by AJ Tata
Pulling through the opening, he saw the shiny, black scalp of Alvin Jessup, the vice president’s lead Secret Service agent.
“Hey, Alvin,” he said, rolling down his window. Jessup, a hulking man dressed in a black overcoat, looked every bit the former collegiate fullback. He walked up to Matt’s window with a dour face.
“Finally coming out of your hole, Garrett?” Jessup asked.
“Just following orders, Alvin.”
“Well, you just keep on following orders and move along before all my money falls out of my pockets and into yours.”
“Was that the last time I saw you?” Matt said.
“Uh huh.” Alvin nodded. “Ain’t playing poker with you anymore, that’s for damn sure. Whoever heard of giving all the money to a homeless shelter, anyway?”
“Didn’t feel right keeping your life’s savings,” Matt said. “What’s going on?”
“Not sure, but the man’s been on the phone with Fort Bragg a lot.”
“Okay, Alvin, let me get in here and see what’s happening.”
“All right, my friend. There’s another land mine over there, so watch out.” Jessup motioned with a turn of his head to the airplane.
Matt drove through the open gate and steered toward a U.S. Air Force Gulfstream parked about a hundred meters away. He stopped next to a car that was parked against the chain-link fence. He could see the vice president’s armored Suburban next to the airplane.
Matt stepped from his Porsche and walked to the steps of the Gulf-stream, wondering what Jessup could have meant. A land mine? He saw the vice president walking down the small step ladder from the jet.
Then he saw the land mine: Meredith Morris, her blond hair bouncing off her shoulders as she followed the vice president down the jet stairway.
My Virginian, Matt wanted to say, but he didn’t dare utter those words. Still, he waited for Meredith to lift her eyes and notice him. Though he knew he should look away, it was impossible. He could not deny the flutter in his chest. As recently as four months ago she had been his fiancée.
“Matt,” Vice President Hellerman said, “join me for a few seconds, son.”
Hellerman was motioning Matt into the back seat of his Suburban for a private chat.
“Yes, sir,” Matt said without moving his eyes from Meredith’s face. She looked up at him as she reached the tarmac, lifted her face slowly, and smiled. His heart leapt, but his mind locked tighter than a vault door.
“Hi, Matt,” she said. “Good to see you.”
“Meredith,” he said.
The vice president’s hand pulled at his shoulder, breaking the spell. He slid into the Suburban, watching as Meredith climbed into the back seat on the opposite side. Interesting that she would be with the vice president, Matt thought. She worked for the national security adviser, Yves Gerald.
Matt had taken the time to grab a sport coat and pulled it over the black Underarmor shirt that looked painted onto his muscular frame. He wore khaki cargo pants and lightweight, brown Belleview boots. Not a typically snappy dresser, Matt figured the blazer concealed his weapon relatively well.
“Matt, glad you could make it,” Hellerman said, closing the door of his vehicle. “We’ve got some leads on a terrorist named Ballantine, a former Iraqi general.”
Matt paused, thinking.
“I know the name.” There was no escaping Zach’s death, Matt thought. He remembered talking to him after he had returned from Desert Storm back in 1991. The detail with which Zach had described the fight that led to the capture of Ballantine was incredible. Zach, the best storyteller Matt knew, had painted such a clear picture that Matt had long savored the pride he felt for his older brother in securing what might have been the most prized capture of Operation Desert Storm.
“Yes, Ballantine,” Hellerman continued. “I thought you might recognize the name. We think he’s established a fishing guide service up in Quebec and that he uses a lightweight float plane to ferry supplies—deadly attack materials—into the United States. He may even be part of a supply chain that funneled the WMD’s out of Iraq.”
Matt considered what the vice president was saying. He remembered that Hellerman, while serving as an assistant secretary of state, had answered the call to duty during the First Gulf War by way of volunteering to be activated from his reserve status as a military intelligence officer. Given Hellerman's experience Matt placed some credence in his analysis.
