by Scott McEwen
Pope shrugged. “Unimportant.”
“Unimportant?!” Shroyer flared.
Pope sat scratching the back of his hand, speaking in an almost bored tone of voice. “The analysts here in Langley couldn’t see what was happening in that warehouse. Tom and Jerry were sent in with orders to grab Sandra, eliminate her Taliban captors, and secure the money. Strictly speaking, they performed perfectly. They did, indeed, secure a kidnap victim, and every afghani dollar has since been accounted for by the Central Bank. They also broke up a major kidnapping ring that’s been terrorizing the city.” He glanced between the director and the DDO. “This is one of those times when a lab experiment yields an absolutely logical yet entirely unanticipated result.”
Webb cleared his throat, wanting to draw Shroyer’s ire away from Pope. “I wanted to get the details from Bob before I came to brief you. I apologize for not being quicker. I had no idea the president was going to be all over this so early in the morning. I thought we had an hour or so to work with. I accept complete responsibility for the lag.”
Shroyer understood Webb’s reasoning, but shit ran downhill, and the president had made it all too clear that he was not pleased by the lack of forthcoming information. “So that’s it, then? No ransom, no pilot—no nothing.”
Pope kept his face devoid of expression. “Jackal was the only known contact. All we can do is wait for another.”
Shroyer jammed his hands into his pockets. “Which, sure as hell, will come in the form of another unholy rape video—this time all over Al Jazeera. The crazy bastards will probably double their demand as well. I’m going to advise the president that we should go public now. Can either of you think of a reason we should not do that?”
Webb looked at Pope.
Pope looked back at the two of them, disliking the need for political considerations. “Well, keep in mind . . . if we go public, the HIK has no reason to stay quiet, either. As things stand now, they still have the option of negotiating a financial resolution without the rest of the Muslim world knowing they’re out to make a buck. But if we take the story public—turn it into a moral pissing contest—we leave them no choice but to forfeit profit in favor of propaganda. My recommendation is that we allow the situation to develop further. Allow them to make the next move. The ball is squarely in their court anyhow, and we risk making a mistake by attempting to preempt their next move. It’s important we not forget Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.”
Shroyer cut a glance at Webb, who stared back, a faint smile crossing his face.
“Which is?” Shroyer asked blandly.
“Simply stated,” Pope replied, “we can never know anything for certain. For us to anticipate the HIK’s next move could put Sandra in even more danger. The chances are good to excellent they’re every bit as unsure of what to do next as we are. Let’s not force their hand.”
“You’re saying it’s the HIK now?” Shroyer said. “A second ago it was the Taliban. Exactly who the hell are we dealing with, Bob?”
Pope smiled. “It can get confusing. The entire history of Afghanistan reads the same way. Present intelligence indicates that the HIK has struck some sort of tentative alliance with the Taliban. What I believe is happening—more or less—is they’re using the Taliban to do their flunky work.”
Shroyer lowered his head in resignation, taking the other chair in front of Webb’s desk. “Well, let’s move on, then—since you’re here, Bob. I’d like for you to explain what the hell happened with Operation Tiger Claw. As you know, the president gave clearance for a black operation inside of Iran. He did not, however, give his blessing for the abduction of an Iranian national—the potential political ramifications of which I’m sure need no explanation.”
23
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
With the bullet wounds to his shoulder, back, and buttocks sutured, all of the appropriate injections administered and pills swallowed, Gil was finally cleared by the base surgeon to attend mission debrief.
Master Chief Steelyard came into the exam room grinning and tossed him a new pair of ACU trousers. “You ready to get the other half of your ass chewed?”
Gil chuckled as he got to his feet.
“What the hell were you thinking bringing that woman back here? Christ, didn’t I teach you any better?”
Gil stepped carefully into the trousers and sat back down on the edge of the bed with just his left buttock. “Grab my boots, Chief?”
Steelyard took the boots from the chair and set them on the floor at Gil’s feet.
