Kill Zone

by Jack Coughlin; Donald A. Davis

  “Anybody?” Buchanan snapped. “How about you, Homeland Security? NSA? DIA? Pentagon? State Department? Anything other than what al Jazeera has been showing to more than fifty million people in their part of the world? The domestic networks and cable over here are going to run it forever.”

  No one wanted to challenge him. Gerald Buchanan would end a career without a second thought if he detected weakness or a lack of political loyalty, and the fuse was burning on his infamous Irish temper. He unscrewed a fountain pen with a gold nib and scribbled a note to himself, closed the pen, and folded the piece of paper. Everyone wondered if their name was on it. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am not pleased. The President will not be pleased, and our countrymen will not be pleased that after spending billions of dollars to build a global intelligence apparatus, you have once again failed. I would strongly suggest that when we gather again later today, you have some facts for me. Is that clear?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Buchanan. May I?” General Henry Turner, the four-star Marine general who was chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was not afraid of Buchanan’s bluster. He had seen civilians come and go through many administrations and had served them all to the best of his ability. Hank Turner was as close to untouchable as anyone in the room.

  Gerald Buchanan detested him. Turner had almost as many advanced degrees as he, plus the general had a heroic reputation, could do more push-ups than a boot camp private, and had even penned a volume of poetry. Still, Buchanan enjoyed recalling that Turner had stood third when he graduated from Annapolis while Buchanan was first in his class at Yale the same year. And his poetry was not all that good.

  It was personally satisfying to Buchanan that the highest-ranking officer in all of the military services could speak only with permission in this room. He said, “Go ahead, General. Please. I grow weary of this silence.”

  “Sir, it is frankly too early for anyone to know much about what has happened to General Middleton. It will all be discovered, but it’s going to take some effort and some time. My point is that I really don’t care much about what happened before Middleton was snatched. I am confident that the intelligence agencies represented around this table will discover that. I want to focus on getting him back as soon as possible.”

  To Buchanan, the military mindset had always seemed very limiting. Good to have the uniforms around to carry out policy, but original thought was not their strong point. All those badges and ribbons meant little in the halls of real power. “And how is that going to happen? Do you have a plan?”

  “With all respect, sir, at the Pentagon, we plan for almost everything, all the time. As soon as we find out where Middleton is being held, we will pull out something suitable and adjust it according to present conditions, and when we receive the authority of our civilian leadership, we will execute it.”

  “So you don’t have a plan.”

  “Not a detailed one, no. Of course not. But preparations are in motion. The air force has offered its assets, the navy SEAL teams are on alert, the army is spooling up Delta, and the Joint Special Operations Command is on board. We all want the same thing.”

  “Well, at least that’s something that I can take into the Oval Office,” said Buchanan. “Thank you, General.” He inwardly recorded Turner’s condescending Of course not as a debt of rudeness to be repaid later.

  But Turner was not quite through. “Only this, sir. General Middleton is a Marine. He’s one of us. We welcome the support of all branches of service, but we will be the ones to bring him home. I have issued an alert to MARCOM, the Marine Forces Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. They are passing the word to the Marine Expeditionary Units in both the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean. The MEUs are always on a short leash, ready to go.”

  “You really believe you will be able to do it?” Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “Pull him out of hostile territory?”

  “We don’t just believe it. We know we can.” The chairman did not wilt before Buchanan’s stare.

  “Very well, then. We meet again at noon.” Buchanan rose and left the room, annoyed with the arrogance of the Marine. Once back in his office, he dialed the number of Samuel Shafer, his deputy, whose office was across the street in the Old Executive Office Building, and asked if everyone in their shop was present for this emergency. There must be no holes in his own operation that some rival might exploit. He was told that five staff members were absent, for reasons ranging from maternity leave to scheduled days off, but the only one who was really needed was their top Middle East analyst, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.

  “Then get her in here,” Buchanan ordered.