“My team in Middleburg is running our own operation with limited support,” Hellerman said. “We had a CIA agent have a small world moment with this guy when he was on leave doing some muskie fishing in Canada. Seems Ballantine opened this small enterprise a few years back and called it Moncrief Fishing Company. Flies a Sherpa into a small airport outside Burlington, Vermont, where he picks up his customers and, we suspect, a few other things.”
“We got anybody working this?” Matt asked. His mind continued to drift back to the day Zach had returned from Desert Storm. Their small hometown just north of Charlottesville, Virginia, had thrown Zachary a huge welcome home party. After the festivities, Matt and Zachary, both in their early twenties then, had sat by the river that framed their property. They drank a six pack of Budweiser while Zachary discussed the details of capturing Ballantine and then delivering him to military intelligence for interrogation. As the laundry bag full of beer, anchored to a rock next to Matt, shifted with the subtle currents of the river, Zach conveyed his belief that Ballantine had been released in a prisoner exchange. And when the Americans didn’t find him in Iraq after the seizure of Baghdad in Gulf War II, the intelligence community dismissed his absence in favor of rounding up their vaunted deck of playing cards.
Matt was intrigued by Hellerman’s assessment. Ballantine was more dangerous than either Hussein or bin Laden, because he not only had means, motive, and the courage of his convictions, but he was on nobody’s screen.
Hellerman stared at Matt a minute and said, “Yes, we’re about to get an agent in. Canada doesn’t want us making a mess up there, but they also don’t want to get involved.”
“Screw a bunch of Canadians. Anybody I know?”
“There aren’t many you don’t know, but you know I can’t answer that, Matt.”
“Right. So what am I doing here?”
“I want you to head down to Joint Special Forces Command at Fort Bragg and talk to some of the special ops command down there. You’ll be a presidential envoy. You know all those guys anyway,” Hellerman said.
“Presidential envoy?” Matt chuckled. “I’ll get laughed out of there. Now, maybe if I’m part of a take-down team . . . they’ll believe that.”
Matt’s thoughts trailed off as his mind reeled with the possibilities. As an operator in the most elite counterterrorist outfit in the CIA, he was already visualizing the enemy situation. Then, as it always did, his mind spun back to that day in December 2001 when he had had his sniper rifle, his target in his sights, his team, and about a thousand airplanes overhead, all wanting to drop a bomb on bin Laden and claim victory, backing him up. But before he could pull the trigger on a clear shot, they shut him down. “Kill chain denied. Say again, kill chain denied. Return to base.”
Matt looked at Hellerman, letting his thoughts play out on his face.
“I know what you’re thinking, Matt, but I’m one of the good guys here. And I’m bringing you in on this thing to get you back into the action. That’s what you want, right? While you can’t go on the eventual raid, you can work with me on this thing in my command post. Advise me.
“Anyway, with your injuries you’d be no good to anyone. Plus, the president would have my ass if I sent you on a tactical mission when he wants you preparing for this job advising the director.”
“I’d prefer to go after Ballantine.” Matt’s voice was stone cold.
“I’ve talked to the president and Director Houghton already, and they both want you on this mission,” Hellerman continued.
Matt waited a moment with h
is eyes fixed on the vice president, then spoke. “I’m an operator, sir. That’s what I do.”
“I know you’re an operator. Hell, the entire world knows you’re an operator, and that’s part of the problem. Everyone knows you. Anyway, you’ll be representing the president. The Department of Homeland Security is barely even an agency; it’s just some people looking for office space. You know how to wade into the middle of chaos and sort it out.”
“That I do,” Matt said. “What do you want me to talk to them about?”
Matt had never turned down an interesting assignment in his life, and now was not the time to start. If terrorists were coming after the country again, he wanted in on the hunt. He had made his case, so now he would just see where the situation led him.
Hellerman smiled. “Look at their plan. It’s called Maple Thunder. Then see what they’ve got on the missing Predators while you’re at it.”
Matt stared at Hellerman, wondering why there was so much interest in the Predators all of a sudden.
