"So, nearly two dozen men?" Sen. Gooden asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And one cop?"
Whitaker swallowed. He'd forgotten about the California police officer. "Yes, sir."
"And one FBI agent?"
Whitaker looked harder at Sen. Gooden. Surely he wasn't laying the death of FBI Agent Jack Ward on Whitaker's hands. "But, sir," Whitaker said.
"Don't 'but' me. That man only died because of a failed op that you asked the FBI to conduct. But the bigger problem here is you're taking part in what is increasingly looking like a full-blown war inside our very own country."
Whitaker tried to show nothing, but beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
"Do you know," Sen. Gooden asked, "that the few people who know of our program -- and believe me, they are few -- are wondering why this wonderful operation has gotten so sidetracked that it’s now almost completely focused on an honorable veteran and top-notch reporter, who frankly, are both loyal citizens?"
Sen. Gooden stopped, looked to the side, and picked up a cigar. While he cut off the end and slowly lit it, Whitaker sweated in silence. He knew better than to interrupt the man when he was making his point, and Sen. Gooden liked to take his time making his points. A showman, through and through, with a Texas drawl and a murderous scowl.
Sen. Gooden exhaled a thick line of smoke through pursed lips and looked down at the cigar.
"Fine cigar," he said, as if he wasn't in the middle of chewing Whitaker's ass out.
"And so," Sen. Gooden said, "one of the few people who know of our program asked me recently why our operation had gotten so side-tracked, instead of chasing down the enemies it was created to hunt?"
Sen. Gooden looked down at the cigar and took another puff.
"Do you know how I answered that question?" Gooden said.
"No, sir."
"I didn't. And I didn't, because I don't know the answer. But, I told them I'd soon have an answer for them. And so I called you up here," Sen. Gooden growled, pointing his cigar toward Whitaker, "because I figure you have the answer to this question. Because otherwise, we've got a problem that's quite a bit bigger than you, I assure you."
Whitaker took a deep breath and said, "Sir, we didn't get sidetracked. Following an operational security breach, in which some early secrets of our organizational history were leaked in a national publication by, as you said, a well-respected reporter, I took action to do some serious damage control. Such damage control helped prevent months and months of news speculation and likely Congressional Hearings.
"This, in itself, was a major success. However, a unit not under my control, along with terrible luck, led to Nick Woods, or the former Bobby Ferguson, not being in his home. And the superbly trained, decorated hero soon joined forces with Allen Green. And let me remind you, sir, that these two men represent the most formidable of threats to our organization. That, sir, is why I got sidetracked."
Sen. Gooden leaned back in his chair and examined Whitaker with a sick smile on his face. He smoked two full inhales and exhales on his cigar, his eyes locked on Whitaker.
At least thirty seconds passed and Whitaker didn't dare break eye contact.
"Strike Team Two?" Sen. Gooden asked. "Why haven't you sent me any reports on them in the past few days? Weren't they closing in on America's second, most-wanted terrorist?"
Whitaker nearly gasped. "Sir, I apologize. My second in command has been working liaison with them, and I'm sure he can answer any questions you have regarding that operation. I apologize, again, for not keeping you in the loop. I've been distracted and in over-drive since the shooting at Camp Lejeune."
"Which one?" Sen. Gooden berated. "There's been about three separate incidents in the past three days."
Whitaker nodded. "Point taken, sir."
Sen. Gooden's smile grew wider. He took a sip of his Jack and Coke and said, "I want you to take your time answering this next question. Your life, quite possibly, hangs on how you answer it."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you scared of Nick Woods and Allen Green?"
"No, sir," Whitaker said, a little too angrily.
"So, you're not? You've deployed entire teams of men to kill him and he's slaughtered them like sheep, and you're not concerned?"
"No, sir."
"Ah, good," Whitaker said with a menacing grin. He took another puff of his cigar and pushed a button under his desk. Four men in suits entered.
Whitaker had been disarmed before entering -- no one got near the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee carrying a pistol, it didn't matter who you were -- but these weren't Secret Service agents who normally guarded Sen. Gooden.
The men formed a cauldron around Whitaker. Two by the desk between Whitaker and Sen. Gooden. Two behind him. All four had their arms crossed, ready for action.
"Whitaker, I've asked a few men to witness the ending of our meeting, because I don't want you to overreact and do anything stupid. Now, I've taken a couple main points from our meeting.
"One, it's quite clear you've botched about every aspect of this damage control mission since the beginning. You've lost more than a dozen people, destroyed two Strike Teams, and severely damaged our ability to operate inside the country. We've got half of the nation’s media looking under rocks for our group, which is where we started when Allen Green broke his story. At this point, it would have been better to have done nothing in the beginning, because we're back to the start, except we didn't pass go and we for damn sure didn't collect two hundred dollars.
"For failing so miserably in this operation, I now relieve you of command. I've already alerted a man in your organization, who I won't name, that he's in charge. Your passwords have been changed. Your team leaders and entire organization already know you're no longer in charge. That your words, threats, and pleas carry the weight of an overpaid janitor, who's no longer on the good side of the principal.
