The pilot lowered his flaps and gunned the twin Allison engines, and the COD fell out of the sky, the tailhook catching the three-wire across the deck of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Swanson was jerked hard against the seatbelts as the plane went from 120 knots to flat zero in only 60 feet. Since the insides of the passengers underwent the same rate of instant deceleration, it felt like the stomach was coming out of the mouth, and a young sailor down the aisle puked noisily, starting a chain reaction.
It took a few minutes for the COD to be released from the wire and taxi to a parking place on the broad deck; then the side door opened and sea air poured inside to remove the stench of fresh vomit. The awkward-looking CODs ran regular missions out to the carriers to deliver personnel and supplies, and Swanson was just part of the day’s cargo being hauled from the U.S. Air Force Base at Injerlek, Turkey, out to the carrier battle group steaming in the western Mediterranean Sea.
Shari had received her summons to return to Washington two hours before a duty officer called on Kyle on his cell phone, ordering him to return to the fleet as soon as possible. All leaves were cancelled. Shari pointed out that she was called first because she was much more important to world peace and protecting the nation. Sir Jeff had directed the Vagabond to Naples at a speed that would allow Shari and Kyle to catch flights out first thing Saturday morning, yet slow enough to make time for a final fantastic dinner aboard and a night together. The yacht trip had been a balm for both of them, a rare occasion that stitched their relationship even tighter, and leaving her in Naples had been difficult, but they parted knowing they would have plenty of tomorrows. For now, it was time to get into a warrior frame of mind and concentrate on business.
He waited until everyone else was off the COD before waddling down the aisle, carrying Excalibur in a gun case in one hand and a Val Pak suitcase in the other. Swanson stepped out through the hatch and down the small metal stairway. Wind howled across the flight deck, which was busier than a Wal-Mart at Christmas and smelled like jet fuel and oil.
“Are you one Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson?” The question was yelled in a deep voice that pierced the chaos of the flight deck by a Marine top sergeant whose head was scraped clean of hair.
“Who the fuck is asking?”
“I am God Almighty as far as you are concerned, you piece of pond scum. Fear me!”
“Fear. Right. Here, Double-Oh, catch.” He tossed him the Val Pak. The other Marine grabbed it with one big paw, laughed, and clapped Kyle on the shoulder.
“Come on. We ain’t waiting around on this barge. They sent me over from the Wasp to fetch you, and our chariot awaits over yonder.” Master Sergeant Orville Oliver Dawkins of Pratt, Kansas, pointed across the deck to where a boxy UN-1H helicopter was warming up, the big rotor whomping the air around it. They went over to the port edge and down a couple of ladders and entered the subterranean, pipe-laced caverns that were filled with planes and busy crew members in different-colored jerseys. Mechanics and technicians burrowed into the parked aircraft.
The two Marines did not speak openly with so many people about, but Kyle’s curiosity was running away with him. He had learned in Turkey that for some reason he was a high-priority item, and now he had been met personally by a top sergeant with a private helo. Kyle thought for a moment that maybe he was as important as Shari after all.
“So what’s this all about, Double-Oh?” Their boots thudded on the steel deck.
“I didn’t catch the whole conversation, but the colonel said something about either giving you another Navy Cross or finally kicking your skinny little ass out of my beloved Corps. I forgot which.”
“Some god you are. A top who doesn’t know what’s going on? What is our world coming to?” Swanson said.
“I know all. The beasts of the field and fishies in the ocean do not move without my knowing.”
“It’s just ‘fish,’ not ‘fishies.’ ‘Fish’ is both singular and plural.”
“‘Fishies’ sounds better, and since I am God, I can say it however the fuck I want to.” They stepped out of the way of a little yellow tractor that crawled toward them, pulling a wings-folded F-14 Tomcat.
“So you really have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
“Not a clue, Kyle. Just bet your ass something big league is coming down involving your old pal General Middleton. Why else would you get a private whirlybird ride?”
Dawkins looked back over his shoulder long enough to give him a smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “And a ‘special guest’ is waiting for you.”
They started up the stairs and ladders to the main deck. “Shit. A spook?”
