by Brad Thor
Removing the Treo device from the pocket of his sport coat, the Troll ignored the desire to contemplate the course of his life and authorized Sacha’s first bonus. So far, so very, very good.
Twenty-Seven
Back at the VA, Harvath waited in Dr. Hardy’s office while Bob went up to the roof in search of his three friends. The images of death and destruction Scot saw on the small television on Hardy’s desk were worse than anything he’d ever seen in any combat zone. The macabre horror of it all made it difficult to tear his eyes away, but he had to. He needed to think beyond the devastation and try to put the pieces of what he knew into some kind of coherent picture in his mind.
To do that, Harvath focused on one of the framed diplomas hanging on the wall. Because of Bob’s injured shoulder he had automatically assumed that Samuel Hardy was an M.D., but as he read, Harvath realized the man was actually a PhD. How the hell could a PhD be in charge of Bob’s physical therapy, he wondered. Unless—
Harvath’s train of thought was interrupted as Dr. Samuel Hardy, PhD, entered the office. “Anything new?” he asked as he threw a stack of folders on his desk and gestured toward the television.
“The body count projections have been raised twice in the last twenty minutes,” Scot replied.
“God help us all.”
Harvath nodded his head and said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What kind of therapy are you doing with Bob Herrington?”
Hardy looked at Harvath a moment and then crossed over to his desk. “With all due respect, that’s really none of your business.”
Harvath begged to differ with the doc and politely replied, “I’m assuming it’s not physical rehabilitation.”
“No,” said Hardy, careful with his choice of words. “Physical rehabilitation is not my specialty.”
“And the others I met on the roof—Cates, Morgan, and Hastings? What about them? Bob told me they were pals from his rehab. I figured that meant physical therapy—kind of like workout buddies.”
“That’s not too far from the truth, but again, I’m not at liberty to—”
“Discuss your patients,” said Harvath, finishing Hardy’s sentence for him. “I understand.”
“Actually, I don’t think you do.”
“Then why don’t you help me?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“That’s it? Just plain old psychologist?”
“There’s nothing that plain about psychology. Old, maybe, but nothing is ever plain in my work.”
Harvath wasn’t a big fan of circumlocution. He got his fill of it on a daily basis working in Washington. “Let me cut to the chase,” he said. “Up until five minutes ago, I thought Bob Herrington was putting together a team of ex-service people that I could rely on. Now I’m not so sure, so forgive me for being blunt, but what exactly do you do here?”
The doctor reached into his lower desk drawer and pulled out a black-and-white photograph of four soldiers. They were standing along a riverbank wearing vintage Vietnam-era tiger-stripe camouflage. “That’s a much younger me there on the left,” he said. “That picture was taken at Nha Trang when I was with the 5th Special Forces Group.”
“You were a Green Beret?” asked Harvath.
“Yup.”
“How’d you end up a psychologist?”
“When I got out of the Army, I was dealing with a lot of issues.” Hardy paused a moment and then said, “Bob told me you were a SEAL, is that right?”
“Technically, I still am,” replied Harvath. “I’ve just been on loan to a couple of different government agencies.”
“Well, then you may be able to appreciate some of the problems I was facing. I burned through a lot of doctors when I got home from Vietnam—both psychologists and psychiatrists alike. They all had one fundamental thing in common that made it impossible for them to truly help me—none of them had ever been in combat. Their code as human beings was based upon the Judeo-Christian ethic, while mine was based upon the warrior ethic. They couldn’t even begin to understand the things I had been asked to do, and which I had done so willingly for my country. That’s why I decided to go into psychology.”
“So you specialize in helping treat people who have been in combat?”
“Not just anybody,” replied Hardy. “Only the best of the best. My area of expertise is with Special Operations personnel.”
“Like Bob,” remarked Harvath, whose brain then took the next step, “and Rick Cates, Paul Morgan, and Tracy Hastings.”
Hardy allowed his silence to serve as his answer.
“What are we talking about here? High-end PTSD?” asked Harvath.
“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a relatively common issue for combat veterans, but less so for our elite warriors. What we see in them, especially when they’ve been forced to leave active duty prematurely, because of an injury or whatever, is an inability to reconcile the ‘real’ world—a place not often governed by loyalty and honor, with the world they have just left behind—a brotherhood that prides itself on character and integrity.”
Harvath was intrigued, but he was still having trouble deciphering what exactly the doctor’s role was. “So your job is to help them adjust to life outside the Spec Ops community?”
“More or less,” replied Hardy. “Every combat vet has issues—no matter who they are. But people in the Special Operations community often share several in common and that’s why group therapy in some cases can be so helpful in making a smooth and productive transition back into the civilian world.”
Harvath let the idea tumble around in his brain for a few moments and wondered if there were any issues he might be keeping at bay, which he had never really taken a good look at. Bob’s words from the Pig & Whistle about letting Meg Cassidy get away rang in his ears, but he tried to ignore them. Dr. Hardy was talking about deep psychological issues, not his decision to place his career over a healthy interpersonal relationship with a member of the opposite sex.
