All wives, husbands, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters intellectually understood the risk their loved ones faced each and every day in the military. But when the nightmare scenario had nearly materialized into reality, she found herself still struggling with it only a few days later.
“I did,” Logan answered, acknowledging her concern. “He’s fine. You know John—he’s nearly impossible to kill, like yours truly,” he added, hoping to assuage her fears with a little humor.
“That’s not what you said the other day,” Sarah shot back, instantly regretting the comment.
Realizing his failed attempt at levity had only upset his wife, justifiably so, Logan said, “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I’m just still struggling with the fact that for once, it finally hit me that you might not make it, and the thought was unbearable,” Sarah responded, her voice quiet with emotion. “I’m pregnant with our child. That changes everything.”
“I know. Believe me, babe. I do,” Logan said. For him, the reality that he was going to be a father still hadn’t sunk in. There’d been no time to process the information, to contemplate the life-changing implications of it. “We’ll sit down and talk—really talk—soon. I love you more than you’ll ever know. You keep me from the brink. This is an ugly business we’re in, babe. I’m self-aware enough to understand it. I’m not some superhero, immune to the effects of what we do.” He paused. “But I also know that I’m one of the few people, along with John, Amira, and Cole, that can actually confront these kinds of threats facing our country.” His voice grew stronger with each word. “If these bastards succeed, the fabric of our country would be changed, and no one would even know how it had been done. And the thought of our son or daughter growing up in a country like that? Well, that terrifies me more than the thought of dying. I can’t help it. It’s who and what I am,” he finished, hoping his words didn’t exacerbate the emotional and psychological stress she was experiencing.
Sarah never hesitated. “It’s why I love you, Logan. I know exactly who and what you are.” She was proud that her husband was one of the fiercest warriors she’d ever known. She felt her concern and hesitation slightly abate at his resolve and acknowledgment of her feelings, briefly in awe at how far they’d come in the two and a half years since she’d been attacked. Parenthood? That might make the assault in Maryland seem like a walk in the park. “And I wouldn’t want any of it to change. The country has you, even if ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of the population will never know who you are. I just want your child to have you, too.”
“I promise you both will. It might not be easy. I have no doubt I’ll have to go away from time to time, but I’ll always come back. No matter what,” Logan emphasized.
Sarah laughed, her voice lighter. “Babe, I married a Marine. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You and I both know there are no guarantees, but I appreciate the sentiment, and I know you’ll do your goddamnedest to try. And that’s all I can ask for.”
The wave of emotion was swift, threatening to drown his words before he could speak them. It’s why I married you. You get it, more than anyone. “Thanks, hon,” Logan replied. “One more thing, though.”
“What’s that, babe?” Sarah asked.
“You can ask me for anything, no matter what the cost,” he said sincerely.
“Ten million dollars and world peace?” Sarah said playfully.
“I am about to go see the president. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll settle for a coffee cup with the presidential seal on it, in that case.”
“Understood, Mrs. West,” Logan said in his best command voice.
“Uh-huh. Whatever,” Sarah said with mock exasperation. “Go do your thing, babe. Text me when you’re on your way home. I’ll run a bath when you’re ten minutes out.”
The thought of his gorgeous wife in a bathtub distracted him from the task at hand, and he said, “Great. Now I’m going to have images of you in the tub while I’m in the Oval Office.” He heard his wife laugh. “I’ll try to make it quick.”
“You do that, and I’ll be waiting. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Logan said, and hung up.
His world had changed in its entirety, but the fact that he had Sarah to face the unknown with was all he needed.
Thoughts and images of her settled his nerves for the meeting he was about to have with the most powerful man on the planet. He only had one objective for tonight’s conversation—to ensure that the rest of the world had changed with him.
CHAPTER 49
The Oval Office
Logan West was ushered into the Oval Office by the president’s secretary, a stern, attractive brunette in her midfifties. A Secret Service agent stood next to the door in the secretary’s office, nodded at Logan, and closed the door behind him once he entered the inner sanctum of the White House.
A true oval nearly thirty-six feet long, twenty-nine feet wide, and nineteen feet tall, the room had four doors. He’d entered through the one in the northeast part of the room. Directly ahead of him at the south end of the office in front of three floor-to-ceiling windows, the Resolute desk stood, the key piece of furniture used by multiple presidents. A cursory glance around the office revealed multiple busts that he’d seen on the news; bookshelves neatly lined with heavy-looking leather-bound books; the president’s flag, three American flags, and each service’s flag near the four doors and windows; numerous paintings of former presidents; and a fireplace to his right, on top of which grew the Swedish ivy that had overlooked the room since 1961 and was once featured in Time magazine.
