Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Struecker

  Another several moments passed before Mitch said, “His gut.”

  “What?” Clearly the president’s chief of staff was nonplussed. “You mean to tell me that the hotel isn’t secure?”

  “With all due respect, Helen, I said nothing of the kind. I would stake my life on our preparations. . . . Actually, I’ve staked your life on our preparations. . . .”

  “But?”

  “Let the man speak, Brownie.”

  “Mr. President, as you know I’ve seen my share of military missions. Sometimes all a sailor—soldier in this case—has to go on is his gut. I’ve seen the lives of men saved on gut-level responses. If the Sergeant Major says something is up, I say we take it seriously.”

  The president ran a hand over his chin. “I can’t go changing the schedule at this late date, Mitch.”

  “Mr. President, I wouldn’t change a thing that we have done. We have done everything possible. As far as I’m concerned, our security is perfect.” He paused to glance at Zinsser. “I’m just saying that we shouldn’t dismiss Moyer’s intuition.”

  “So we continue on as planned.”

  “Yes, sir, unless something comes up.”

  “Why did you look at . . .” The president shifted his gaze to Zinsser.

  “Jerry Zinsser, sir,” Zinsser said.

  “Why did you look at Zinsser a moment ago?”

  Agent Baker hesitated again. Zinsser didn’t. “I mentioned that no security plan is perfect.”

  “Really. You don’t trust our Secret Service.”

  Moyer tensed and hoped Zinsser was thinking clearly.

  “The skills of the Secret Service are legendary, sir. It’s just that all complex systems have weak links.”

  “Weak links? Like what?”

  Zinsser scooted to the edge of his chair. “The weak links are often overlooked. They tend to be mundane or obvious. For example, not long ago our country—the whole world really—was in a recession. Someone dubbed it Depression 2.0.”

  “I remember.”

  “Of course, sir. As you know, many businesses went belly-up . . . bankrupt. Hundreds of them. What do you suppose they did with all their paperwork?”

  “Destroyed . . . no, they couldn’t destroy it all. Many documents would have to be saved.”

  “Yes, sir. Many of them rented storage sheds and filled them to the rafters. Depending on the business . . . let’s say a mortgage broker . . . those documents would contain sensitive material like social security numbers. If I wanted to steal a few thousand identities, I would pay off or threaten one of the workers at the storage company. Most of those people don’t make much money, so a few thousand would go a long way in making someone look the other way.”

  “We’ve done background checks on everyone,” Helen said.

  “Really? How many employees are in the building right now?”

  “Seventy-five,” Mitchell said. “Not one has a police record.”

  “Do any of them have a sick child or parent? Do any of them owe bookie money? Are any of them financially stretched?”

  “Not that we can tell,” Mitchell said.

  “That’s my point,” Zinsser said. “Any one of them could be bought off.”

  “I doubt that,” Helen said.

  “I don’t. Our history is filled with people who committed traitorous acts. You can start with Benedict Arnold and move forward. Arnold was a war hero and trusted by everyone. Name an intelligence agency or branch of government and I can name someone who sold out.”

  “How does that affect what we’re doing here?”

  “El-Sayyed is a man of great wealth and influence.” Zinsser pushed back in his seat. “We know that he’s been able to influence women into turning themselves into walking bombs.”

  “Terrorists have used religious zealotry to recruit martyrs for centuries,” the president said.

  Zinsser looked at Moyer like a child who is afraid they have gone too far. “Finish it,” Moyer said.

  “Sir, the female bombers are not religious zealots. They could be anybody.”

  Huffington blinked a few times, then looked to Mitchell. “So now what?”

  “We’re ready, sir, but I’ll alert the other security teams and the local police to be on the alert for anyone, especially women, who seem out of place.”

  The president stood and everyone in the room joined him. “I hope your gut is wrong, Moyer.”

  “Me too, Mr. President.”

  “Mitch, get these gentlemen some rooms and chow. They look tired and hungry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Forgive me for being rude, gentlemen, but I’m expecting company in five minutes.”

