by Scott McEwen
Gil and Steelyard got quickly on their feet, snapping to attention. Gil had heard one or two tall tales about General Couture being somewhat Pattonesque, but the sight of his aide-de-camp’s non-government issue pistols gave him pause to believe the tales might not have been so tall after all.
Ignoring the wounded Crosswhite, General Couture trained his attention on Gil and Steelyard. He was over six feet in height and wore his graying hair cropped close to his head. He had merciless, piercing gray eyes and a wicked scar that ran up the left side of his face. Everyone in the theater knew the scar was the result of an RPG attack on his Humvee during the early days of the Second Iraq War, back when he was still just a major general with two stars.
“Shannon,” he said in a deep, contemplative voice. “I seem to remember hearing that name recently. Been to Iran lately?”
Gil remained at attention. “My apologies, sir, but I’m not at liberty either to confirm or deny such a thing.”
Couture grunted. To Steelyard he said, “Master Chief, how much of this mess was your doing?”
“All of it, sir. I accept full responsibility.”
Crosswhite sat back up in the bed. “General, with respect, sir, the master chief is a liar. The entire mission was my idea. I ordered him and his men to assist me in a mission to—”
Steelyard cleared his throat, cutting him off. “Sir, I’m afraid that Captain Crosswhite doesn’t know what he’s saying at the moment . . . it’s the morphine, sir.”
“The hell I don’t!” Crosswhite said.
A faint light began to show behind the general’s eyes. “Should I take it, then, that when the time comes both of you two hardheads are willing to fall on your swords for the good of everyone else who participated in this misbegotten bank heist of yours?”
“Yes, sir!” both men said in unison.
“Excellent,” Couture said, somewhat dryly. “That makes my job a hell of a lot easier than I expected it was going to be.” He turned to Captain Metcalf. “Captain, it looks like we have a head from both Army and Navy to offer up to the president. I think that should probably cover it, don’t you?”
Metcalf stole the very briefest of glances with Steelyard. The two men shared a lot of history. “Yes, sir. I think that should probably cover it.”
“Very well, then,” Couture said. “As you were, gentlemen.” He paused before leaving the room to meet eyes with Gil. “Well done over there, Master Chief.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gil muttered, dropping his gaze.
The general’s aide pulled the door closed after them, and the three warriors sat in the gathering silence until Crosswhite finally sat back with a sigh. “Fuck ’em,” he said again, smoothing his blankets. “Now I’m definitely going to recommend Doc for the DSC.”
Gil leaned over to rest his head against the wall. “I got a better idea. Why don’t you do Doc a favor and leave him out of it?”
35
WASHINGTON, DC,
The White House
The President of the United States did not appear even remotely amused as he sat looking across his desk at Director Shroyer in the Oval Office. “Ultimately, George, both SAD and SOG are your responsibility, are they not?”
Shroyer felt his anus start to pucker. “Yes, Mr. President.”
The president nodded, looking across the room at a painting of George Washington, lost in thought. He was a graying man in his midfifties, very presidential looking with expressive blue eyes and a Florida tan. Having been a businessman during civilian life, he knew very little about the military and was therefore very dependent upon his advisors when it came to dealing with the Armed Forces community. “Well, okay,” he said finally. “Suppose you tell me what you’ve been able to find out . . . if anything.”
Shroyer felt his face flush, never having been so on the spot in his entire life. “Well, Mr. President, it appears that two elements of the Special Operations Group—specifically SEAL Team Six and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—”
“Wait a second, what about DEVGRU?”
Shroyer smiled somewhat lamely. “I’m sorry, sir. DEVGRU and SEAL Team Six are the same the thing. I’m sorry to confuse you.”
The president cast an annoyed glance at his chief military advisor, Tim Hagen, a bony little man who stood off to the side wearing wire-rimmed glasses. “Why am I only now hearing this?”
Inwardly, Hagen rolled his eyes, but outwardly he put on his most compassionate smile. “Mr. President, we went over this yesterday, but as I’ve mentioned, it takes time to get these military acronyms straight.”
“He’s right,” Shroyer said helpfully. “You can’t be expected to remember them all, Mr. President. That’s our job.”
The president settled into his chair, allowing himself to be mollified. “Go on.”
“Apparently,” Shroyer continued, “the enlisted men taking part in the mission had no idea the operation hadn’t been sanctioned. From what I understand, the plan was hatched by an Army captain and a Navy master chief, both of them working in unison to act on a piece of DNA intelligence that—we think—was passed on to them by a senior CID investigator in Kabul.”
“You think,” the president echoed.
“Yes, sir. I say that because the Army warrant officer who ran the DNA tests reports that she forwarded the results to her supervisor shortly before Operation Bank Heist took place. Her supervisor left Afghanistan the same day to return home to Iowa, where his wife is dying of cancer. He’s not answering the phone, and we haven’t yet had time to send anyone to the house.”
“What was significant about the DNA results?”
