In one synchronized motion, warning bells sounded. The traffic lights turned green. The tank barrier folded into the ground, and the gate arms raised. The man in black returned the licenses and signaled McGee to proceed with a simple snap of his wrist.
McGee, driving through the gate, approached several black Suburbans and Tahoes with blacked-out windows and every known black antenna available to man, mounted on their roofs. At the office building at the end of the drive, McGee was surprised to see a custom placard atop a stanchion signifying he was Captain Bill McGee VIP at the Secret Service headquarters, as he slipped the non-black rental car into the designated parking space.
“I always loved being an O-Six,” McGee told Hunter.
Several black clones from the main gate appeared from nowhere to hover in the periphery. Apparently, they were scanning their sectors from behind their black shades, their lips moving continuously.
As the two men emerged from the bright-red rental car, Director O’Sullivan bounded from the building wearing a black suit and tie. McGee and Hunter looked at each other and chuckled, glad they wore gray and red.
On the drive in from the BWI airport, Hunter debriefed McGee on the events of the past week and vice versa.
“I’m not sure what more we could’ve done,” Hunter said. “The girlfriend, as you like to call her, did a great job asking questions and getting him to speak.”
“I heard he was induced.”
“I would say he responded well to electricity. Spock said he was a coward who was already very tame. I guess they used a bang stick or some wireless Taser system on him. When Spock turned that thing on, Osama bin Laden sat up straight and looked directly ahead, a true Pavlovian response.
“I brought blue-collar tools. I had a big Die Hard and cables. When I banged them together, and the sound, flash, and burnt metal filled the air, your boy talked. I didn’t have to waterboard him. I did threaten to bolt his balls to the Die Hard.”
“Dude! I also heard you put him on a plane.”
“I told him I would. And I did. I’m a man of my word.”
“More, Marine. I know there’s more.”
Hunter sighed. “There was a YAK-40 that had been on the field since the late ‘90s. Spock and I taped him to the seat while he was still sleeping off the chloroform. There was already a big hole in the underbelly, someone poked a hole in the fuselage with a forklift and rats and mice were able to get inside and make nests there. I always expected to see a black mamba creeping along the seats.
“I dumped the remaining food we had, chicken and rice, into his lap. I figured if he didn’t wake up, the rats would chow down on him for weeks. If he did wake up, and the rats didn’t get him, then the heat of being in that cockpit would slowly cook his ass.
“I think treachery is one of the circles of hell. Until that time, he would see I left him a little memento. He’d be able to see it and think about it until his last conscious moment, or Allah took him home. Or the rats ate him and turned him into little rat turds.”
“A memento?”
“If I remember correctly, it had the words, World Trade Center Twin Towers Statue 9/11 Commemorative Model on it. It was nine inches tall. I set it in front of him on the glare shield.”
Bill McGee drove down the I-495 beltway for ten minutes without speaking. “That was absolutely brilliant, Maverick. I said you’d make a great SEAL.”
“I wouldn’t want to give SEALs a bad name. I am already an honorary SEAL, if I recall.” He smiled for a moment before his thoughts returned to the present. He felt he aged five years in the last week. His ribs were still sore to the touch, and any attempt to turn over in his sleep resulted in stabbing pain and shortness of breath. His chest sported bruises that covered him in pastels of dried blood and dead skin. His injuries weren't helping his love life.
“So we’re going to see the Secret Service Director? Whiskey tango foxtrot, over?”
“Marty O’Sullivan, a former SEAL Team Six and Lancer. Rooster to his friends. Red hair, or it used to be. Smart, lucky bastard, in the right place at the right time. He left the SEALs after fourteen or fifteen years and got a job at the Secret Service.
Worked his way up the food chain and made director. He called me while you were entertaining in Africa.”
“He called you? You’re close? Was it a friendly chat?”
“He wanted to know how I was doing. I think he knew I was next on the hit list, and when nothing happened to me, he wondered why. I can’t believe he’s clueless.”