Ignoring his thought, Matt said, “Right. So my mission is to get down to Bragg and be a spy for you. Is that it?”
“Exactly. Here’s a satellite phone. Keep in touch. I’ll be at Middleburg, which, of course, is top secret. And tell Peyton everything you know about those Predators, too. That’s at least as important as Ballantine.” Hellerman handed Matt a small, black object, and Matt promptly put in his shirt pocket.
“One thing,” Matt said, returning to his personal albatross.
“What’s that?”
“No Rolling Stones. No Fox and Diamond-type antics. No bullshit, right?”
“We’ve cleaned that mess up, Matt,” Hellerman said. “President Davis understands your sacrifice and appreciates your service.”
“Then why does Stone still have a job as secretary of defense?” Matt’s voice was like granite. “And where the hell is Lantini? You telling me you guys can’t find a former CIA director?”
“I’ve got nothing to do with Lantini, Matt. Get over yourself. We’ve got a war going on in Iraq. We need as little turbulence as possible after last year’s nightmare in the Philippines, so the president decided to keep Stone in place, keep the momentum going.”
Matt looked at Hellerman and then Meredith.
“I made a promise to Stone,” Matt said, “that if he ever came after me because of what I know, I would know about it. And then I would execute what I believe you people term ‘preemptive actions.’ I know you and Stone are close, but I need you to look me in the eye, with Meredith as our witness, and swear to me that this is a legitimate mission, directed by the president of the United States.”
Matt kept his cold gaze locked onto Hellerman’s gray eyes, which never fluttered.
“I know you’re not making a threat against the secretary of defense, which would be illegal, so I’ll ignore that last comment about ‘preemptive actions.’”
Matt shrugged and ran his hand along his blazer, beneath which his Glock was holstered.
“This is legit, Matt. We’re trying to get you back in the game. This is the first step,” Hellerman said. “Trust me.”
“You had me until you said, ‘Trust me.’ I don’t trust many these days,” Matt said, his eyes shifting to Meredith, who looked away. “Produce Lantini, Ronnie Wood, for me, and then maybe we can build some trust.”
Hellerman stared at Matt a moment and said, “I don’t think we’ll be seeing anymore of Ronnie Wood or the Rolling Stones. Only a select few know about that, so let’s just leave it be.”
Matt shook his head, then looked at Meredith. There was something about her countenance that rang hollow, sort of a vacuous gaze.
“Then don’t trust me. Trust your instincts. I’m giving you a jet to fly to Fort Bragg. You can’t be in Iraq right now, where all of the action is, and I know it’s killing you.”
That much was true, Matt thought, returning to Hellerman.
“Okay. If you’re getting me back into the game, then I’m game.” Matt said.
“Good,” Hellerman said, leaning back, shaking his head, as if to move on to other pressing issues. “Maybe one day this country will wake up,” Hellerman added under his breath as Matt was opening the door.
Matt stopped and looked over his shoulder at him, catching the sour look on the vice president’s face. What is he talking about?
“Excuse me, sir?”
Hellerman looked at Matt. “Just talking to myself. Damn people in this country are so complacent. Take everything for granted. Not even two years removed from Nine-eleven, and we’re back to our old ways—political infighting, stupid debates about the Iraq war—and everyone’s so consumed with themselves. No sacrifice, except the military.” Hellerman stopped a moment and then looked at Matt.
“You know, the other day I was at Fort Bragg talking to a soldier who told me, ‘Sir, the military’s at war; the country’s at the mall.’ Pretty insightful.”
Matt shrugged. Privates usually had a pretty good perspective on life, he thought. Rang true. Still, he kept his mouth shut as he watched the smoke clear off the vice president for a moment and then turned toward the Gulfstream.
“You ever read Rostow?” Hellerman’s question caught Matt off guard.
“Maybe once,” Matt said, lifting his duffel bag, and looking over his shoulder.
“Think about the term secular spiritual stagnation. Then we’ll talk.”
Matt nodded, barely interested, then leaned back into the Suburban and said to Meredith, “Nice to see you. You look good.” It was all he could allow himself.
