by Larry Bond
Then she realized she was still in her pajamas.
It was too late to change — she worked through the rest of the workout, pushing for a few extra reps on each set, putting her muscles into it, trying to work fast enough so that the rhythm of her breathing kept her from talking out loud.
Not talking — more like ranting. She’d been bamboozled into a no-win job. The president wanted her to be his personal spymaster.
Corrine imagined the congressional hearing when this all hit the fan. There’d be knives in her back from the CIA, the Pentagon, USSOCOM, the Democrats, the Republicans. Hell, even the DAR would find a way to blackball her.
But if she didn’t take the job, who would? Because McCarthy would find someone to do it. He was determined to protect America, and that’s what Special Demands was designed to do. Not break the law, just skirt around it when necessary.
If the right person kept it on track, it would succeed.
Why not her? Passing a Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) session and surviving Q Course wasn’t what was important — they already had a host of people who could do that. They had hardware, intelligence, muscle — what they needed was conscience.
And actually, she had taken their stinking SFAS, the three-section, twenty-one-day physical and psychological exam that weeded out individuals for Q Course, which all SF soldiers had to pass through before wearing SF tabs. She’d volunteered as part of her first congressional committee job during one of the debates over allowing women in SOF combat units. Corrine had insisted on the full damn thing, and hung in there when they were all smirking behind their face paint.
Not that her showing had done anything for the debate. Nor did she think that she was really qualified — just that she could take what the bastards dished out.
She would have liked to try the Q Course, though, just for the hell of it.
If I don’t take the job, who will? The idea stung her brain, just as the gradually building acid in her muscles stung her shoulders and arms. Tired at last, Corrine left the weights in the middle of the floor and went upstairs to her bath, filling it with warm water as she stripped off her clothes. She slipped into the water, easing back against the side of the tub.
Who, if not me?
Someone Slott could twirl around his finger. Then things would be even worse — they’d be cowboys with the imprimatur of the White House.
Corrine’s agitation began building again.
She’d have to do something right away to get their attention and respect. She wasn’t going to be one of the guys — that wasn’t possible, and not just because she was a woman. She didn’t want to be. They were never going to like her. But she had to show them that she had balls.
Or whatever gender-inappropriate sneer they were using these days.
She’d run the surveillance mission herself. That would prove her bona fides.
More likely, it would make her look like an ass. Corrine put the idea out of her head, then rose, pulling the plug on the drain. She actually felt tired, finally.
Too bad. There were phone calls to make, things to do. Corrine wrapped a towel around her and went to make a pot of coffee.
14
OFF BANDAR ‘ABBÃS, IRAN
Ferg actually found it easier to swim pulling Reid, either because of the adrenaline rush or the other man’s powerful kick. The swells from the patrol boat’s wake reared across the channel, the water surging up like a pile of dirt plowed by a bulldozer blade. Something had drawn the craft to the south, and as it started to fire its cannon, Ferg realized it had to be the SEAL team.
“Well that was altruistic, but not terribly bright,” said Ferg.
“What?” said Reid.
“How close are we to the ASDS?” asked Ferg.
“Mile to the south. Long swim.”
“We’re going to have to go ashore,” said Rankin.
“Hey!” said a voice in the distance. It seemed to come from the wake of the gunboat.
“Hey,” said the other SEAL. “James?”
“Where the hell have you guys been?”
“Looking for you.”
He handed out swimming gear, including a small inflatable life jacket that they put on Reid. He offered one to Rankin, who refused it at first.
“Don’t be macho, Skip,” said Ferg, who took one for himself. “We may be in the water a long time.”
Rankin finally took the bib, sliding it awkwardly over his neck and trying to square away his gear.
The patrol boat had stopped firing and seemed to have stopped moving. Thin needles of light scanned the water in front of it.
“Our best bet’s to get south,” said Ferg. “We can head back and make shore where Conners and I landed yesterday, round up Keveh, then look for the others.”
“What about the ASDS?” asked the SEAL who’d brought the gear out. “MC wanted us to meet him there.”
“Even if we can get past that patrol boat, I don’t want to leave the other guys here,” said Ferg.
“You think they went ashore?”
“They may be dead,” said Ferg.
“Nah,” said James.
“It’s okay,” said Reid. “Head for the ASDS. MC’ll be there. Guaranteed.”
There were trucks and lights passing on the shore. The patrol boat was a low shadow in the channel, temporarily quiet.
“All right, we’re going back south,” said Ferguson. “No more debate.”
They’d gone only a hundred yards when one of the machine guns on the patrol boat began firing again. Two or three seconds later, an explosion that sounded something like a grenade going off inside a fifty-gallon drum shook the vessel. A whistling shriek like the exhaust of a steam kettle followed.
“Wu knows how to place ‘em,” said James, increasing his pace.