"That's the first point."
Sen. Gooden paused to take another sip of his Jack and Coke, and Whitaker tried to control his face. To say he was stunned to have lost his command was beyond obvious. He could see being killed, but stripping a man like him of his command, that was actually far worse. The two men in front of him looked eager for Whitaker to do something stupid.
Sen. Gooden set his drink down and looked back up.
"Now, you've said you don't fear Nick Woods and Allen Green. I figured that much. And though you've been relieved of command, I want you to know that I've never doubted your courage. You mean a lot to me and Martha, and I'll always welcome you at our table. But don't plan to come by anytime soon. Because effective immediately, you and Tank, who's also been relieved of his duties, have one single mission. You are to hunt down and kill Nick Woods and Allen Green. No more and no less. You'll be issued a credit card with a balance of $250,000. That's all the support you get. No weapons from the warehouse in Fredericksburg, where your code no longer works. No intel. No nothing. Because officially, you no longer exist to this organization. Of course, we'll monitor you. You go to the press or even hint at leaking national security information, --"
"Sir, I would never --"
Gooden raised his hand to stop Whitaker. "I know you wouldn't, but I've got to say this. If you even hint at leaking national security information, you'll find yourself at Guantanamo Bay. No American prison. No open trial. Nothing like that. Files have already been prepared and delivered to the NSA and FBI, describing every hair on your ass, all your friends, your current bank balances, along with their numbers, you name it. If anything changes, even so much as a single dollar starts to move, then you'll be apprehended.
"And how will we apprehend you? Oh, that's even grander. You'll be fitted with an ankle bracelet in the parking lot when you leave today. If that thing ever comes off or leaves the country, then you're either a dead man or headed to Guantanamo. You know these men are good. You trained them. Now, get out of here, go get Tank, and get after Nick and Allen. Bring me their heads on a platter
, and we'll talk about finding you another fit in a good line of work. Don't expect to get your command back. You've caused too much damage for that, but I can offer you my good graces again and a steady income with exciting work. That's the best I can do.
"Now, get the hell out of my office, and make it happen."
Whitaker finally smiled and said, "Consider it done, sir."
"For your sake, you better hope so."
Chapter 63
Allen Green hit the jackpot the day after Whitaker lost his command.
Allen had posted The New York Times artist's sketch online. The media and public already knew the story of Whitaker and how he'd interrogated Allen in a hidden room after the story broke. Within two days of posting it, reports started to come in from California that the sketch of Whitaker looked exactly like a man wanted in a police shooting. Allen immediately researched the incident and knew the minute he saw the video footage from the police department that he was looking at the man that had destroyed his life. Whitaker, until he learned the man's real name.
Furthermore, the hunt sped up as it hit its next stages. Reporters from dozens of newspapers and TV stations were combing through photos of graduating classes at West Point and the Naval Academy, hoping to find out who this guy named Whitaker really was.
Better yet, even former graduates and officers from all four branches were trying to figure out who he was. This man had gunned down a cop and abducted a reporter in some kind of unbelievable CIA-like conspiracy. You didn't do that, even in the post-9/11 world.
The public smelled blood and desired payback, and the media fanned the flames as only the media could.
Chapter 64
"What's our plan?" Tank asked.
He and Whitaker sat in a corner booth of Waffle House. It was after midnight. Whitaker needed some coffee and time to think, and Tank could always use more protein for his ever-starving muscles.
"The bottom line is we need to kill Nick and Allen," Whitaker said. "If we do that, then their website goes inactive and eventually the public will move on. We'll keep a low profile during that time and hope for the best."
"How do we pull this off now that there's a sketch out of you? That sketch is a good one, at that, and they may have your actual name before long. They'll find you from your West Point annual. There just aren't that many West Point grads of your height and who would have graduated in the time period that you did."
"All true," Whitaker said, reminding himself yet again that Tank was no dummy. The man had more than just bulging muscles. "And, of course, we really have no intel or any way to figure out how to find them."
"Which means, what?" Tank asked as he forked down a load of eggs.
"It means we need to e-mail them through the website and arrange a meeting somehow. And at such meeting, we kill them."
"Why would they risk that? They'll know what we aim to do."
"That's a fact," Whitaker said. "So, we'll need some bait to help bring them in."
Chapter 65
Sen. Ray Gooden sat behind his desk. It had been hours since he talked with Whitaker, and it was now after midnight.
Gooden had cancelled attending an important fundraiser with some Texas constituents who had flown in by private plane, sending his No. 1 aide instead and explaining a national security situation had held up the Senator.
Now he rested at his desk. Half drunk. His tie loosened and his shirt a wrinkled mess. He knew the situation was spiraling out of control right before his eyes, and it was moving at a speed he found difficult to comprehend. Things were moving at the speed of political campaigns, except in this case it involved national security and too many felonies to count.
