Barlow shivered inside his layers of clothing. He might catch a warm blast from the pair of Pratt & Whitney 305 jet engines before they shut down if he approached the Hawker 800XP from behind, right after it parked. His boss would ream him for the safety violation, but it would be worth it. The yellow tug had chains on its tires to minimize slipping on the ice, but there was no cab protection for the driver. In the summer, it was hot. In the winter, it was so miserably cold that baggage handlers stacked meat shipments outside the terminal to keep them frozen.
Hess had checked the flight-arrival schedule and learned that the midsized corporate jet, with a crew of two, had cruised across the country from San Diego tonight. Why would they do something like that? It was warm and toasty in California. It was not a trade he would make, but then he was the one sitting on a little tractor on an ice floe that a polar bear would envy. He had never even been to California. What did he know?
The white aircraft coasted to an easy stop with its landing lights still blinking, then sat idle for a moment, as if nobody wanted to be the first out into the bad weather. A black limousine drove up to the side, the side hatch opened, and short steps flexed out and down. Someone got out of the car and held open the rear door. Barlow Hess was already out there on his tractor, waiting for the California fellows to get out of the way so he could move the plane to a hangar.
A large man stepped out first. He had an expensive overcoat and a dark hat pulled low over the forehead, while a thick muffler was wrapped around his neck and most of his face. Barlow caught a glimpse of dark skin around the cheeks and a black patch over the left eye, but that was all. A second man, tall and narrow, followed, and they both ducked into the limo parked at the tip of the left wing. The limo driver closed the door and ran around the car to climb inside, his exhaled breath trailing in little clouds. Within a minute, the vehicle left, and Barlow Hess hustled to get the little bird under cover and out of the bitter weather. It had to be serviced and prepared for another charter tomorrow.
* * *
“WELCOME TO MOGADISHU ON the Mississippi, sir,” the young Somali driver called over his shoulder as he accelerated the stretch limo out of the airport traffic grid and onto Interstate 494. His eyes searched for patches of ice. “And a happy two thousand fourteen!”
From inside his bundle of warm clothing, the large passenger in the rear said, “Turn up the heat! It’s freezing in here.”
The driver pressed some buttons on the panel, increased the fan speed and temperature, and checked the console lights to be certain the heated seat back there was on maximum. “Is this your first time in Minnesota in the winter, sir?”
“Um.” The passenger had never felt such penetrating cold temperatures. It felt like his blood was freezing. Of all the places on earth for the natives from the heat-baked Horn of Africa to resettle, how had tens of thousands washed up here, an arctic sheet where people drilled holes in the ice to fish?
The boy driving laughed. He had no Somali accent. “You’ll get used to it, sir. This is an unusually cold night, but the really bad stuff won’t hit us until February.”
“You like it?” the second passenger asked.
“This is the only place I’ve ever lived, sir. It is home, so of course I like it. My whole family is here. Where are you gentlemen from?”
“Somalia,” the passenger replied.
“Ouch,” said the driver. “No wonder you’re cold. There are some ninety thousand of us here—the largest Somali community in the U.S.”
The big man shifted. It was getting a bit warmer now in the long car, and hot air was blowing on his feet. He asked, “Do you ever think of going back home?”
“Back to Africa? No, sir.” The answer was curt and obviously heartfelt. “Parents threaten to send their children back to Somalia if they don’t behave. My generation prefers going to Disneyland and Cozumel. Somalia, we can visit through Facebook. Young people there also say good things about Disneyland and Cozumel.”
The passengers exchanged a private look. The driver was Americanized beyond hope.
“Are you a Muslim?” asked the thin passenger, pulling off his gloves.
“Of course, sir. Allah be praised.”
“Do you defend the faith?”
“Defend it from what, sir? The American Constitution protects our freedom to worship as we choose, and we have plenty of mosques here.”
“It was my impression that Americans consider all Muslims to be terrorists.”
The boy was relaxed behind the wheel as he steered through the blue-black night. The lights of the city glowed in the cold, and hundreds of automobiles were on the roads. “Most Americans believe that there are fanatics in every religion, sir. We work very hard around here to distance ourselves from extremists. The Christians do the same.”
“Hmmm. Good policy.” The big man stirred. He did not like what he was hearing. The fervor he expected was not there. He changed the subject.
“Have you been driving limousines for a long time, young man?” he asked. “You don’t look old enough.”
“I’m twenty,” the driver said. “My extended family owns three limos, and we specialize in serving the Somali business community, people like you, sir. I’ve been around the maintenance shop and driving for years. But I will quit next spring, right after I get my associate’s degree in science.”
“Then what?”
“I will join the air force, sir.”
“You want to be a soldier?” The big man was surprised.
“Hoo-ah, sir. Uncle Sam has already guaranteed to train me in advanced computer technology for a couple of years; then I will come back home, and my family will help me start my own business. My generation is all about computers and the future, sir, and I want to be like Gates and Jobs and Zuckerberg.”
The Cobra lowered his chin deeper into the coat. He had no reply to that. This boy was already lost, but no matter. There were already enough soldiers on the ground in Minnesota to carry out the plan. Outside the frosty window, it was very, very cold.