The other SEAL had taken a limpet mine and attached it to the hull of the patrol boat. The Iranian crew started firing every weapon they had, but it was far too late — the high-explosive mine had blasted a huge hole in the thin hull, and the boat quickly settled at the stern. One of the Iranian’s guns either overheated or jammed somehow, and there was another explosion, this one unmuffied by the water; a fire flared, and rounds began cooking off like firecrackers.
“Nice of them to provide a light show,” said Ferg, changing direction as the fire died out. “Which way is our sub?”
ACT III
I am armed,
And dangers are to me indifferent.
— Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 1.3.114-5
1
QATAR, PERSIAN GULF — TWO DAYS LATER
Ferguson leaned back in the leather chair, waiting for the secure video screen at the front of the basement room in the embassy building to bleep to life. As secure communications facilities went, this was among the clubbiest — the couch and club chairs were thick leather, and there was a well-stocked bar at the side of the room. He’d watered down his bourbon considerably, but still felt the sting of it in his mouth as he waited for the connection to go through.
“Hey, Ferg,” said Corrigan, his face exploding onto the flat plasma screen.
“What’s the puss about, Jack?” said Ferg. “It’s not payday.”
“You’re not going to like this.”
Without any other explanation, Corrigan’s face dissolved into Slott’s.
“There’s a change in our organizational chart,” said Slott.
“Auditors finally caught up with you, huh?”
“One of these days, Ferguson, your wisecracks are going to catch you short. Today may just be the day.”
“Gentlemen, if we’re through with the fun and games, let’s begin.” Corrine Alston’s face flashed on the screen.
“Well, if it isn’t the White House lawyer,” said Ferg. “Don’t tell me you’re DDO now.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Ferguson, I’m not. But I am in charge of the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office. And by some quirk in the legislation, it appears that while I hav
e to inform the DDO of what I do, I don’t actually answer to him.”
“Peachy,” said Ferg.
“What are you drinking?”
Ferg held the glass up. “Jack Daniel’s. Want some?”
“This is government time,” she said frostily.
“Yeah. I’m drinking in the line of duty.”
“Yuk, yuk,” said Corrine. “I understand the oil tanker was a bust.”
Ferg raised his hand. “Uh, Madam Lawyer? Actually, it was ethylene. And it was being outfitted as a covert minelayer. That information has been passed along and is of great value to the agencies responsible.”
“The information could have been gathered through DRO.” The initials stood for the Defense Reconnaissance Office, which was responsible for satellite tasking.
“Sure,” said Ferg. “And the Sisters of Charity might have stumbled across it during a fund-raising drive. But they didn’t. Now, if we could get timely data from DRO, that would be nice.”
“You don’t get timely data?” asked Corrine.
“We have trouble getting timely train schedules.”
“I thought the entire idea was to do away with the bureaucracy fettering you.”
Ferg snorted, and not just because of her somewhat naive notion about bureaucratic prerogatives. He’d never heard the word “fetter” used over a secure com net before.
“The bureaucracy you’re referring to,” said Slott, rallying to the defense, “is a set of different departments and agencies working together to provide timely support.”
“Or not,” said Ferg.
“Improvements will be made,” said Corrine.
“Hear, hear,” said Ferguson.
“In the meantime,” said Corrine, “we have a new program.”
“I like that. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?”
She frowned slightly at the curse word, which was his intention. She could pretend to be one of the guys, but underneath it she was just another one of those Beltway girls, let into the game because of abstract principles that had nothing to do with reality.
He sipped his drink as she continued, outlining a plan to follow a shipment of waste from Buzuluk in Russia.
“Excuse me, didn’t you just suggest we use DRO? The satellites and monitors already keep tabs, and, besides, the Russians guard the trains.”
“Maybe they don’t guard them very well.”
“OK,” said Ferguson. “But you’re about a week and a half behind the times. Why fool around with the train anymore when we know the waste is going to Chechnya?”
“You don’t know that at all.”
“Excuse me. Strongly suspect. What’s Kiro say?”
Somebody behind Corrine whispered something to her, bowing his head as if he were speaking to the queen. Ferg couldn’t believe they were all deferring to her already, waiting for her to speak. Slap the White House label on anything, and all of a sudden it rose to the top of the heap.
“Corrigan,” he said, growing impatient. “What’s new with Kiro? We’re interrogating him, right?”
“Nothing new, Ferg.”
“Did you guys apply the screws?”
“We’re not going to use drags,” said Corrine. “We want to bring him to trial.”
“So?” said Ferguson.
“Mr. Ferguson, there are certain legal constraints—”
“Uh-huh.” Ferg got up and went over to the bar. His refill wasn’t going to be watered down.
“We’ll launch our project from Moscow tomorrow evening,” said Corrine. “I’ll need three members of your team, Mr. Ferguson. I’d like at least one who’s already familiar with the operation.”
Since he only had two people with him, Ferguson would have been stupid indeed not to realize she was trying to clip his wings. Dealing with her was going to be a serious pain in the ass.
“Not a problem,” he said, turning and giving his best smile to the camera. “Give Corrigan the details. I’ll work it out.”