  “Sir, she’s vacationing on a boat somewhere! Greece, I think. Maybe Italy,” exclaimed Shafer.

  “I did not ask where she was! Just get her!” He slammed down the telephone, then exhaled slowly and rested both palms on his polished desk. He rubbed it, the smoothness of the shimmering old oak grain almost sensual to his touch. It had been built from the timbers of one of the navy’s first warships, and had been used in the Oval Office by President Lyndon Johnson. Buchanan allowed himself a private smile. Old LBJ. Now there was someone who was never afraid to exercise power. He would thump men on the chest when he was talking to them to make sure they got the message, personally telephone reporters in the middle of the night to harass them, and when a Marine guard once advised Johnson that his helicopter was waiting, the President replied, “Son, they’re all my helicopters.” Maybe, Buchanan thought, some of Lyndon’s magic was still in the wood of the ancient sailing ship.

  He savored the moment. There was nothing better than this, not even sex. Buchanan had controlled the emergency conference on an international crisis and, with a simple instruction, had set in motion a scramble that would ricochet throughout the U.S. government until a low-ranking naval officer was found on a boat and fetched back from half a world away. He gathered his briefing book and headed toward the Oval Office. Power. Delicious.

  CHAPTER 8

  SENATOR THOMAS GRAHAM Miller, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, pushed away the remains of a seafood dinner, stood, and gave a crisp salute to the three hundred cheering veterans who had paid $1,000 each to be with him tonight, paratroopers all. He was proud to be one of them, for when he was young, he, too, had worn the distinctive shoulder patch of the 82nd Airborne Division. He could always count on his fellow vets to help fill the election coffers, but they were more than cash cows to him, just as Miller was more than just another politician to them. This was his Band of Brothers. It irritated him that the Screaming Eagles of the 101st always got the good publicity.

  Miller had used his military benefits to get his college education, then a law degree, and became an aggressive prosecutor. He rode a record of achievement, impeccable behavior, and honesty to a seat in the House of Representatives for six years before he was fifty years old, then vaulted to the Senate, where he was in the middle of his third term. He still had the build of an airborne trooper, ran every morning, and was a bachelor. His wife and infant daughter had died when the birth went horribly twenty years ago, and he never remarried. The image of such a strong and handsome man also being a brokenhearted husband and father made the ladies wilt. Instead of family, Miller devoted himself to the men and women of the armed forces of the United States, even the damned 101st.

  He had begun this long day in Washington, and after lunch he went down to Fort Campbell to view an afternoon jump, some five hundred troopers pouring out of the fat bellies of transport planes from five thousand feet. Miller could almost feel the familiar jerk of the parachute harness as the chutes blossomed like sky flowers and the soldiers drifted to earth. When they landed, formed up, and conducted a maneuver, he felt a tear in his eye, as if he saw himself as one of those strong youngsters who could leap out of a plane, fight, and have energy left over.

  After the drop, Miller had scheduled three “political events” across the state, which meant he was grazing for campaign money,
and was ending the day at this fine dinner in Louisville. He rolled out his tried-and-true stump speech for a friendly audience, bounding to the podium with gusto, smiling and saluting and waving and pointing to individuals. The senator squinted into the bright lights and made a slightly off-color soldiers’ joke to put everyone at ease. The lapel bar of a Silver Star flashed in the light, and the slight limp in his right leg silently proved that he also had been awarded a Purple Heart. He did not need notes, for he knew this speech cold.

  “The armed forces of the United States are the finest the world have ever seen, just as they were when you and I wore the uniform,” he declared, and leaned close to the microphone and give the guttural fighting call of the clan: “HOOO-AH!” Although the audience had just resumed their seats after his introduction, they leaped up again in a standing ovation. It worked every time. He could have filled a bucket with checks after just that opening. But Miller had more to say, and launched into firming up their important support for his current battle.