In the center of the room, two brocade couches in a neutral earth tone faced each other on top of the Oval Office rug, which had the president’s seal in the center. The media had reported that the rug was the sunburst rug that President Reagan had utilized. A slim coffee table sat between the couches within arm’s length, and two end tables sat on the side of the couches near the fireplace. The final pieces of furniture were the two high-back chairs that were featured most often in pictures when foreign dignitaries visited.
In Logan’s heightened state after the past few days of violence and chaos, the overall impression was overwhelming. The weight of the power and responsibility slipped over Logan as if it were a part of the room’s atmosphere. It was impossible not to be affected by the historical tradition and significance of the seat of power of the world’s most dominant democracy. Remember why you’re here. Stay on task.
President Scott stood in the southwest corner of the room. He looked weary, the events of the past few days having taken their stressful effect on his youthful appearance. A normally striking man whose looks had garnered female votes by the millions, his black hair was more unkempt than the last time Logan had seen him. He has the look of someone who’s been in combat.
The president was still, staring at the sculpture of a cowboy on a bucking bronco. The bronze statue stood on a console table in between the Marine Corps flag and the Army flag. Not a bad space to be in, Logan thought.
“It’s called The Bronco Buster. It was made in 1895 by Frederick Remington and is supposed to represent the western frontier,” President Scott said, and turned to face Logan. “To be honest, I love it because—for me—it epitomizes American toughness and resilience. I believe we’d all be better off from time to time if the American cowboy showed up occasionally.”
The president laughed, and Logan sensed an emotional vulnerability—almost melancholy—emanating from him. He knows I know. This could be easy, or this could be very hard.
“Or maybe I’m just conflating how I think it should be with how I think it was. Hell, I wasn’t there, and neither were you,” President Scott said.
“No, Mr. President. We weren’t, but I do agree this country could use a little toughness, especially right now,” Logan replied from his position near the doorway.
The president was silent and stepped away from the statue. “Come on. Ha
ve a seat. Let’s talk.” He walked to the couch on the west side of the room and sat at the end closest to the fireplace.
Logan simultaneously moved to the couch closest to his entrance and sat down opposite President Scott. He looked the most powerful man on the planet squarely in the eyes and opened his mouth to speak.
“His name was on the list, wasn’t it?” President Scott asked matter-of-factly, cutting Logan off. “I know it was, or else you wouldn’t have requested this private meeting.”
Logan had delivered the thumb drive to Jake once the dust had settled in Rock Creek Park. He’d instructed him to keep it safe until his meeting with the president had concluded.
He didn’t even let me talk. Give him a chance, Logan. “It was, which means you also know why I’m here.” There was no accusation in his tone, only an earnest desire for answers.
“To see if I followed in the footsteps of a man who was an original member of the Organization. A man that I adored as a boy, worshipped as an adolescent, revered as a member of the military, and respected as a man—my father,” President Scott said with a tinge of sadness Logan had recognized earlier.
He’s genuine. Your instincts about him the first time you met him were right. But you still have to be sure, especially now. “Sir, your father was General Harper Scott, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A career infantry officer, company commander, battalion commander, and Seventh Special Forces Group commanding officer, he was a legend,” Logan said. “I did my research on him, at least what I could find. After his time with Special Forces, he was promoted to brigadier general, earning another star every few years until he found himself as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.” Logan paused. “But you know all this, sir. The thing that I need to know—the thing that matters—is when you found out, because it’s obvious to me, now, that you’ve known all along. You said, ‘I knew this day would come,’ when we told you about the vice president. I didn’t think about it at the time—I was too focused on catching Vice President Baker—but I realized afterward that you sounded like someone who had always known about the Organization, known before we told you about it. So I’m going to ask you, sir, with all due respect to the sacred office that you hold, that I believe you execute with the utmost of reverence, when did you learn about the Organization?”
Logan had said what he’d needed to say: he’d leveled an accusation that both knew was true at the president of the United States. But there has to be a reason.
“On his deathbed four years ago, when I was still a senator in Georgia,” President Scott answered with no misdirection or guile.
There it is. Step one—admission, Logan thought, a mental image of a poster of the AA Twelve Steps racing across his mind. “Then why didn’t you do something about it? Why did you let all of this happen, sir? If the FBI had known about the Organization, it might have been able to dismember it then, before Cain Frost, before six months ago. All of this bloodshed could have been avoided,” Logan said quietly.
“No, Logan, it couldn’t have,” President Scott said.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Logan said. “How’s that?”
“It’s actually quite simple,” President Scott said, resignation in his voice. “Because I never learned who they were.”
“How could that be?” Logan asked, confused.
“My father was dying,” President Scott said. “The man that I had known my entire life, who had raised me to become the man I am, was leaving this mortal coil for whatever awaits us all.” President Scott’s voice changed, regret injecting itself into his tone. “I never learned who they were because he died before I could get any answers. Soon after he confessed his participation in the Organization, he slipped in and out of consciousness and was gone before I knew it. It was as if he’d wanted to get that one last thing off his chest before moving on to the other side.”