“My orders were to kill her,” Gil said, gingerly pulling on the right boot. “I couldn’t see much of her at first, so I shot her through the door of the truck. I admit I was shocked when I walked up on her. Shit, she was pregnant as a pelican . . . layin’ there with both arms wrapped around her belly, blood all over her face.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t ready for it—not at all. Could you have shot a pregnant woman point-blank?”
Steelyard frowned. “If she was a threat to the United States, yes—but it’s not our job to make that determination in the field. You know that. That’s what the intel people are for. Hell, if we all went into battle second-guessing the analysts, SOG would fall apart in a year. You’re not special, Gil. And Lerher wants to barbecue your ass over this. He wants you busted down.”
Gil pulled on the other boot. “I’m not worried about Lerher. It’s Captain Metcalf I’m worried about—he picked me for the op. And I’m not worried about being busted down, either. I’m worried about being grounded and rotated stateside.”
Steelyard was unsympathetic. “You’ll probably get both. Regardless, you have to take your lumps in whatever form they’re administered. You’re the one who exceeded the mission parameters.”
Gil looked up from lacing his boots. “I wasn’t told she was pregnant, Chief.”
Steelyard started to speak but paused. “Are you saying Lerher knew?”
“After he bragged up and down about how they’ve been listening to Al-Nazari’s phone calls—what do you think the prick knew? The guy withheld pertinent information about a target that took me by surprise inside the kill zone. He knowingly sent me in there at a disadvantage.”
“Okay,” Steelyard conceded. “Maybe he did, but that doesn’t mean you rewrite foreign policy out there in the field so you can make a personal point. Jesus, Gilligan, you abducted an Iranian national! You know how that could play internationally. Not to mention you brought a living witness to an assassination back with you.”
“So let Lerher shoot her if he’s got the balls,” Gil said, getting pissed. “We’ll bury her here on the fuckin’ base with nobody the wiser. Hell, I’ll dig the fuckin’ hole for the prick!”
“It doesn’t work that way, Gil, and you know it.”
Gil got to his feet. “So how’s it work, Chief? Tell me! It’s okay to blow a pregnant woman away in the middle of fucking nowhere when nobody’s lookin’, but back here by the light of day it’s against our moral code? Shit! You don’t get to have it both ways. Pick one!”
“This is what we do,” Steelyard rejoined. “Sometimes the job requires us to get our hands dirty. If you can’t hack that, then I suggest you find another line of work, cowboy!”
Gil knew he’d made a mistake, but he knew equally there was no other way he could have played it. He would have sooner died than execute the Sherkat woman under those circumstances. It was a shit-packed submarine sandwich at both ends, and he’d been forced to take a bite. Only he took that bite from the middle this time, and now everybody was pissed.
“Point taken.” He shrugged into his ACU and zipped it up. “Do they have photos of the target area yet?”
Steelyard drew a breath, forcing himself to decompress. “Yeah. So far, no Iranian forces have moved into the area. It would have been the perfect op with perfect execution if not for your lack of judgment. Head Shed’s impressed with your body count and overall success. They’re going to confirm all the KIAs to your official t
ally . . . for whatever that’s worth to you.”
Gil shrugged it off. “I’m not looking to win any contests. If the other shooter had proofed his scope against the sun, I’d be dead.”
Steelyard wiped his nose and turned for the door. “No accounting for luck in combat. Now let’s get you over to debrief before they send the MPs looking for us.”
As they walked across the air base, Gil noticed a lot of activity inside the hangar on the far side of the tarmac. “What the hell’s going on over there?”
Steelyard glanced briefly in that direction and continued walking. “Bank Heist is on for zero hundred hours. From what we hear, the ransom drop for Sandra was a goat fuck. But we’ve got a solid lead from NCIS that says she might be in Waigal, so we’re moving against the village at first light. Crosswhite’s in command.”
“Waigal?” The hair on Gil’s neck stood up. “That’s deep in Indian country.”
“Maybe so,” Steelyard said, “but that won’t be your problem. You’re sitting this one out.”