  “The biggest threat we face is not an external enemy. None at all. There is no one, and I mean no one, out there today who can match our planes, our ships, our technology, and the spirit of our fighting men and women. We own the sky, and the space above it. We own the top of the seas, and the waters beneath the waves. When our soldiers put their boots on the ground somewhere, well, we own that, too. Yes, we have a huge budget, one worthy of a superpower, but we spend it wisely, from communications satellites to bullets and beans, and we can take pride in what we have bought. Have no doubt, my friends, that we are still number one. Anyone who messes with us is going to lose.

  “But we don’t have time to relax and go to Disneyland. Our biggest threat is not from terrorism. We will do our part, and the intelligence and law enforcement agencies of this great land will do their part, and we can keep control of those maniacs. They will occasionally make a splash and create terrible headlines, but they cannot even hope to shake our government or our will. The United States of America and our allies will root out these cockroaches and squelch their evil. That job will take years to complete. It will be done.

  “No, my brothers, we face a much more serious threat today, and it comes from inside the Beltway. That’s right, in Washington, D.C. There is a crisis facing our military that could be the equivalent of another tsunami or 9/11 or Hurricane Katrina in the danger it poses. I tell you this both because it is true, and because you, as veterans, can see it better than anyone.

  “Private security companies threaten our base of funding. In fiscal 2003 alone, the United States spent twenty billion—BILLION!—on contracts with PSCs, which back then were called PMCs, or private military companies. They changed the name from ‘military’ to ‘security’ companies to polish their image, but no matter what name they are called for public relations purposes, they are still mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, and professional adventurers. That is our money, dollars that should be going to support and protect our troops. The glossy literature and the K Street lobbyists have found friendly ears, and have changed the debate. Mercenaries have been around for centuries, fighting for whoever paid them the highest dollar, and their reputation was that of guns for hire. Now private enterprise has put the old merc into a clean shirt and tie, scrubbed his face and reputation, and, behold, we have the private security company.

  “They started small, just supplying minor logistical support, and we let them take over the preparation and serving of meals in mess halls. They said they could do it cheaper and free up soldiers for more duties. Step by step, as our money flowed their way, they expanded into everything from transportation to ferrying aircraft to providing personal security to VIPs in hot zones. You see that merc in the news pictures all the time—the beefy and bald guy with the Fu Manchu mustache, wearing dark sunglasses, jeans, and an armored vest, and carrying an assault rifle as he escorts some civilian to a meeting. Again, the arguments were cost-effectiveness and not having to assign troops to those duties.

  “Now, my friends, the PSCs are taking the next step. The same companies are now running private combat teams, some in the pay of small countries with lots of money but little military expertise. Other units are being inserted into our own areas of operations. The PSCs are back to their basic tricks of being the gunslingers who fight for hire and give short-term loyalty to whoever pays them.”

  Miller paused for dramatic effect and let his eyes sweep his audience as he took a sip of water. The room was silent, and the audience knew what was coming. He made the same speech almost every day, and it was often shown on television.

  “As you have read in the newspapers and seen on the talk shows, I have been making a big deal with the Senate Armed Services Committee, for we are being pummeled to further loosen the rules on the use of mercenary fighters. I have been shown proposals that would make any professional soldier tremble in anger. The Pentagon would turn over entire sectors of our fighting force to the private sector, and give them the most modern equipment to meet today’s battlefield challenges. Some argue that these men are also professional soldiers, trained former members of the SEALs and Marines and Rangers and other elite units such as our own 82nd Airborne, and that they are volunteering for hazardous duty. The wage and benefit packages are attractive to a soldier on active duty.

