You operate outside of the normal chain of command. Four-star generals—one of your old friends maybe—have no control over you. Brigadiers work for you. I see you talking on a secure telephone to the man himself, while others wait to share their ideas with the president of the United States. You laugh, Lou. You chuckle. You’re incredulous. I know it’s very heady stuff. Enjoy it.”
“I’m out,” Lou said.
“You need something tangible, pal?” Copeland snickered. “Let me ask you something. Did your checks bounce, pal? Did you not receive real money?”
“You know I did.”
“It’s a huge pile of coins, pal. Not gumballs. Not breath mints.”
“I’m out of this place,” Lou said, walking on.
“Louis,” Stanfield said, stepping in front of him. “You want to play hardball? Okay. We know that game, too. And it goes like this: you get a pension. Twenty-five years of active duty and a bull colonel’s pay. Hell, you don’t need any Westover calls, do you, Louis? But I remember hearing something about an accid
ent during a winter training exercise in Germany. What was it? FX Taro Leaf? Something about a full-bird brigade commander coming under investigation for gross dereliction of duty that damned near cost the lives of eight of our young fighting men? I don’t think that investigation ever went anywhere, did it, Louis? I think it got swept under the rug somewhere along the line, somewhere in General Hank Readfield’s command? Hey, Louis, I just bet all kinds of sand would be flying if that thing ever got opened up again. Don’t you?”