12
THE DECISION
LIEUTENANT GENERAL BRADLEY MIDDLETON, USMC, left the White House in a four-door sedan with no markings on a clear and brisk day in early January. The recently appointed deputy national security adviser to the president of the United States had been at work since six o’clock, weighing a myriad of global hotspots, but his thoughts were dominated with this upcoming meeting at the Central Intelligence Agency. The final part of a thorny problem had to be resolved.
The three-star general had been the two-star commander of Task Force Trident until it was disestablished and sent into obscurity. Middleton had been as frantic as a teenage girl in a shoe store trying to save it, but there was no chance. Trident had become politically toxic.
The chill Washington wind whistled outside the vehicle as it crossed the Potomac and got into the Mixing Bowl’s serpentine highways, following I-95 and branching away on 495. Out here, it did not matter if the shiny vehicle with a driver was carrying a passenger from the White House; every commuter fought for space.
The general mused that he had at least landed good berths for almost all the former Trident operators. Their impeccable service records guaranteed smooth landings. Middleton himself had emerged unscathed. Instead of being put out to pasture in disgrace, he had been given his third star and a small office in the White House. That was no favor, he thought, because the new job sucked up all of his time, and the unending stress was likely going to make his hair go gray by next week.
The final piece of the Trident puzzle was, as always, the unpredictable Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Both of them were marines, and, as such, they never left anyone behind. The bond of the Corps was too strong, and they had known and trusted each other for too many years. From his new office, Middleton knew what was going on all over the world, and he also knew that someday Kyle Swanson would be needed again. The man was too valuable to lose, but the commandant himself had ruled that Swanson must either retir
e voluntarily or be retired.
The general plugged in the earbuds of his iPad and let Beethoven soothe his busy mind. What to do with the best shooter and operator he had ever seen? The general suddenly gave a deep chuckle that was overheard by the driver, who did not comment. If ever someone did not need rescuing, it was Kyle Swanson.
Sir Jeff and Lady Pat had been trying for the past several years to get him to quit and help run their multibillion-dollar industrial complex, Excalibur Enterprises. The gunny had a boatload of money.
The question on Middleton’s plate was how to keep the man who had been publicly tagged as a ruthless killer. Of course he was! That’s what he was supposed to be! Swanson was as smooth as a snake on glass on the battlefield and possessed Sherlock Holmes’s investigative streak. He had been a deadly tool that was unleashed only in very special situations, against very special adversaries. We can’t just throw that away. In the end, the general’s decision was easy. All he had to do was convince the sniper to go with it.
The sedan got to the traffic signal in Langley, Virginia; made the turn; and stopped at the security post. Middleton and the driver handed over their ID cards while guards searched the vehicle from its trunk to undercarriage. A few minutes later, Middleton was stalking across the lobby of the CIA, where there was a big seal of the United States embedded on the floor and a wall of stars denoting fallen agents. The stars bore no names.
A young woman in a dark business suit and white blouse introduced herself as Tracy Packard, the administrative assistant of Martin Atkins, the CIA deputy director of clandestine operations. She was slight of build and had deep brown eyes that matched her dark hair, which was pulled back. She smiled. “Deputy Director Atkins is expecting you, General Middleton. Right this way.”
“Thank you.” They left the public spaces. “Do you know if the third party for the meeting has arrived?”
“Yes, sir. Gunny Swanson got here about ten minutes ago. He and the deputy director are sitting in the office staring at each other and waiting for you. It’s kind of spooky.” She led Middleton to an elevator, pushed the button, and the door slid open, then hissed closed behind them. “The gunny is somewhat of a legend around here, you know? I’m glad I had an opportunity to meet him.”
The general just nodded, but thought, Therein lies the quandary: There is no such thing as a secret legend.
Tracy Packard opened the inner door, and the general walked in and threw his overcoat onto a chair and looked at the two seated men. Swanson did not bother to stand in the presence of the three-star, so Middleton got right into the subject. “Jesus Christ, you two. Get over it.” He moved to a credenza along a wall and poured hot coffee into a thick mug, welcoming the warmth.
“I don’t like this idea, Middleton,” said Atkins. Those were the first words he had spoken since Swanson had arrived. “Why should the Marines’ problem child be shoved off on us?”
Swanson was casual in jeans and a sweatshirt and winter boots, with a hard tan from the time aboard the Vagabond in the Caribbean. He insolently crossed his legs and huffed. “Fuck this. Sir.”
Middleton rubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair and drank some of the scalding brew, then plopped down into a cushioned chair. “I feel your pain. I just left the president, who also feels your pain. As of this moment, nobody gives a shit. The decision is final.”
“Goddammit, Brad!” Atkins’s face was growing red because he was so pissed off. “The CIA is an independent agency. We don’t answer to you or anyone else up the military stovepipe.”
“And I don’t answer to them,” Swanson snapped. “I’m a marine.”
“Shush,” the general said. “Marty, this is the president’s decision. It has nothing to do with the Pentagon. You got a problem, go see the Man.”