“How would he have known? That makes no sense.”
“While you were having fun in the sun in Liberia, I was able to investigate on my own. I went through the asshole’s van and found all kinds of crap. There were a couple guns, 400 fifty-dollar gold pieces, a prayer rug, and a computer. Somehow, when he got back to his van, he got careless and started a fire. Wasn’t much left by the time the fire department got there.
“The amazing thing was, I spotted someone watching my house, then a team of two. I took out one and followed the other to a mosque near Boston. I hear that place burned down, too.”
Hunter looked at McGee. “A burned-out car’s one thing. The mosque had to hit the blotters nationwide.”
“I couldn’t help myself. Then with that idiot Carey becoming VP….” He let the thought evaporate as he turned into the St. Elizabeth’s campus, the former home to presidential assassins and the insane, and the new home of the Secret Service.
*
After salutations, the Secret Service Director said, “Thank you for coming, Bill. Good to meet you Mr. Hunter.”
Three Secret Service agents on black Segways raced past the men.
“What’s with all the heavy metal?” McGee asked.
A dozen more agents on the silent, two-wheeled devices crisscrossed in front and to the rear of the three men, as they walked toward the old building.
“Training class. You were coming. I thought our newest class could use some beginning VIP escort and counter-surveillance training while you were on campus.”
“Ah.” The two old SEALs smiled at each other.
O’Sullivan gestured for McGee to lead the way through the double doors, with a stop at the ubiquitous security desk to exchange licenses for badges. Hunter followed McGee, who trailed O’Sullivan into his office.
McGee and Hunter were immediately stunned by the director’s workspace. A stand-up desk of black chrome and black granite was flanked by racks of electronics and communications equipment. A large brass chandelier competed with half a dozen monitors suspended from the fourteen-foot cathedral ceiling.
A small conference table rested atop highly polished cypress floors. Walls and windows were famed with large plaster neoclassic antebellum moldings. O’Sullivan offered seats and drinks from the turn-of-the-century bar topped with the only piece of granite in the room that wasn’t black.
Immediately, the dynamics between the two old combat warriors was palpable and fascinating to Hunter. It was like two professional fighters who met several times in the ring and found themselves at a social event, trying to be professional and pleasant, working hard not to let past long-fought wars rekindle into flames. Hunter saw the same kind of latent testosterone between pilots flying fighters and racquetball players in near-professional-level tournaments. Someone had been the king of the hill once, only to be slapped down by a younger bull. Old resentments were rarely, if ever, mended or mentioned.
Hunter didn’t think the two men would allow the situation to degenerate into barbs or fisticuffs, but clearly, someone needed to be an adult and run the meeting.
“The asshole who tried to kill Bill shot me three times,” Hunter said. “My partner neutralized his ass.”
O’Sullivan broke eye contact with the other SEAL. “Your partner?”
“Sorry, Sir. Special Access Program. You aren’t cleared and don’t need to know. Something’s on your mind, though, or you wouldn't have called Bill.”
The two former SEALs looked at each
other, and McGee smiled.
“Marty, I briefed Duncan on Broken Lance. If I hadn’t brought him into the fold, I wouldn't be here. I have the feeling you know something about the shooter. You know a whole lot more.”
“I think we all need to lay our cards on the table,” Hunter said.
“I have the feeling you know more than you’re letting on about why the shooter suddenly dropped off the grid,” O’Sullivan said. “I was keeping track of all the Lancers in CONUS. Bill, you’re right, after a while we expected you were next. I know you know it’s true. There were reports from your neck of the woods that a van caught fire, and there was gunfire in the area. I called you, and supposedly, you’re none the wiser, just like last time.”
McGee sighed and looked away. “Marty, that was a long time ago and isn’t relevant to this discussion. The last time, you were doing an investigation. Are you doing an investigation this time, or are you offering to help?”
“I can help where I can. Something’s going on.”