With every passing day, the chances for a Congressional inquiry grew. Once those began, the risks would further increase. There'd be tough questions asked out loud and broadcasted throughout the country. There'd be asshole former military officers, maybe even a few current ones, who -- too straight-laced and honorable for their own good -- would leak info or even testify about what they'd heard rumors of. These men had no idea about real national security, Gooden thought. You couldn't protect all of America while following the law to the letter. You had to blend it a bit, adding in some terrorism of your own. You had to exist in that shade of gray, in an ugly world where nothing was black or white.
But, the speed and danger of this situation had Gooden more scared than he'd been in a long time. Probably since he'd trailed Democratic candidate Bob Kile. Yeah, this situation felt as dangerous as that had felt -- much worse than those investigations by the Senate Ethics Committee.
Gooden smiled as he remembered that firebrand, Bob Kile. He grinned harder and thought, "Well, Bob, I'm betting that twelve-point lead and endorsement by four different newspapers didn't matter much as your plane raced toward the ground."
Bob Kile had been two days away from burying him in an election, and he'd still found a way out. Now, he just needed to find a similar way to end this crisis.
Certainly in just a day or two, the media would figure out who Whitaker actually was. And from there, those bastards would start pulling that small thread and following it to its source. And with so many recent deaths among his troops, and so many of their family members and friends who may have seen or known Whitaker, the risks were skyrocketing.
Gooden felt his stomach rumble and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.
Oh, they hated him, and he'd pissed off and attacked so many people that what allies he had might turn on him this time. That was the problem with power. You had to exercise it, and yet with each time you used it, you gained more opposition and animosity.
Gooden gulped down the rest of his Jack and Coke and slammed the glass on his desk. He immediately refilled his glass, mixing it with about 70 percent Jack Daniels and 30 percent Coke.
He took another large swallow. He couldn't shake the thought that he needed this to end fast. At this point, it didn't matter whether Whitaker and Tank lived or died. He just needed them to either take Nick and Allen down or die trying. If they succeeded, then Allen's website would cease being updated and the story would soon die. If they failed, then there'd be the body of Whitaker, and Nick and Allen could claim victory.
With luck, Nick would return to the woods of Tennessee and a life of construction, and Allen would win some kind of award and be offered some senior reporting slot again.
There'd be danger immediately after the death of Whitaker and Tank, but the CIA would deny any knowledge of the men's group, which was of course the truth. The public would again suspect the CIA knew very well about the group and its operations. There might be some increased oversight from Congress and some articles written, but it'd all die down soon. Too many terrorists out there to hammer the CIA too hard.
Gooden chugged the rest of the drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, further soiling his shirt.
Damn, he needed this to go down soon. Within the next day or two. Regardless of who came out the winner, he needed it over.
He refilled the glass again. What was this? The fifth? Or eighth? Or was it even higher than that?
Gooden didn't care. He had an aide and driver who could get him home, and in the depths of the back of his mind, he could feel a possible solution coming on. He stood and started pacing the room.
He staggered in a line, back and forth, thinking hard and sipping his drink. Yes, he liked this idea. He could arrange the showdown. Make it happen fast. And then whoever won, won.
The idea came further together. He'd contact Whitaker and Tank and claim he'd changed his mind. That due to the urgency of the situation, he needed it resolved quickly. Therefore, he'd decided to use all the political leverage he had to have the NSA get involved one final time. He’d say they had the rough location of Nick and Allen, so Whitaker and Tank should stage themselves at one of their CIA cabins not currently in use deep in the woods.
Gooden knew just the right location to put them at. It wasn't near anything. The two sides could have the
ir war, and the public would be none the wiser.
And while Whitaker and Tank waited, Gooden would be leaking their location to Nick and Allen. He felt certain Nick would overpower Allen and insist on going to get them, even if it was a trap.
Nick wouldn't allow Allen to bring in the cops. Allen was still wanted by the police, and Nick probably wasn't in the clear either. Lots of bodies had been felled, including one FBI agent who’d been operating officially in his legal duties.
Yes, Gooden thought. This could work.
He pushed the "page" button on his phone, and when his aide picked up, Gooden quickly commanded, "Vaughn, get me a clean laptop. Brand new. And have our tech people set up a clean email account with no history. And I don't want that laptop logged onto the Internet or anything else that might leave an IP address or any other kind of internet history. You understand?"
"Yes, sir. I'll start making it happen immediately."
Gooden turned his speaker phone off and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the drink that remained on his desk, but it no longer called him.
He felt his confidence returning and allowed his political mind to strategize about an upcoming hearing he needed to chair in two days.
Chapter 66
"You've got to see this," Allen said.
Nick looked up from his ninety-third pistol drill of the day. He only had seven more reps of this exercise.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Could be the jackpot," Allen replied. "Got an e-mail from someone who says they're in Whitaker's group. Says they want to give away his location so we can take him."
Nick grunted. "Sounds convenient. How stupid do they think we are?"
Allen shook his head. "I don’t know. The e-mail is pretty long and detailed. It talks about all the offenses Whitaker has committed and says he's giving up Whitaker and his bodyguard -- some guy named Tank -- because they're out of control."
Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) Page 20