The president sighed and looked away. “Unfortunately, he took the names with him, allowing the chain of events over the past two and a half years to unfold, leaving me to watch, guiltily wondering if there was anything else I could have done.”
CHAPTER 50
President Scott sat back against the couch, studying Logan, letting the warrior and Marine in front of him process the truth. “And now you know, but more importantly, I hope you believe what I just told you. It’s the truth, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it. It weighs on me every day, like a physical illness, the knowledge that had I not been overcome with grief for my dying father, had I only probed harder, rather than let him die peacefully, I might have been able to prevent the chaos and death that has unfolded around the world in the last two and a half years.”
“There’s nothing you could have done, sir,” Logan said instinctively, realizing as soon as he’d spoken the words that he’d already judged the president to be truthful and sincere.
“Do you think that matters?” President Scott asked. “There’s been a rogue republic operating inside our government and across the globe. It wasn’t democratically elected. It doesn’t have a Constitution that its members swore an oath to. It does what it wants when it wants. While Constantine Kallas may have intended it to be a force for good—and I’ll even grant that it may have done good—its real nature, the sick underbelly of it, has finally revealed itself. You want the brutal, honest truth?” President Scott asked Logan.
“What’s that, sir?” Logan answered.
“Unchecked power like that always corrupts, and the Organization has become corrupted,” President Scott said. “But guess what? It’s . . . going . . . to . . . stop.” His voice hardened, reminding Logan of the first time he’d met the former A-10 pilot six months ago. “Because I’m the goddamned president of the United States of America, and with Ares, you, and your friends, I can make it stop.”
The man that Logan West had respected and felt an affinity for upon first meeting him had returned to form. His honesty and admission had not changed Logan’s perception of him. If anything, his display of vulnerability had only strengthened Logan’s belief in him. Logan knew that men who lacked self-awareness and introspection had no business being leaders, but President Scott had both in spades. This is the right man to take the fight to our enemies.
“I’m fairly confident that I speak for all of us when I say that we’re with you all the way, Mr. President,” Logan said. “You’re a good man, and this country needs you. I can’t tell you how to deal with the guilt you feel, but I can tell you one thing: if we can stop them, we can restore the balance of power. And that should go a long way.”
“Then you better get to work,” President Scott said, the full stature of the presidency back in control. “And as I told you before, whatever you need.”
“I’m happy to hear you say that, sir,” Logan said, a merciless smile spreading across his face, green eyes blazing. “Because I’m going to need your approval on what I need—and want, if I’m being honest—to do next.”
CHAPTER 51
Scotland, Maryland
Standing on the isolated pier, Adam Mathias stared out at the calm waters of the Chesapeake Bay. The former Norwegian businessman known as the Recruiter in the inner circles of the Organization wore a white polo, khaki shorts, Under Armour navy baseball hat—like everyone else in Maryland, he thought—and leather sandals. In other words, he looked like a typical bay resident in the summertime.
Scotland was the southernmost tip of rural Maryland, jutting out into the water and splitting the Chesapeake Bay to the east and the Potomac River to the southwest. He looked back at the five-thousand-square-foot colonial home built at the end of a dirt road that was an offshoot of State Route 5. The backside of the home featured enormous picture windows that reflected the midday sun back into his eyes. Not nearly as spacious as the Founder’s, but it will do.
It had been the ideal location for him to wait out the storm that had fallen upon Washington DC in the wake of the “kidnapping” of the vice president and the killing of Constantine Kall
as. The home was owned by a midwestern businessman who operated a railroad line from the Great Lakes to the East Coast. The Organization had used it to transport various items discreetly from time to time, and Adam had acquired the permission to use the home as he saw fit.
The numerous branches of the Organization had gone to ground, intent on preservation and survival. He’d been forced to make a critical choice—the Founder or those rebelling on the Council. His calculus had been simple: who had the better choice of surviving the internal war? As it now stood, the outcome was still uncertain, but the fact that he had a rendezvous in the Bahamas at the end of next week was encouraging.
He looked at the Sea Ray Sundancer 540 fifty-five-foot yacht—another possession of the railroad baron—and wondered if he should start his trip early. He planned to depart Maryland tomorrow morning, stop in Florida at one of the Key islands, and finish the trip the following day. He’d be in Nassau in four days with plenty of time to spare before his meeting.
Why not? There’s nothing else keeping you here, he thought, and made his decision. It’s only three o’clock. I’m leaving now. As he’d told the numerous members of the Organization over the years, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. He’d leave while he still could, not that he was concerned that his identity had been compromised. The only man who knew his multiple aliases was Constantine, and he was dead.
He glanced across the bay, spotting several hundred yards away a lone fishing boat with an outrigger jutting from both sides to maximize the number of rods and lines for trolling. Good luck. The water’s too hot to fish this time of day.
Field of Valor Page 29