He handed Swanson an envelope that contained two documents. “Gunny, here are the documents that terminate your service with the Corps and transfer you to the CIA. You now belong to Deputy Director Atkins.”
“I don’t belong to anybody.” He clipped the usual “sir” at the end of the comment. If he was being kicked out of the marines, screw courtesy.
Middleton drained his cup and clapped it on Atkins’s desk with a firm clunking noise. “This was a tough decision, guys, and a lot of people shaped it. The final call was made in the Oval Office. No matter what you think, it did not just happen, so cut us some slack.”
“Clandestine Service already has all the snipers it needs, General,” Martin Atkins said with a quieter tone. “Our roster is full.”
“Yeah. I taught most of them. I don’t want to work here, General. I liked having two hundred thousand marines at my back. If I have to choose between CIA and Excalibur, then I’ll take Excalibur.”
“Look, Kyle. We have had some differences, but I’m the good guy in this. You cannot just walk out the door. I think when Marty gets used to the idea, he will fit you in to his roster. We have to keep you out of the spotlight but still available when the crap hits the fan, and this may be the only way.”
Swanson stood his ground, although his mind wasn’t as firm as it had been thirty seconds earlier. Instead of a rejection, he would bargain. “Excalibur is better. Full salary and benefits and a slice of ownership.”
“You would be bored within a week out there.” Middleton knew the hook was set. “If you want to stay in the game, this is the ticket. You just don’t wear the uniform any longer. As for you, Marty, CIA gets an operator with off-the-chart experience and ability. You both know I’m right.”
“That’s the final word, Brad?” Atkins asked.
“Signed by the president and agreed to by the few people who need to know, Marty. When the moment comes, you will be glad to have this guy as an asset.”
The three-star general pulled out a cell phone and tossed it over to Kyle, who caught it in midair with the swipe of his hand. “Make up your mind, Gunny. There’s the phone. Call Jeff and Pat and tell them you’re coming to work for them … or don’t. Like it or not, consider this scruffy excuse for a meeting to be your retirement ceremony from the Corps.”
Swanson sat still and knew that Middleton was not hustling him. He really had put a lot of thought into this.
The general got to his feet. “Before I left the White House, the Syrians had done something terrible, Vladimir Putin was being Vladimir Putin, and North Korea announced it will send men to the moon, which could mean their crazy prick of a leader might have a booster rocket that can hit America. Closer to home, my dog is sick and my wife is going through menopause. I don’t have any more time to give you people. Sorry.” He picked up his coat and paused at the door. “Work it out and let me know.”
Tracy Packard was waiting outside the door and escorted Middleton back downstairs and out of the building.
“So we have a shotgun marriage, Swanson.” Atkins shrugged his shoulders. “Shit rolls downhill, and we are both in the valley.”
Kyle needed more coffee. He filled his cup and sat back down. “Marty, we’ve traded favors over the years. Your field people are good, and I don’t want to disrupt them.”
“Aww, can the crap, Kyle. I won’t send you through basic training.”
Swanson laughed. “I will make about a million dollars this year from Excalibur in salary. I really don’t need this job, too.” He hefted the general’s cell phone.
Atkins put one hand flat, palm down across the tips of the fingers of his other hand. Time out. “Then how about we try this? The one thing we do best is undercover and clandestine work, right? I mean, that’s our mission! So let’s say you really do go into the private sector, but when we really need your specific help, we can reach out.”
“Like an outside consultant?” Swanson thought about it. Maybe he could open an Excalibur office in Washington to stay close to the movers and shakers on this side of the pond. Would Jeff and Pat go along with it? Probably.
Excalibur had always enjoyed a special standing with those who mattered over here in the dark world. Sir Je
ff had been a colonel with the Special Air Service before a broken leg forced the transition into private business and had never forgotten his SAS roots.
“I get a CIA cred pack, passport, and ironclad alternate identity, but only a few people know of the arrangement?” Swanson raised his eyebrows.
“Need-to-know basis. I swear. You will have everything before you leave the building today, along with a continuation of your top-secret clearance. Tracy will lead you through the paperwork and run through our drop boxes all over the world if you ever need quick access to a smartphone or new IDs or weapons.”
“And when I call here, you answer. Not some middleman.”
“I can to that, too. Tracy will set up a special hotline number. We can make this work.”
There was a final long pause, and Kyle said, “Deal.” He punched a number into the phone in his hand.
A woman answered. “Kyle?”
“You were right. They just kicked me out of the Corps today, Pat. I’m coming home.”
Atkins heard the voice shriek with pleasure. When Swanson terminated the brief call, the CIA officer went to the coffeepot himself, then asked, “A fuckin’ million a year? Really?”
The tension between them was gone. “Those were the recession years. Now? Add in the bonuses and stock options that were held in trust while I was in the Corps, although I used a bit to buy a house in California and an apartment in Washington.”
“You should have quit years ago, you fuckin’ moron, but nobody ever accused marines of being smart.” Atkins extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Agent Swanson.”
“The Corps has a motto: Semper Fi. Do we have one here in Spookville?”
Night of the Cobra Page 10