Pushing that thought from his mind, Harvath asked the one question that was most pressing at the moment. “Without violating doctor-patient confidentiality, is there anything going on with any of them that I should be concerned about?”
“That depends. How well do you know them?”
“Bob has told me about each of them in his e-mails, but this is the first time I’ve ever met any of them in person.”
“Without knowing the details of what you’re asking them to do,” replied Hardy, “it’s very hard for me to answer your question.”
That was a fair enough response. “I may not be asking them to do anything,” said Harvath. “In fact I hope that turns out to be true. But the flipside is that I may be asking them to step up to the plate in a way they haven’t been asked to in a little while.”
“The terrorists aren’t done yet, are they?” asked Hardy.
Harvath shook his head. “We don’t think so.”
“Well, each person reacts to the stress of combat in different ways. What I can say is that Bob Herrington is an exceptional leader. If Rick, Tracy, and Paul are the people he wants on your team, then I’d take that as a serious endorsement.”
“But what if things get ugly?”
“There’s no way to predict. Unfortunately, you won’t know until something happens.”
“At which point it could be too late.”
Hardy nodded. “Many symptoms exhibited by soldiers outside the realm of combat have more to do with adjusting to the real world than anything else. Put them back into the stresses of battle and nine out of ten times their symptoms disappear.”
“And that tenth time?” asked Harvath. “How do I deal with that?”
“You can’t. Only that soldier can. It comes down to facing his or her personal demons, and that’s a battle that requires more courage than anything you might ever face on the other end of a gun.”
It was an answer that Harvath not only understood, but could appreciate.
The only problem was that the possibility that one of the people on his team could very well freeze up when they were needed most scared the hell out of him.
Twenty-Eight
Tell me what’s going on in New York,” said the DHS secretary, Alan Driehaus, as he walked in to Gary Lawlor’s office unannounced and pulled the door shut behind him.
Lawlor had never cared much for the man in either his U.S. Attorney role or the position he now occupied at DHS. As diplomatic as he was, it was becoming harder and harder for Gary to hide his dislike. “Apparently there’s been some sort of terrorist attack in New York. It’s all over the news.”
“Don’t give me your condescending bullshit. What’s your involvement in this?”
“Me? I swore off terrorism years ago. It was a prerequisite for getting this job.”
The continual lack of respect he was shown throughout the department galled Driehaus to no end. “Shortly before all of this happened, one of your people grabbed a Muslim immigrant whom the Canadians had granted political asylum to and dragged him back across our border. True or false?”
“Who the hell told you that?” replied Lawlor, stunned that somebody was leaking classified information, and to of all people the pinhead secretary of the DHS.
“I’ve got my sources.”
“Well they’re wrong.”
“Like hell they are,” replied Driehaus. “None of you people get it, do you? We can’t hold ourselves out as a country that cherishes the rule of law only when it suits our purposes. We play right into our enemies’ hands when we do that. It’s hypocritical.”
“What would you have us do, Alan? Wait for the bad guys to make their move and then throw them in jail?”
“No. I have no qualms with preemption, but there have to be limits. We have to obey the rules.”
“Really? Tell that to the families of the people who died today and see if they give a rat’s ass about limits or the rule of law. PC or not, we’re smack-dab in the middle of a crusade, and the only way Western civilization is going to survive is if we meet radical Islam’s force with overwhelming force of our own.”
“But Western civilization isn’t about brute force. It’s about the power of ideas—one of the greatest of which is the rule of law and that as all men are created equal, they are equally bound under those laws.”
“Wake up, Alan. The sword is the midwife of civilization and everything that has happened since civilization’s birth has happened at the tip of that sword. I don’t care how many Starbucks are in my neighborhood, how many digital pictures my secretary can cram onto a single memory card, or how realistic the imagery is on my nephew’s new PlayStation, we still live in a world where might makes right. The moment we lose sight of that rule and start shrinking from our duties as a nation, is when we’ll all need to begin trading in our minivans and baseball mitts for prayer rugs and Arabic lessons.”
Even as a product of the 1960s, Driehaus had never seen the nation so ideologically divided. Why did so many have such a hard time seeing the damage that the current policies were doing to America? “So we just toss the rule of law out the window?”
“No,” replied Lawlor. “What I’m suggesting is that we stop believing that Western principles apply to our enemies. We can’t win the war on terror playing by a set of rules our opponents refuse to recognize.”
“And that’s where you come in? You and your collection of former soldiers and ex-intelligence agents hidden away in the bowels of DHS operating from budgets I’ve never even heard about?”
“Careful, Alan. You’re wiping your feet on the threshold of a very dangerous house. One, I should point out, into which you haven’t been invited.”
“I don’t care. I want to know right now what people you have in New York. These are people who are operating under the umbrella of this agency, of which I am in charge.”