“Spooky as Freddy Krueger on Halloween. As Jason with a chainsaw. As Scary Movie 3. CIA dude straight from Langley. Got here last night.”
By the time they reached the deck, the Huey was ready to go. The bird was primarily used as a command-and-control platform, which meant it had cushioned seats. Neither Double-Oh nor Swanson buckled in, because they made a living jumping out of helicopters and hated being confined inside one. The Huey smoothly lifted away, the open doors letting the fresh morning air swoosh through the cabin. The giant Roosevelt grew small in size, and then disappeared behind them as the green Med rolled gently underneath, five hundred feet below.
On the way over to the Wasp, Kyle considered the unexpected appearance of the “special guest.” Last he had heard from the CIA, he was standing at attention in front of some civilian and a bird colonel and being told that he had fucked up the border mission, that he was more trouble than he was worth, and that he would never get to play with them again.
“What?” he had asked the spooks. “Did that asshole Ali bin Assam come back to life or something? You wanted him dead. He’s dead.”
He was then chewed on for a while for constantly violating accepted doctrine in the field, and told that the agency had no room for renegades. Kyle shrugged it off. He had heard it all before, just the usual complaints made by the office weenies when they had given him their unspoken blessing before the black mission began to do whatever was required. They were just covering their asses for the files, and he knew those loud threats to absolutely, positively, never, ever use him again would last only until the next time he was needed.
Now it seemed that time had arrived. Something had changed their little bureaucratic minds, which probably meant he was going to get shot at and that a snatch raid was planned to get Middleton back. Kyle reached between his boots and gave the gun case an affectionate pat, quite happy that Sir Jeff and Tim insisted that he take Excalibur along and give it a real field test. Somebody shot at him, he was going to shoot back.
CHAPTER 16
SWANSON KNOCKED ON THE hatch and heard a sharp command from within the VIP cabin: “Enter.” His boots made impressions on the soft carpet covering the steel deck of the well-decorated room. Prints of sailing ships, old admirals, and sea battles hung on the walls, flags stood in the corners, and the curtains were pulled away from a large porthole that lit the room with sunshine. A civilian with an astonishing helmet of black hair slicked straight back stood to meet him. He wore a moderately expensive dark suit with a white shirt so starched that he probably stood it up in a corner at night. The guy reeked of ego.
“Gunny Swanson, I’m John Smith,” he said with an easy smile that showed a lot of even teeth. “Please feel free to call me John.”
How original, Swanson thought. “I’m not working for the CIA anymore, Mr. Smith. I’ve been back with the MEU for about a year, after a, uh, dispute about my last mission.”
Smith sat down on the large sofa and crossed his legs carefully. “I flew all the way out here from Washington to personally hand you some new orders. You stay with the Marines on paper, but there will be a temporary and a simultaneous mission for the CIA.”
Swanson went silent, considering the situation. The squeaks and thumps of an aircraft carrier under way filtered into the quiet. “Who knows about this?”
Sam Shafer lied. “My
self and my boss, the National Security Advisor, Gerald Buchanan. The commandant of the Marine Corps and the President of the United States.” Actually, Shafer did not know, but admitting that would lower his sense of importance. Neither did the President or the commandant know, because Buchanan was running this on his own. Shafer was itching to get a look at the letter. Buchanan had only given him crumbs of information and terse instructions about how to handle this interview.
“What about my MEU commander?”
“This is a need to know situation, Gunny. Not a want to know.”
“That sort of complicates the hell out of things right out of the box, Mr. Jones.”
“Smith.”
“Smith. Jones. Who the fuck cares? It’s not your real name anyway. So this is a black job that even my commanding officer will not know about? That sucks big-time. How can it work if he doesn’t know what I’m doing?” Clearly the mission had been dreamed up by people who had never served in a combat role. That made Kyle suspicious about whether the Marine commandant was really in the loop.
“As far as your commanding officer is concerned, you are going along on the mission to rescue General Middleton as a sniper for extra firepower. If everything goes smoothly, this other order is to be disregarded.”
“So what’s the job?”