“I’m fairly certain that, if we were three very close friends,” Hunter said, “we could solve this together. I was shot three times. I’m ready for some help.”
“Marty, I don’t need help, especially your kind.”
Hunter saw the conversation approaching critical mass. He wasn’t sure what McGee’s irritation was with O’Sullivan. McGee hadn't discussed the fact that he had issues with the Secret Service Director. He came willingly. Something was missing.
As if he were rushing into a burning house to save the family cat, Hunter threw himself into the fray, protocol and rank structure be damned. “Marty, you asked us to come down. Something triggered… something in you inspired you to call Bill. What was it?”
The two SEALs stared at each other. Marty broke the lock to answer the question.
“The new VP knows more about the subject than he should. I said something to the effect that SEALs will do whatever is necessary to protect their fellow SEALs. If they find the shooter, they’ll find out who was responsible, and hold them accountable. The SEALs will extract revenge. When the color drained from the VP’s fat little face, I thought it was a curious response."
“I’ve been around politicians a long time. They don't give a shit about anything but themselves. The color drained from his lips—a sure sign he was about to pass out and that he knew more about this issue than he should.”
“We think the DCI—the former DCI—was behind it,” McGee said. “There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence to support it. He had an intermediary do the dirty work. A sniper. A Muslim sniper.”
O’Sullivan sat up slightly, his interest diffusing the tension in the room. “His response to a SEAL’s retribution for the killing of SEALs was more than odd.”
“Would that be because now he’s part of the Broken Lance calculus?” Hunter asked. “Instead of being the approval authority, now he could be….”
“…the target,” the SEALs said simultaneously.
“One of his buddies, Prince Bashir,” McGee said, “did the dirty work. He hired the shooter, a world-class marksman, failed BUDS and Marine Scout Sniper school. One of Bashir’s sons was at the Naval War College. One’s sitting in Gitmo, and one was killed in Afghanistan.
“The interesting piece is Duncan was also on the shooter’s list. He was targeted after me.”
O’Sullivan ran the lines through his head. “I won’t ask how you know that. You’re positive it isn’t the Broken Lance connection?”
“Absolutely. The intersection of our relationship was the Naval War College. If the yardstick to get on Bashir’s shit list is to kill or jail one of his kids, I don’t know how I could ever have gotten on the list,” Hunter said.
He turned to McGee and pointed at him. “Bashir’s the key. He provided all the 9/11 terrorists to bin Laden. Bashir took care of his little boy toys and funded their education while caring for their families. Osama bin Laden suggested he knew Bashir was very close to the president when he was a young man in the ‘80s. We took it that Bashir is probably running the president. If you look at his actions and policies in the Middle East, they don’t make sense. Now look through the prism of being run by a Saudi prince who fosters worldwide terrorism, and things suddenly start making sense.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about?” O’Sullivan barked.
“Duncan, ahem, ‘interviewed’ bin Laden before he died,” McGee said. “He learned a few things.”
Hunter, withdrew a thumb drive from his suit pocket and handed it to O’Sullivan.
The director was confused.
“The documents on that thumb drive prove the president isn’t who he claims,” Hunter said. “Bin Laden and Bashir provided all the terrorists for the 9/11 martyr operation, which was in play for ten aircraft across the country. Bashir provided the shooter to kill SEALs. Bin Laden wanted that shooter to kill the president but was vetoed by Bashir.
“We made the leap in logic that Carey ordered the hit for the SEALs to kill the president. We haven’t figure out why he did that, but if you look at what happened in the last week, suddenly, if a SEAL killed the president, Carey would be the next president.”
O’Sullivan gave Hunter a hard look, trying to digest the staccato of information.
“It’s safe to say at this moment that Bashir’s completely wired into the White House and CIA and Saudi intelligence, probably MI6, too,” McGee said.
“Bashir and Carey are very close,” Hunter added. “They had sex parties with boys and young men. Billionaires can buy anything and anyone. I don’t know what you’ll do when you review those documents.”