“Will you be there?”
“No, I’m due some R&R time.”
“That’s fine,” she said sharply. Then her feed went blank.
2
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Slott’s reaction to being supplanted was so professionally cold that Corrine couldn’t decide whether it hid anger or relief. She saw no sign that he was in on the president’s game, though she was starting to realize that was no guarantee he wasn’t.
Slott claimed to have no free CIA personnel to assign to the Team; in fact, he told her, the Agency was desperately undermanned in all areas — a hint that perhaps she might use her influence to free up personnel lines. She did so, but all her phone calls succeeded in doing was shaking loose a previously approved but budgetarily frozen slot for a high-level analyst to help the Team. Corrine finally decided that the SF people could undertake the surveillance mission themselves without Ferguson or another Agency minder. The mission was relatively straightforward, with the Team members expected to stay out of harm’s way and simply gather intelligence.
Back at her White House office, she tried sorting through some of the other work that was piling up for her. She hadn’t gotten very far when the president summoned her by phone; he had left a few hours before for Chicago.
“How is Russia?” he asked when she picked up.
“Russia?”
“Well now, isn’t that where you are?”
“Mr. President, you know very well where I am. You called me.”
“Generally when I ask to speak to someone, the call is put through without bothering me with minor details such as the location of my callee,” he said. “But now that I reflect upon it, the line does not seem to have the usual Russia twang. There’s more a kind of static in the background, the sort of electronic fog I associate with Washington, D.C.”
“Why do you want me in Russia?”
“I want you running Special Demands. You outlined a project for the Team, and I expected you to see it through. In person.”
“But I’m not qualified—”
“I do wish you’d stop putting yourself down, young lady.”
“Yes, sir.”
McCarthy dropped his playful tone. “They have to respect you, Corrine. Make them see you’re a tough ol’ gal. As tough as me. I know you are.”
“Tough young gal.”
“Get.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hanging up.
3
QATAR, PERSIAN GULF
“I’ll give the nuns one thing,” said Conners, slapping the beer mug down on the polished blond wood bar. “They taught you how to do arithmetic, and grammar. They were hell on you, but you learned.”
“Yeah?” Rankin reached for the bowl of pretzel nuggets, selecting one and holding it up for examination. He turned it over and over, as if he were looking at a diamond. Both men had had a few shots to go with their two beers. The Foreign Club was an American-style bar, insulated from the Islamic masses by a squadron of security people and a hefty “membership fee.” The very expensive foreigners club would have been normally off-limits and out of reach for American soldiers, but Ferg’s unlimited connections and moxie had gotten them in. Even Rankin would have had to admit the CIA officer knew the meaning of R&R.
“You’re drinking too much,” Rankin said, as Conners pushed the shot glasses forward for another round.
“Yup,” said Conners. Rankin reminded Conners of a kid he’d known since grammar school, Peter Flynn. Flynn was an only child and a bit of a priss, and when in sixth grade he announced that he was going to be a priest no one was really surprised. Girls — and probably Flynn’s father — soon put an end to that, but Flynn always seemed a little angry about it, mad that he couldn’t fit into that square hole.
“I’ll be but drank in good company,” said Ferguson, slapping them both on the back.
“Hey, it’s the devil himself,” said Conners.
Ferg pointed at the beer for the bartender, ordering one for himself.
“What was that you said?” Rankin asked Ferguson.
“A quote. From Shakespeare.”
“He was an Irishman, you know,” said Conners.
“I’ll ne’er be drunk, whilst I live, but in honest, civil, godly company,” said Rankin, supplying the proper lines from Merry Wives of Windsor.
“Whoa, Skip — you know more than you let on.”
“Screw you, Ferguson.”
“How’d it go?” Conners asked.
“Peachy,” said Ferg, taking his beer. It was a Dortmunder export from Germany, “DUB” or Dortmunder Union Brauerei, which had a dryer, slightly stronger taste than the “normal” German lager. Ferguson drained the mug, then pushed it forward for a refill. “Drink up today, boys, for tomorrow we fly. That’s not a direct quote.”
Conners glanced over his shoulder, making sure that no one was nearby. The crowd was mostly rich businessmen, but a spy might easily mingle, and of course a good portion of the staff would be in the employ of some intelligence agency or another. “Where we going?” he asked Ferguson.
“Hither, thither and yon. Skip, here, is going to Moscow.”
“Moscow?” said Rankin.
“Russia, not New York. You’re meeting our new boss.” Ferguson pulled over the refilled mug. “Guns’ll meet you,” he said, taking a more sensible sip this time. “I have another SF guy going as well, out of the States. They call him Frenchie — he was on loan to French intelligence for a while and has an accent. Thinks he’s a frog.”
“What new boss?” said Rankin.
“Long story, Skip. We’ll get into it later. Any girls around here?” Ferg asked, turning around to survey the room.
“They don’t allow women,” said Conners.