Sam Shafer walked to a small desk on which lay his aluminum briefcase, and dialed the combination to open it. He handed Kyle a sealed white envelope. Swanson took it over to the porthole and read it in the bright light. The first thing he noticed was small blue printing across the top: THE WHITE HOUSE. The order took his breath away. He read it a second time. Same result. “Shit,” he said. “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
“I assure you, Gunny Swanson, this is as serious as a dozen heart attacks.” Shafer was bluffing, but he knew Buchanan was not playing a game. The instructions, whatever they were, meant what they said.
“And if I refuse to carry out this order?”
“Then you will be held in isolation in the brig aboard this ship and we get somebody else to do the job. You are forbidden to discuss it with anyone. After the mission is over, you would be thrown out of the Marine Corps.”
“And if I do it, not only do I probably still get run out of the Marines, but maybe I also face a firing squad for having done such good work for the CIA. Fuck this.”
“Are you refusing the mission?”
“Let’s just say I have some big questions. For starters, I don’t know you. You haven’t shown me any identification, which leads me to believe you’re not CIA at all. So let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Smith. Who the hell are you?”
The civilian’s brown eyes went cold as he reached for his wallet and pulled out a laminated government identification card. His real name was Samuel Shafer and he worked at the White House as assistant to the National Security Advisor. That clicked, for the mission order was signed by Gerald Buchanan. Shafer was a messenger boy.
Kyle handed the order back to him. “Now I want you to tell me face-to-face, so there is no misunderstanding. What are my orders, Mr. Shafer?”
Shafer had a difficult time keeping a stone face and maintaining his glee. At last he got to see the order. When he read it, he was shocked, too, but buried the reaction to pretend he knew what was going on.
“Just what it says, Gunny. If things go wrong on this mission to rescue the general, you are instructed by the White House to shoot him dead.”
“And why would we want to do that?”
“We don’t want to do it at all.” Shafer was thinking on his feet. “Middleton is too valuable to stay in enemy hands. He knows too much about certain highly classified projects that are time-sensitive. We cannot risk him being made to talk. Too much is at stake to take the chance that the torturers may pull the information out of him. He knows that, too.”
“They wouldn’t get anything from Middleton,” Kyle said. “I hate his guts, but he’s a tough bird. He would die before giving up a secret.”
“Drugs and torture could leave him no choice. He would be interrogated in a hospital somewhere, with an IV drip in his arm and his mouth running like a motor. If we can’t bring him back, they cannot have him, either. Simple as that.” Swanson handed the letter back to Swanson. “Gunny, this is obviously a difficult assignment, but we have to put our country’s security first. It is a national security emergency.”
Swanson studied the authorization letter again. “If that’s so, why is the order signed by this guy Buchanan and not the President himself? You said he knows about it.”
“Are you being intentionally naïve? Deniability. The President’s name can’t be on anything like this, even though this is the only copy and I’m going to destroy it right after you tell me whether you are taking the job or not. So, Gunny, time’s up. Consider that to be an order to you directly from your commander-in-chief. You in or out?”
Kyle paused, then walked away from Shafer, folding the letter and buying moments to think. Since there was no way the Marine commandant would be in on this, was the President’s involvement also a lie? Murdering a general was huge! But the order came straight from the White House. Swanson made a decision.
“Okay. I’ll do it, Mr. Shafer. But you’re not going to destroy this letter. We’ll have the captain put it in the ship’s safe until the mission is complete. If I have have to pull the trigger, the order is transferred into a secure safe under the control of the CIA director of operations. I won’t be left hanging out to dry with no way to prove I was following orders.”
Shafer reared. “Out of the question! Give me the letter, Gunny. I will burn it and then you go off and do your goddam job as you have been ordered to do.” He put on his angry face, raised his voice, and pissed Swanson off.
“No. The letter goes in the safe.”
They stared at each other for fifteen silent seconds and Shafer spun on the heel of a highly polished shoe. “I’m going to get a secure radio link back to the White House, and you will be ordered directly by senior civilian authority to surrender the letter to me. Take it from me, Gunny Swanson, you do NOT want to have that kind of conversation with Gerald Buchanan.”