“The DNA of a Taliban fighter killed during the Sandra Brux abduction led straight to the village of Waigal in the Hindu Kush. Our most recent intelligence indicates that Sandra was being held there, but our SEALs arrived a number of hours after she had been moved. We now believe she’s being held in the town of Bazarak, which happens to be an HIK stronghold at the moment. We’re already tasking satellites to—”
The president held up his hand to stop him. “We’ll get back to Bazarak in a minute. What you’re telling me is that Operation Bank Heist came very close to making this office look like it didn’t know what the hell it was doing? Is that about right?”
Shroyer shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I suppose in a manner of speaking, Mr. President, but—”
“And I take it this business about Bazarak is recent intel coming from the Taliban prisoner they captured in Waigal?”
“Yes, sir. His name is Naeem Wardak. We don’t know much about his history yet, but he seems to have been a midlevel Taliban enforcer.” Shroyer paused briefly, preparing to kick what he hoped would be a game-saving field goal for his side. “The most significant fact about him is that he’s the man seen to be raping Sandra in the ransom video.”
The president sat back in his chair, exchanging startled glances with Hagen. This was the first either of them were hearing about the Taliban prisoner being Sandra’s rapist. Suddenly, here was a ray of sunlight in the middle of the thunderstorm. Already having the rapist in custody would go a long, long way toward making them all look pretty damned efficient if that god-cursed video showed up on the internet in the near future.
Even if the president was keeping these thoughts to himself, Shroyer could see the relief in his eyes. Thank God for that scatter-brained Pope! He had gotten the call from Pope on his way to the White House only half an hour before, just in time for this meeting with the president.
The president sat forward to rest his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers. “What’s being done about the Army captain and the Navy chief who planned the operation?”
“From what I understand,” Shroyer said carefully, “General Couture has spoken with them, and they’ve taken full responsibility. The captain was seriously wounded during the mission along with a few of the SEALs, but the SAD director, Robert Pope, informs me they’re all expected to make a full recovery.”
&nbs
p; “What’s your opinion of that guy?” the president asked suspiciously.
“Of Pope, sir?” Shroyer realized this was his golden opportunity to ask for Pope’s head on a lance. “Well, to be honest with you, Mr. President, the man frustrates the hell out of me . . . but I think that’s mostly because I don’t understand him.”
“I ask,” the president said, “because the Joint Chiefs aren’t happy with him. They want him out. They think he’s too independent.”
Shroyer had only seconds to make a decision: Save Pope or leave him to his fate? He wished that Webb were there to advise him, but he decided quickly that Webb would probably advise against cutting Pope loose at this time, and he knew that Webb was smarter than he was, so . . .
“In and of itself,” he replied, “it’s not really a bad thing that the Joint Chiefs don’t like him. When anyone inside the CIA thinks further outside of the box than they do, they always tend to get a little frustrated. I think Pope probably helps to strike a balance.”
“I can see why you might feel that way,” the president said thoughtfully. “So, getting back to the captain and the chief for a moment . . . exactly whose authority are they under: SAD’s or the Joint Chiefs’?”
Shroyer smiled, seeing the president’s gambit. “Technically, sir, they still belong to the military, but you’re the Commander in Chief. They can fall under any authority you decide to designate.”
“Very good,” the president said, satisfied that he’d found a stopgap solution to his immediate problem. He looked across at Tim Hagen. “Call Bob Pope over at the Special Activities Division. Tell him that in light of this new information about the Taliban prisoner, this office is inclined to leave the disciplinary actions concerning those two renegades in his court . . . for the time being. Be sure he understands, however, that this office reserves the option to reinvolve itself at any time . . . . should it become necessary to do so.”
“Yes, sir.” Hagen slipped out of the room.
Shroyer breathed a small sigh, satisfied that he had gained Pope a temporary reprieve, a suspended sentence that would hang over his head and those of his two renegade operatives until the Sandra Brux dilemma had been resolved to the president’s satisfaction—one way or another.
36
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Steelyard was still asleep in his quarters when he heard a knock at the door. He sat up in bed, glancing at the clock to see that it was only six o’clock in the morning. Expecting it to be the MPs coming to arrest him, he took his time about getting up and getting dressed before answering the door. If they wanted to kick it in, that was up to them. A couple of minutes later he opened the door to find Captain Metcalf standing on the steel staircase with a slightly disconcerted look.
“I can’t remember the last time anybody kept me waiting that fucking long to answer a goddamn door.”
Steelyard stepped back to let him inside. “That’s because everybody’s been kissing your ass for the last ten goddamn years.” He shut the door after his old friend and turned to shake his hand. “It was nice of them to send you instead of the MPs. How soon will I be stateside?”
Metcalf sat down in a government-issued folding chair near the window. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, motioning Steelyard into the other chair. “At least not yet. They’re playing politics back in DC. Believe it or not, Bob Pope’s in charge of your disciplinary action.”
Steelyard bridled. “Pope’s a fucking civilian. On top of that, he’s a fucking nut!”
Metcalf sat looking at him. “You’ve never even met the son of a bitch.”
“I don’t need to.”
Metcalf blew him off with a wave of his hand. “Your bitching isn’t going to change anything. This is the president’s way of keeping you and Crosswhite on ice until Sandra is recovered one way or another. If all goes well, you can expect the White House to take credit for Bank Heist.”