  “By hiring these people, the United States would not have to put as many of our soldiers in harm’s way. In other words, they are making a play to take over the armed services. If we surrender in this fight, they will grow stronger while our uniformed services would grow weaker, because all of that money comes out of the same budget. And when the crunch comes, my friends, we won’t have soldiers like you out there defending America. Instead, there will be a line of mercs who look tough on film but answer to the call of their paymaster, not to any flag, not even the Stars and Stripes. Some PSCs already hire foreign soldiers whose own armies no longer exist. To whom are they loyal? Would a merc from South Africa or Ukraine or Libya really lay down his life for the USA? Are you willing to bet the lives of your family on them?”

  Now he gripped the podium so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The friendly, famous smile was replaced by a grim face that had seen battle. Everyone in the audience detected the change and responded with hushed attention.

  “In two weeks, my committee will vote on the first important set of these privatization proposals, and rich lobbyists are swarming around us like sharks. Billions and billions of taxpayer dollars are at stake, but so is the safety of our country. I want you to pull every string you can, call your congressmen, wave the flag, write letters to the editors, call up talk shows, chat with your neighbors. I am traveling the country to alert Americans to this new and unique danger, and I need your help. I am counting on it. We must not allow that bill to pass.”

  He leaned forward again. “Stand up and hook up, troopers. Stand in the door. Your country needs you to make one more jump.”

  Tom Miller was exhausted. His press secretary had been dismissed after handing him the typed itinerary for tomorrow’s activities during the elevator ride up to the top floor. He closed the door, clicked the television set to CNN, and neatly hung his coat and tie in the closet. He undid his collar and washed his face in the bathroom, letting the cold water rinse away the fatigue. Long days like this made him feel his age.

  He groaned when there was a knock on the door. This was supposed to be alone time. “Who is it?”

  “Irish Campbell, Senator. I’m the night concierge, and the hotel manager asked me to be sure you had everything you need for tonight and tomorrow morning.” The voice was pleasant.

  The senator peered through the viewing glass in the door. A pretty young woman was smiling, knowing she was being inspected. Her dark hair was in a ponytail, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses and a blue blazer buttoned at the waist. She held a clipboard against her chest. “I’m fine, Ms. Campbell. Just a moment.” He opened the door.

  Trish Campbell shoved him backward, hard, and a huge man hidi
ng beside the wall spun into the room and immobilized Miller, slapping a big hand across his mouth. Miller tasted rubber and realized the man was wearing latex gloves.

  Trish closed the door. “Sorry for the intrusion, Senator. This is Big Lenny,” she said. “We will be brief.” She also pulled on a pair of gloves and removed from her pocket a plastic bag containing a syringe with a long tube on it instead of a needle. Trish clicked the stopwatch function knob on her big wristwatch, then fed the tube into Miller’s mouth between Lenny’s fingers and pushed the plunger.

  Miller tried to struggle as liquid flowed over his tongue and down his throat. Big Lenny held him like a steel clamp.

  Trish Campbell returned the syringe to its sealed bag, which went back into her pocket. She watched him closely with intelligent eyes. “If you’re wondering what is killing you, it’s a particularly bitchy little strain of shellfish toxia along the lines of a solvent-based tropodotoxin and ricin. I don’t know the details because I’m not a scientist. Big Lenny and I are just the messengers. In addition to poisoning you, I am to bid you a fond farewell from Mr. Gordon Gates.”

  Senator Miller struggled as fire spread through his veins, the heart pumping hard. Gates!

  “The short version, as I understand it, is that chemical agents are busy shutting down your central nervous system right about now and that is going to cause your heart to fail.” She looked at her watch. “You will be dead in a couple of seconds. By the time your body is found tomorrow morning, the toxins will have evaporated and you will be ruled to have croaked from a simple old heart attack.” She leaned close and peered hard at his eyes, which were rolling back. “Let him go, Lenny.”

  Senator Miller fell to the floor and went into convulsions. A vicious spasm arched his back at an impossible angle, he gargled, and his hands flailed at his chest. A final breath was exhaled. Trish Campbell felt for a pulse. There was none. She clicked the stopwatch. Thirty-two seconds, start to finish.