  Mitchell opened the door, and Moyer led his men from the room.

  CHAPTER 24

  ERMANNO GRECO BANKED HIS F2 Eurofighter Typhoon north and took in the scenery of the Bay of Naples: the cerulean water, the soft colors of the buildings lining the coast, the white pleasure craft moored at private docks. Activity at the marina was almost nonexistent. Ermanno could see several large military vehicles blocking access to the service roads and walkways. Two police boats patrolled close to shore; two Italian navy MK V-C Interceptor patrol boats cruised deeper water in lazy circles. Lookouts stood on deck, binoculars to their eyes. In the distance a cargo ship pressed slowly through the water. A cruise ship, which Ermanno guessed was headed to Crete, plowed through the ocean leaving a long, white prop wash in its wake.

  Ermanno had only been in the air fifteen minutes after relieving another pilot in another F2 Typhoon. He had several hours of slow patrol around Naples. At least he was flying and even a boring day flying was better than most days doing anything else. What he most wanted to do was push the thrusters to the stops, pull back on the control, and race skyward, but his mission didn’t include flights of daring. He was to patrol and be ready for a problem.

  The first part was ironic. Although he flew at just a few thousand feet above sea level, he knew radar would see any approaching aircraft before he did. He was in the air to stop any madman from flying a plane into the building. It had been done before. Several other military attack planes were armed and ready to take to the air on a moment’s notice.

  Leveling the aircraft, he began the inbound leg of his circuit. As he did, he took note of one other ocean craft: a large, sleek, white yacht making its way south. It was too distant for him to see with accuracy, but he was certain he saw a group of people on deck. Some looked like women. Ermanno decided he’d take a closer look on the next pass.

  J. J. WAS TOO wired to sleep. He had only slept a few hours over the last two days, but instead of feeling exhaustion he was amped. He had just met the president. Wait until Tess heard about that. “The hand you now hold, sweetheart, once shook the hand of the most powerful man on the planet.”

  “It’s sweaty.”

  The response took place only in J. J.’s mind, but he was certain it was the kind of quip Tess would make. It was one of the things he loved about her: she could give as well as she could take. He was used to exchanging barbs with the guys. It was one of the ways they dealt with the work they had to do.

  Agent Mitchell Baker had taken the men to the first-floor restaurant for a hearty breakfast. Rich ate two meals, for which he endured a fusillade of kidding.

  After breakfast Moyer dismissed the men to the rooms Mitchell had arranged. Only Pete and Jose took up the offer. De Luca excused himself and had his cell phone to his ear before he had exited the restaurant, no doubt reporting in with his superiors.

  J. J. had tried to snag a few winks, but his mind would not shut down. He decided the strong Italian coffee he had consumed with breakfast had been unwise. Television was no good since he didn’t speak Italian, and the only English channel he could find was the BBC showing reruns of Dr. Who.

  Leaving his second-floor room, J. J. returned to the restaurant. The sight of most of his team in one of the booths didn’t surprise him.

  “Hey, look who came back,” Ri
ch said. “Sandman refused to visit?”

  “He left a note saying he wore himself out trying to put you under.”

  Rich waved a dismissive hand. “The guy’s a wimp. Besides, sleep is a crutch.”

  Moyer nodded. “You got that right.”

  J. J. took a seat and ordered a latte, then addressed Zinsser who sat at the end of the booth. “That was quite a lecture you gave the president.”

  “It wasn’t a lecture, kid. I was just trying to correct a misconception. You know as well as I do that overconfidence kills.”

  “Absolutely,” Rich said. “Still, you did lay it on a little thick.”

  “My social filter was damaged in Somalia.”

  “Yeah,” Rich said, “I guess we leave a little of ourselves behind with each mission.”

  “So what now, Boss?” J. J. asked.