“Of course they’ll take credit for Bank Heist,” Steelyard remarked. “Hell, they’ll probably put the entire team on David Letterman. Expose the op the same way they did after the Bin Laden hit. Turn us all into fucking celebrities.”
Metcalf cocked an eyebrow. “It wasn’t quite that bad, Hal. What’ll be more likely to happen in that event is that you and Crosswhite will be swept under the rug—which is exactly what you’d better hope for, because if Sandra ends up dead, you’re both gonna get the cross.”
“That’s already been decided?”
Metcalf rocked back in the chair, letting out a sigh. “That’s right. You’ve been sleeping. You haven’t heard yet.”
Steelyard cocked an eyebrow. “Heard what?”
“Sandra’s rape is all over the fucking internet. It’s fast becoming a political nightmare for the president.”
Steelyard shook his head. “Well, we knew it would.”
“To make matters worse,” Metcalf went on, “she’s not in the hands of the Taliban anymore. The HIK has her now, and they aren’t making any stupid ransom demands. They know her value as a propaganda tool, and it looks like that’s how they plan to use her. America can’t protect its women. Look how weak they are. All that shit.”
Steelyard stood and went to the refrigerator. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? We can’t protect her.” He took a bottle of milk from the fridge and sat back down. “Is she still in Bazarak?”
“We think so, but it’s an HIK stronghold. We can’t move against the village without them killing her.”
“Have they made that specific threat yet?”
“They don’t need to,” Metcalf said. “It’s common sense. This is the Iran hostage crisis in miniature. The HIK’s going to make Bazarak famous over the coming months. They’ve been moving men into the Panjshir Valley since we stopped patrolling it six months ago. Nothing’s been done about it because President Karzai doesn’t want trouble with the Hezb-e Islami factions. They’re too strong in the parliament now.”
Steelyard drank from the bottle of milk and offered it to Metcalf, who leaned forward to take it. “Those kill-crazy bastards will never give that woman back alive,” he said. “They’ll use her to humiliate the country for as long as they can, and when it looks like we’re finally going to attack, they’ll dump her headless body on some fucking street in Kabul.”
Metcalf wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Regardless, this is going to be handled at the diplomatic level. It’s been decided.”
“Does the president understand these sons of bitches don’t know the first fucking thing about diplomacy? That they aren’t looking for a fucking bargain? All they want is chaos.”
“What the president understands is that he’s only eleven months away from the election,” Metcalf said. “He also understands that a crisis like this could easily extend as many months if it’s not handled properly.”
“Well, he’d better count on it extending at least that long unless we go in there and bring that woman out. They’ll use her to make him look like a chump—just like the Iranians did to Carter. And then, a week before the election, they’ll dump her body in the street.”
“Hal, we don’t know that.”
“No, not yet,” Steelyard conceded. “But you can bet your last dollar the HIK’s going to be thinking long and hard about who they want for president between now and November.”
“Well, whatever we think we know doesn’t matter,” Metcalf said. “I just came over here to get you dialed in on what Pope expects from you.”
“Which is?”
Metcalf couldn’t help the grin that came to his face. “He said for me to tell you and Crosswhite to try and stay out of trouble.”
“That’s it?” Steelyard asked, suddenly wary. “ ‘Try and stay out of trouble’?”
“Word has it that the Joint Chiefs want him out of SOG,” Metcalf went on. “My conversation with General Couture was too short for me to get any details—and there was no way for me to ask without creating suspicion—but I think they susp
ect that Pope knew about Bank Heist and kept it to himself.”
“Did he?”
Metcalf smiled crookedly. “How the hell would I know? I just work here.”
37
AFGHANISTAN,
Village of Bazarak
Aasif Kohistani stepped into Sandra’s new quarters at the edge of Bazarak Village and took a seat in the corner to watch as the village doctor treated her leg wound, which was now badly infected. Gangrene had set in, and she was in grave danger of losing the leg entirely. Badira sat in a chair beside the doctor with a clay bowl of maggots, which the doctor was placing into the wound one by one with a pair of elongated forceps.
“Why the maggots?” Kohistani asked, feeling repulsed by the sight of the insect larvae squirming about in the gangrenous flesh.
The doctor’s name was Khan. He was not much older than Badira, and he resented the HIK presence in the village, though he knew there was nothing to be done about it. “This is the only way for me to remove the rotted tissue,” he said. “They will eat the dead flesh, and leave the living flesh alone. She is fortunate that you arrived here when you did.”
“So she will survive?”
“I believe she has a chance,” Khan said, “but you should send for stronger antibiotics. All we have here is simple penicillin, which may not be strong enough. This infection is bad. She has a fever and there is the serious danger of her catching pneumonia. If that happens, she will probably die because she is too weak to fight that kind of infection.”
“I will try and send for better medicines,” Kohistani said, “but you should plan on making do with what you have. Soon this village will come under a great deal of American attention, and that may make it difficult to get supplies.”
The doctor became even more unsettled, and some of his contempt began to show. “You’re saying they already know she is here?”