“It’s sittin’ that hurts, Chief. I can still run, jump, and swim as well as ever.”
Steelyard paused to light up his Cohiba. “Your ass has nothing to do with it. You’ve got heat on you right now, and this mission doesn’t need the extra attention . . . besides, I need to hold somebody in reserve who knows the parameters in case of a goat fuck in Waigal Valley. Hell, we might both end up busted down before this tour is over.”
GIL ENTERED THE same room where he had received mission overview for Operation Tiger Claw, finding Agent Lerher and Captain Metcalf seated at a table waiting for him.
Lerher looked visibly wound up. “Have a seat, Master Chief.”
Gil saluted Captain Metcalf and took a seat on the edge of the folding metal chair with his arm over the back of it, leaning slightly to the left to keep his balance.
“Do you need a cushion?” Lerher asked, trying to sound patient.
Gil looked at him. “Nope.”
Lerher stole a glance at Metcalf, realizing by Gil’s response that he wasn’t about to apologize for bringing the Sherkat woman back with him. She was still in surgery having her clavicle repaired, but the report that Lerher had received on her condition minutes before entering the building had been favorable, and there didn’t seem to be any immediate threat to the pregnancy.
He reached out to switch on the small video camera resting on a tripod near the edge of the table.
“Okay,” he said, fishing a number of high-resolution photos from a file. The photos were no more than an hour old. “We’ll start at the beginning. I need you to indicate on these photos exactly where you landed, where you stashed your jump gear, et cetera. As you know, Master Chief, it’s important that you provide as much detail as possible.”
“I thought you wanted me to start at the beginning,” Gil said, glancing at the camera.
Lerher looked up from the photos. “Did something occur aboard the plane or during your descent that we need to know about?”
“I don’t consider that the beginning either,” Gil replied, his gaze set. From his demeanor, no one would have guessed that his commanding officer was seated only a few feet away.
Lerher sat back. “Okay. What do you consider to be the beginning?”
“The last time we were in this very room,” Gil said. “When you withheld pertinent information from me about one of the people I was ordered to assassinate.”
Lerher stiffened at the word assassinate, which was not generally used in this formal setting. He could see Gil was attempting to take control of the debrief by going immediately on the offensive. “Master Chief, nothing pertinent was withheld. You were given everything you needed to carry out the mission. Now, getting back to—”
“Staying on point—” Gil interrupted, his tone peremptory, “you sent me into Iran to assassinate a pregnant woman without informing me of her condition. It is your responsibility to do everything within your power to make sure that nothing appears in my scope that is not supposed to be there, nothing that could cause me to hesitate before squeezing the trigger or to question my purpose for being in country.”
Lerher drew a breath, preparing to retort.
“Continuing!” Gil went on. “The unforeseeable is my responsibility, but you willfully withheld pertinent information, for reasons as to which I can only guess. Never mind trying to deny what you knew right now. Evidence as to what you did or did not know will be provided at my court-martial—which I will request rather than willingly accept any sort of demotion or disciplinary action. Have I made myself clear on this point, Agent Lerher? As you’ve asked me to provide you with as much detail on camera as possible, I am attempting to do precisely that.”
Lerher straightened. “No one is seeking disciplinary action at this—”
“That’s not what I hear.” Gil’s military bearing was firmly set. “At this time I am requesting representation from the Judge Advocate General’s office.” He turned his attention to Captain Metcalf. “Sir, under the Uniform Code of Military Justice I have the right to representation during any questioning that may lead to criminal prosecution. Given the parameters of the mission in question and the nature of my orders, which I carried out to the letter, I make that formal request at this time.”
Captain Metcalf signaled for Lerher to turn off the camera, and Lerher wasted no time in doing so.
Metcalf laced his fingers on the tabletop. “Is that really how you want this to go, Gil?”
“In all honesty, sir?”
“Well, I don’t want you lying to me, son.”