  “Nothing. We’re out of our element here. This operation is in the hands of others. I’ve reported in and have been told to stay put. Since the meetings officially began this morning, the Secret Service has cut off all inbound and outbound traffic. No one walks in; no one walks out without an escort, and Agent Baker said he can’t spare the men.”

  “He’s a cautious one, that Baker,” Rich said.

  “He’s paid to be paranoid.” Moyer spoke with admiration.

  “Okay, if I’m out of line here, just say so,” J. J. said. “But what happened back at the minibus? I never could figure out what you were saying, Zinsser.”

  Moyer didn’t hesitate. “You’re out of line.”

  “Understood, Boss.” J. J. noticed Zinsser direct his gaze into his coffee cup.

  “I’m not used to staying out of the way,” Moyer said, pushing his coffee away. “Part of me hopes I’m wrong about El-Sayyed’s plan; part of me wants to be right.”

  “This is a huge target,” Rich said. “We all agreed that this must be what he has in mind—well, all but our Italian friend.”

  “He makes a good argument, but I think he’s wrong. Sure, blowing up historic Christian sites in Rome would get the world’s attention, but it doesn’t fit with the other bombings. Several of those sites were considered for the G-20 meeting. It’s as if El-Sayyed was herding the world leaders here.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Rich yawned. “Well, I’m heading to my room to take care of all this coffee I’ve been drinking and to catch a little shut-eye. Someone will let me know before we bug out?”

  “Maybe,” J. J. said.

  “Cute. Don’t you have a Bible study to lead or something?”

  “My brother is the chaplain, Shaq, not me. I’m just the plain, ordinary kind of Christian.” J. J. moved so Rich could slip from the booth.

  “Plain is right. I don’t know what that beautiful fiancée sees in you.”

  “She loves my wit and high intelligence.”

  “Hang on, Rich. I’ll walk with you.”

  J. J. watched the team leaders cross the restaurant and disappear into the lobby, then glanced at Zinsser, who was still gazing into his cup. “I’m sorry, man. I crossed the line with that question.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

  Zinsser looked up. To J. J., he looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a month. “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure Moyer will spill the beans after the mission.”

  “Sounds like you’re going somewhere.”

  “Maybe. Who knows?”

  J. J. studied the man. He had seen stressed out soldiers before and, at the moment, Zinsser could be their poster boy. “Okay, fair warning. I’m going to cross the line again so get prepared to tell me to shut up and mind my own business.”

  Zinsser gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’m always ready to do that.”

  “You look like a man who’s carrying more than his fair share of guilt.”

  “Is this where you whip out a Bible and give me an unwanted sermon?”

  “Bible? Oh, you’re talking about Rich’s dig about me being a Christian. Well, I’m guilty as charged.”

  “And proud of it.”

  J. J. shook his head. “I’m not ashamed, but proud is the wrong word. As far as a Bible goes, I have one—in my vest. I’ll talk with you all day about my faith and the Bible, but you can relax. I don’t do sermons and I don’t force things down anyone’s throat. I’ll leave you alone if you want.”

  “Nah, I’m just . . . I’m just being me. Sorry.” He paused. “What’s a Christian like you doing in an Army like this? I’ve known other Christian soldiers but I never understood them. I mean, aren’t they like polar opposites?”

  “It sure seems like it at times.”

  “Not only are you Army, but you’re spec ops—and the chief weapons and demo guy.”

  “I’ve asked that question of myself a million times, but it’s clear I’m right where God wants me to be.”

  “Killing people?”

  “The only people I kill are trying to kill me or the innocent . . .” J. J. broke eye contact and his heart seemed to labor.

  “What? I know that look. I see it in the mirror every day. You regret something.”

  J. J. nodded. “Yeah, in a way.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Sure it is, Zinsser. You need to know who’s fighting by your side.”

  “If you insist. I’ve got the time.”

  J. J. sipped his coffee. “We were doing a surveillance op in Afghanistan—I guess it was about a year and a half ago. We did a HALO drop and speed marched up one of the mountains and tried to get a bead on an insurgent camp. We were dug in when one of those stupid things happened. We had a team member. His name was Caraway.”