Stunned, O’Sullivan tried to assimilate what he just heard.
McGee, who finally relaxed and became animated in the discussion, turned to Hunter. “I still don’t know how you got on Bashir’s hit list.
The pause in the conversation allowed O’Sullivan time to assimilate all the information. He sat, listened, and tried to assimilate his guests’ rapid-fire discussion.
“I couldn’t have been on Carey’s list, because, when I’m working, I work directly for the DCI,” Hunter said. “If I was a problem, he could’ve pulled my clearance and I would return to a normal life or he could’ve taken me out so easily, my body would never show up. I had to have done something well before Carey’s tenure to be on Bashir’s list. I think I finally figured out why.”
“Occam’s Razor?” McGee asked.
“Yes, Sir. Simple. Strip out all the distractions. There had to be a Naval War College list. You said Broken Lance exercises were planned. Carey had to be read on, and then he used the OBL exercises as the cover to target SEALs. CIA had to have had the OBL names on file—CIA polygraphs and all their little SAPs—but no one but the NWC players were on Bashir’s list.
“Somehow, I got on that list, and it might have been an innocent addition when I starting sitting with you during assemblies. I think my name was also known somehow by Bashir for all the counterdrug and counterterrorism work I’d been doing. If Bashir’s boy was in the audience as an international officer, you have to be the prime target after returning from the fight. I was just collateral.”
McGee nodded. “That makes sense.”
O’Sullivan tried to make a point but retracted his finger. “The rest of the story I haven’t shared with you was that I’d been targeted for assassination before I was assigned to the war college,” Hunter added.
The two men were taken aback, partly because the assertion was given without passion.
“Yeah. That’s one thing that wasn’t highlighted on your security brief.”
“That’s basically why I went to the Naval War College. The Agency felt I needed to leave Texas for a while. We never fully understood why a handful of Arabs tried to take me out. I barely escaped. I had a couple of international officers try to make nice to me while we were at school, then I had my little favorite Muslim woman try to spy on me. There had to be a counterdrug connection before the war college. I had no id
ea then, but I think Bashir had to be involved. That, and we were both trailed for a while at the Naval War College.”
“One of these days, we might find out,” McGee said.
“I doubt it. If it wasn’t an accident, then somehow Bashir knows I’ve been working on some very special counterterrorism and counterdrug programs. Hunter placed his fingers over his eyes, trying to tie together all the threads. “If I was targeted by accident at the Naval War College….”
“But you were targeted before,” McGee said.
“What are we talking about?” O’Sullivan asked.
Hunter took a deep breath. “Yes, at least three times I know about.” His mind was in overdrive, recalling the odd events of the ‘90s and his days at the US Border Patrol. “All our work was counterdrug in South America. A Saudi prince in South America is incongruous. It doesn’t make sense.”
McGee held up his hand. “Marty, I think we need someone inside to request a full investigation on Bashir. Maybe there’s a connection here.”
“I agree.”
The big SEAL nodded. To his surprise, the Director of the Secret Service did, too.
“Bill, Duncan, I’ll contact you directly when I get the info,” O’Sullivan said.
“That’s fantastic, Marty,” Hunter said. “Sir, I really could use the head. Every time I travel to Africa, I bring back a bug that attacks my insides for a few days. I’m sorry.”
When the director stood, Hunter thought he would offer him the use of his private bathroom. Instead, he said, “I’ll get you an escort.”
“As long as he doesn’t watch, that’s OK.” The men grinned at the obvious retort.
After ten minutes in a tiny hall bathroom, Hunter emerged to face another heavily armed man in black. The escort silently walked Hunter to the director’s office.
He found the two former SEALs standing at the antique bar, sipping drinks and laughing like long-lost friends. After returning their badges, Hunter and McGee exchanged good-byes and promises before getting into their rental and driving away to run the outbound security gauntlet.
Once clear of St. Elizabeth’s, Hunter asked, “What changed while I was away?”
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