“If I’m going down, sir, it’s my intention to try and take this lying son of a bitch down with me. I may fail in the attempt, sir, but at least he’ll be finished in SOG, and that just might save some other SEAL’s life down the line . . . sir.”
Lerher bristled, but he held his tongue, knowing that Metcalf’s authority trumped his own in this matter. What he did not want was a JAG officer present during debrief, and Metcalf was the only hope of preventing that now.
Metcalf rocked back and crossed his arms. “Would you take that approach if it was I who ordered you be kept in the dark concerning the Sherkat woman’s pregnancy?”
This took Gil completely by surprise. “Sir?”
“Would you still be requesting a JAG officer if you knew it was I who ordered you be kept in the dark?”
Lerher was hard-pressed to hide his satisfaction. More than that, he was shocked that Metcalf had come to his aid by accepting responsibility himself. Now the smartass Shannon was as good as gone.
Gil was briefly nonplussed. He felt betrayed from every angle, but he couldn’t bring himself to go on the offensive against his captain. “No, sir,” he heard himself say.
“Very well,” Metcalf said rocking forward again. “Mr. Lerher, replace that memory card and give it to me. We’ll start over.”
Over the next few hours, the debrief went smoothly. Gil described the mission down to the very last detail, and Lerher was as magnanimous as he could be, even offering Gil praise on two separate occasions. Nothing more was said about the Sherkat woman in terms of his exceeding the mission parameters, but Gil knew that topic was not important to the debrief. The analysis would come later, and the disciplinary action soon afterward.
Fuck it, he told himself. He would retire. Let them fight their own wars from now on. Marie would finally get her wish.
“Thank you, Master Chief,” Lerher said in conclusion. “That’ll be all for now.”
Gil got to his feet, saluted Captain Metcalf, then turned on his heel and left the room.
“Well, the question now,” Lerher said, gathering up his materials, “is what to do about the Sherkat woman.”
“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Metcalf remarked. “By the time she’s shared her inside information with us concerning the drug trade over there, I’m sure she’ll have proven herself a valuable asset. We might even manage to put her to work for our side.”
Lerh
er had long thought of this, but he wasn’t about to allow that to be used as pretext for Gil’s exceeding mission parameters. He couldn’t have word getting out that his operatives were flouting his hegemony. “That’s a possibility. How do you prefer we handle the disciplinary action against Master Chief Shannon? Would you like to review my recommendations before I send them up the chain?”
Metcalf made a thoughtful face, then shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be productive for you write up anything negative . . . particularly since I’ll be recommending him for a Bronze Star.”
Lerher darkened. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Captain.”
“That’s because you’re a spook,” Metcalf said, getting to his feet and straightening his desert ACU jacket. “Spooks don’t understand the military. You people are too busy exploiting it for your own professional gain. Master Chief Shannon exceeded his mission parameters because you made a very basic mistake. I’m not talking about the aspect of pertinent information—an argument which may or may not fly, depending on the review board. I’m talking about an altogether different argument, an argument which will fly, particularly after any testimony that I provide at a court-martial. You see, there’s an old rule in the American military that you’re apparently unaware of.”
Lerher sat staring up at him, his eyes half-lidded.
“A commanding officer is not to give an order that he knows will not be followed. If he gives such an order, and the order is not followed, the commanding officer is equally responsible. So my question to you, Agent Lerher, is this: Are you willing to accept equal responsibility for Master Chief Shannon’s failure to assassinate a pregnant woman? If not, I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut . . . otherwise I’ll make it my mission to run you out of SOG myself. Now, I’m happy to write you a recommendation before you go, but I’d like you out of my theater within the next twelve hours.”
24
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Gil arrived in the hangar as it was growing dark, feeling more pissed off than he had in years. Not only was he out of Bank Heist, but before the end of the week he’d probably be back at Hampton Roads, where he’d be stuck cooling his heels until the end of his enlistment, and all because some spook in a suit thought he was Michael Corleone. He found Crosswhite chatting it up with another SEAL, both of them partially geared up, M4s over their shoulders.