He saw a brief flash of the woman he had once known. It was a moment of recognition in her face. He didn’t know if her eyes were wistful . . . or pleading. He knew full well, though, that heady politics had vaulted her into a new circle that, perhaps, she had been gunning for all along. Or maybe she was operating in a realm for which she was unprepared. Either way, she had broken off the engagement four months earlier and had become aloof. Not fully understanding what had happened between them hurt the most. The moment was an awkward one—the vice president between them. Matt felt the pluck of a banjo string in his heart and then did the only thing he could do. He turned and walked up the steps.
He ducked as he entered the small airplane and nodded to the two Air Force officers who would fly him to Fort Bragg. One was blond with blue eyes and looked like he had just graduated from the academy the day before. He wore lieutenant’s bars. The other was a bit older, more ethnic-looking, and with eyes staring at his cockpit instruments, focused on his preflight routine. He was a captain, and Matt presumed, in charge of the flight. He noticed a cell phone sitting in the pilot’s lap and a Bluetooth headset in his ear like some Star Trek device.
As Matt turned into the small, eight-seat cabin, he was greeted with another surprise.
“How’s the arm, slugger?”
“I’ll live,” Matt said with a shrug, standing next to Peyton’s seat, duffel in hand.
“The vice president asked me to accompany you. I couldn’t get out of it.”
Matt surmised that she didn’t seem too disappointed.
“Well, name’s Matt Garrett,” he said, sticking a large hand out and giving hers a quick shake. “Don’t think I ever formally introduced myself.”
She looked at him briefly and squeezed his hand. “Peyton O’Hara.”
“Nice grip,” he said, offering her a polite smile.
He walked to the back of the small airplane, sat down, put his duffel in the seat next to him, patted the weapon beneath his jacket, leaned back, and shut his eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Matt had fallen asleep during takeoff. He was awakened by what he thought was turbulence but was actually Peyton O’Hara dumping his feet off of the facing leather chair so that she could sit down across from him.
“While I’ve flown helicopters before, I get bored stiff riding in the back of these things, so let’s talk,” she said.
“Helicopters?” he asked, motioning
to the seat across from his.
She stared at him as the Air Force flight attendant offered them drinks. Peyton chose apple juice. Matt asked for scotch.
“Previous life. Army Blackhawk pilot,” she said. “Flew with the 101st Airborne, got bored after Iraq version 1.0, and decided to work in DC.”
He held up his Jack and Coke. Doing quick mental calculations, Matt decided Peyton was in her early thirties—his age. “Thanks for your service.”
He tipped his glass in her direction, and she gave hers a perfunctory wiggle that passed as a toast.
“Something’s up with those Predators, Matt. We really need to figure this one out.”
“Well, if they’re in Canada with Ballantine, then things are already serious. That puts Boston and New York within range.”
“But how would they get the satellite capability to monitor and steer the Predator?” she asked.
“I’m sure they’ve got it. That was part of the campaign-cash-for-technology swap that went on a few years ago.”
“How do you know?” Peyton asked.
“I just know,” he said quietly, staring at her. Changing the subject, he said, “So, what’s your story? Blackhawk pilot. Ducati Street Fighter.”
“I went to Harvard undergrad, and then, after my pilot stint in the Army, Georgetown for graduate school. I was president of my class. I come from an old Irish family, complete with the politics and the temperament,” she warned.
“Right,” he said. “That explains the helicopters and motorcycles.”
Peyton shrugged. “They require no more explanation than the armament you have in your go bag.”
Matt shrugged back at her and remained silent.
The plane carved its way above the snowcapped Blue Ridge Mountains, hurtling south toward Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
He put his empty drink down and ordered another as the military flight attendant moved past them. When the drink arrived, Matt studied the stewardess. She was attractive in a rural sort of way. Her blue Air Force uniform was a bit too tight in some areas, making it obvious that she worked out. She was average height but looked as if she might make a good second baseman on a softball team. Probably from somewhere in the Midwest.