Kyle moved to the desk and plopped into the seat. He shoved the telephone toward the visitor. “I’ll wait here for you, Mr. Smith. Patch the call to this extension.”
Shafer went through the hatchway and stormed down the corridor.
Swanson jumped up and found Double-Oh waiting outside. “Problem, Double-Oh. Catch up with that dude and lead him around for about ten minutes. He’s looking for the comm center, so steer him through the berthing areas or engineering spaces or whatever, then bring him back here. I’ll explain later.” The big guy took off after the angry civilian.
Kyle went the other way, down a ladder, and made his way aft to the little shop where the ship’s daily newsletter was printed. A yeoman was clicking the keyboard of a computer.
“You got a copying machine?” Swanson waved the folded letter.
The sailor didn’t reply, just pointed to a big beige box in a corner, a Xerox that would have been at home in any civilian business office. Kyle peeled back the flexible lid, pressed the letter flat, lowered the lid, and hit the green COPY button. After a brief hum and a flash of rolling light, the machine spit into a side tray a copy that was indistinguishable from the original. “Thanks,” he told the swabbie, who had not looked up from his computer. Back in the VIP suite, Swanson found an envelope in the center drawer of the desk, put in the original letter, and sealed it. The envelope went back into the drawer. He folded the copy just as the original had been folded, and laid it on the desk.
Within two minutes, Double-Oh delivered the exasperated Sam Shafer back into the room, where Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson was standing at a sharp parade rest position. Shafer closed the door, his face red with anger, but before he could speak, Kyle did, very formally.
“Sir. I have reconsidered my position. I was confused about the chain of command, but if you were wil
ling to get Mr. Buchanan on the horn, then this order is obviously valid. Therefore, I apologize and accept the mission, although with reluctance.”
Shafer, having won the point, calmed down. He was back in control and oozed White House power. “And the order?”
Swanson pointed to the paper. He did not want to allow Shafer too much time to examine it. “Right here, sir. Burn it and get it over with. It would be best for me that it is never seen again.”
Shafer placed the paper in a large ashtray and took out a cigarette lighter, and a quick flame nibbled the corner, then fire ate the entire page. Shafer took the ashes into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.
“When will you be returning to Washington, sir?” Kyle asked.
“As soon as they can launch me. I’ve been assigned a two-seat F-16 for this trip,” he said.
Swanson gave him a sharp salute. “Yes, sir. Have a good trip back, sir.”
“And good luck to you, Gunny. I know this is a tough one.” He extended his hand and Swanson shook it, then stepped outside as Shafer left. Double-Oh had been waiting, and after Kyle retrieved the letter, they went to get some coffee and find a quiet corner.
“You ain’t going to believe this shit,” Swanson told his friend, and Double-Oh didn’t, until Kyle gave him the envelope for safekeeping. “Now I have you as a witness and the original letter, and Mr. Shafer from the CIA or White House or wherever he works can go fuck himself and the F-16 he rode in on.”
CHAPTER 17
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Kyle Swanson stood in the well of a portside gun turret next to the flight deck and let his thoughts roam away from the mission at hand. The irony of the job struck him. He was aboard the USS Wasp, a small aircraft carrier designed for special operations, sailing in the eastern Med beneath a massive umbrella of protection. It was part of an entire battle group that spread around the nuclear-powered carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, about a hundred thousand tons of steel and one of the biggest ships ever to sail the seas. Needle-nosed destroyers, daunting cruisers, and big submarines also were slicing the waters, and there were enough missiles, planes, bullets, torpedoes, and sailors on hand to take care of anything that any enemy could throw at them at sea, and also to strike deep into hostile nations. So if this mighty task force, the best the squids had, was so tough, why was he standing here, dressed all in black, his face smeared with grease, and decked out with his personal firepower, getting ready to head out once again on a raid against some low-tech ragheads not all that far from the shores of Tripoli? The Marines seemed to keep coming back to this part of the world that was part of their hymn, as if there was some magnet for them in the desert sands.
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