  “The guy I replaced.”

  “Yeah, he died on an op in Venezuela.”

  “A good soldier?”

  “Yeah, but a lousy person. He hated me. Mostly because of my faith.”

  “And you seem so lovable.” Apparently Zinsser was relaxing some.

  “Somehow, Caraway’s rucksack developed a tear. Probably from the rough landing on the parachute jump. Anyway, he liked to pack trail mix on missions. It was his superstition. A few half-starved goats got wind of the trail mix and gave away our position. We tried to lay low but two men appeared a short distance away. Both carried AK-47s, but you know how it is in Afghanistan: every adult male carries an automatic weapon. They pointed our way. We assumed they might be a Taliban patrol.”

  “So you popped them.”

  “Yeah. Several of us fired, but I’m sure I got my rounds off first.”

  “Let me guess, you killed a couple of shepherds.”

  J. J. answered with a nod. “I doubt they had anything to do with the Taliban camp.”

  “Did they give you away?”

  J. J. shrugged. “In a way. The shock of being shot made one of the men yank the trigger of his weapon. The noise brought bad guys running up the hill by the dozens.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “We called for close-air support. It was a danger-close mission—”

  Zinsser straightened. “You let a bunch of jet jockeys drop bombs on your position?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. We were dug in and the Taliban had a hundred or so men coming our way.”

  “You know I gotta ask—”

  “Two times ICM, five meters.”

  “They dropped bombs over your position set to explode at fifteen feet above ground level. Man, that must have hurt.”

  “It was hard to overlook.”

  “And that did the job?”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  Zinsser laughed. It was the first time J. J. had seen the man do so. J. J. joined him for a moment. He had relived those moments a thousand times, and this was the first time he felt he released some of the pent-up tension with laughter.

  “Another guess: Those shepherds haunt you, don’t they?”

  J. J. saw a moment of concern in Zinsser’s eyes. “Yeah, some. Every once in awhile it bothers me a lot.�
�

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “Prayer mostly.”

  “You did what you had to do. No one is going to blame you for that.”

  J. J. pursed his lips. “It isn’t what other people think that bothers me. It’s that I killed, or at the very least helped kill, two men whose only crime was trying to find wayward goats.”

  “And if you hadn’t, they might have ratted you out to Taliban fighters.”

  “I know that.”

  Zinsser looked to a distant horizon only he could see. “Does the prayer help?”

  “A lot. I won’t say I don’t have my moments, but when I do, I have someone to talk it over with.”

  “God?”

  “Yes. Does that sound strange to you?”

  Zinsser looked back at his now empty coffee cup. “I don’t believe in God. I stopped believing in Him when I lost my whole team.”

  J. J. lowered his voice. “Didn’t someone else make it? I thought two of you made it out alive.”

  “Brian . . . Brian Taylor. I guess it depends how you define alive.”

  J. J. leaned over the table. “You guys were close?”

  “You know how it is. I don’t get close to people, but Brian was always good to me. I visit him when I can. He’s a good man—a better man.”

  Thoughts tumbled in J. J.’s mind. Soldiers were a different breed of men, especially career warriors. They were complex beings that hid more than they revealed. There existed an unwritten code: never pry, never invade, and never go further than a man allowed.

  “This is a crazy business we got ourselves into. Still, I can’t see myself selling insurance.” J. J. grinned.

  “Just keep an M4 on your desk. People will buy whatever you’re selling.” Zinsser paused. “The prayer really works?”

  “It always has. I grew up in the church, but that’s not why I’m a believer. I’m a believer because I’ve seen the difference Jesus makes in a man’s life.”

  “Here comes the sermon.”

  “No worries, man. I preached one sermon in my life and the congregation was very kind—then asked me not to do it again.”

  “That bad.”

  “It was pretty bad. I think it’s best if I live my sermon and share with those who want to listen.”