Lawlor’s patience was quickly coming to an end. “Don’t let your philosophical judgments cloud your ability to execute your job. You know how this works. My division may be in DHS, but it’s not of DHS.”
“So all animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others, is that it?”
“I prefer to see it as we all make our own unique contributions to the welfare of our nation.”
“That’s an interesting way to characterize blackmail, kidnapping, and assassination.”
Lawlor sat with his best poker face waiting for the secretary to actually make a point or get the hell out of his office.
“What happened today is a real wake-up call for our country, Gary. The war on terror is not working. The pace at which attacks are being plotted against the United States is beyond exhausting. We can’t win with this strategy. Don’t you see? Just because we perceive ourselves as having the right to do something doesn’t mean we should do it. We can either lead by our example or be reviled for it.”
Lawlor turned to a stack of paperwork on his desk and barely masking the disgust in his voice said, “I suggest you get back to the war room. I guarantee you’ll be much more appreciated there.”
Driehaus was pretty sure he’d gotten the information he wanted from the OIIA chief and opened the door.
As he was about to step into the hallway, Lawlor said, “By the way, Mr. Secretary?”
“Yes,” said Driehaus as he turned around.
“Just for the record, it wasn’t Western civilization that made all men equal. It was Samuel Colt.”
Twenty-Nine
THE WHITE HOUSE
President Rutledge traded drafts for his television appearance with his press secretary all the way back to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. The only break he took was when Carolyn Leonard brought him an update on his daughter. Knowing that Amanda’s friends had been killed—as well as presumably all but two of her protective detail—and that they were trying to get her to a hospital for treatment of her unspecified injuries, made it very difficult for Jack Rutledge to concentrate on the task at hand. Carolyn promised to brief him every twenty minutes, whether she had any new information or not.
With confirmation that Amanda’s friends had not survived the attack on the Williamsburg Bridge, Rutledge contacted their parents from Air Force One and delivered the heartbreaking news personally.
When the president arrived at the White House, he read through the final draft of his speech and nodded his head. No one had heard him utter a word since entering the building. The man’s face was resolute, and it was clearly evident that he was both enraged and distraught beyond communication.
Waving off the makeup artist, Rutledge stared into the camera and waited to be given the signal that he was on the air. When it came, he began speaking.
“Good afternoon. Today, our great nation has come under attack. With the despicable terrorist acts of September eleventh, 2001, still fresh in our minds, the forces of evil lashed out at our very way of life by once again targeting New York City.
“Americans in the thousands have died as a result of these deliberate and cowardly acts. The victims come from all walks of life. They were businessmen and women, doctors, teachers, students, children, moms, dads, sisters, and brothers—all of whom were preparing to celebrate the nation’s birthday. Many more were injured, including my own daughter, Amanda, who along with two of her friends, now deceased, were making their way into New York when the attacks occurred. As a father, as president of this great nation, and as an American I feel the pain of the people of New York.
“The images of burning bridges and smoldering tunnels have filled us all with shock, sadness, and a determined, unrelenting anger.
“The goal of these attacks was to extinguish the greatest beacon of hope and freedom in the world, but America’s light will not be dimmed. We shall emerge from this trial and we shall do so with our beacon of hope shining brighter than ever before.
“While the terrorists may be able to shake the foundations of bridges and tunnels, they cannot shake the foundations of our great country.
�
�We have once again been forced to stare into the face of evil, but I know that as Americans we will not let that evil divide us. I urge everyone to remain calm. The full resources of the American government are being brought to bear to identify and locate those responsible for committing these despicable acts. As we have said continually, those who harbor terrorists are just as guilty as the terrorists themselves and we shall make no distinction between the two.
“I want to thank the members of Congress who stand with me in so strongly condemning these attacks. And on behalf of the American people, I also want to thank the many world leaders who have already contacted me to express their condolences and to offer assistance. Most of all, I want to thank the rescue workers, police, fire, and EMS, as well as the millions of Americans across the country who are lining up to give blood and are already putting in place the charitable mechanisms that will be so needed in the days, weeks, and months ahead to help heal one of the greatest cities on this earth.
“To the people of New York I say you have suffered an unfathomable loss, but you are not alone. Each and every American stands shoulder-to-shoulder with you right now and you are in both our thoughts as well as our prayers. Our hearts are heavy with sadness at your loss, a loss borne by all freedom- and peace-loving people across America and around the world.”
Geoff Mitchell watched from just off camera as the president prepared to wrap it up. The remarks were pitch-perfect, and Rutledge had delivered them flawlessly. After showing a quick excerpt from the Declaration of Independence about America pledging its sacred honor to help the victims and their families, the cameras would fade to the presidential seal and that would be it.
Though the circumstances were horrible, the press secretary had always hoped he’d be given a chance to write a speech that would be remembered for eternity. He felt pretty confident this was going to be one of those speeches. What he didn’t know was that why it would be so well remembered was still yet to come.
