Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Would you like something to drink?” Giles asked. “Coffee? Coke? Sprite? Root beer?”

  “A Sprite would be nice,” Nighthorse said.

  Giles opened the small refrigerator and pulled out a Sprite and a Coke. Handing the Sprite to Nighthorse, he popped the tab on his Coke and sat down.

  “When I was in Vietnam,” Giles said, “I was drinking as many as twenty of these a day.” He laughed. “I got something called NSU, nonspecific urethraitis. Some of my friends laughed at me, and I didn’t find out until later that it was an old army gimmick to say that officers never got the clap . . . though they did sometimes get NSU.”

  Nighthorse chuckled.

  “Colonel, I don’t know if I’ve told you, but you did one hell of a job in prosecuting that very difficult case.”

  “Thank you,” Nighthorse said. “So why don’t I feel good about it?”

  “I know what you mean. Despite the outcome of the case, I believe Art Jensen to be a good man. And, right now, if the terrorists are going to keep hitting us in places like St. Louis and Memphis, we need someone like him, someone who will take a little initiative.”

  “No, Mr. Secretary,” Nighthorse said. “We don’t need someone like Jensen, we need Jensen.”

  Nighthorse said the word with such authority that Giles squinted at him.

  “Colonel Nighthorse, do you have something specific in mind?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary, I do.”

  Nashville, Tennessee, Christ Holiness Church of Nashville

  Jay Peerless Bixby had started his evangelical career as a revival preacher, taking a tent from city to city to preach the gospel. As he did so the crowds who came to hear him grew larger and larger, his fame and fortune grew until finally he built a huge church in downtown Nashville.

  Although he started out as a Southern Baptist, he now considered himself an ecumenical “full gospel” preacher, and as such, he had no particular affiliation, other than, in Bixby’s own words, “an affiliation with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  Christ Holiness was now the largest church in Nashville, and one of the largest in the country. And today, he was holding a meeting with his board of deacons.

  “My brothers and sisters in Christ,” he began, “I have had an inspiration. You might call it a divine inspiration, because I am absolutely certain this is what God wants me to do.

  “You may remember that it was President Richard Nixon who went to China the first time, opening up relations between our two countries. JFK didn’t go. LBJ didn’t go. Neither one of them could go, and why not?” Bixby held up his finger. “They couldn’t go, because people considered them soft on Communism.

  “Nixon had no such baggage. Everyone knew exactly where he stood. Therefore he could take the bold step of recognizing China.

  “Now, my friends, God has given me the sight to see myself in the same position. Everyone knows exactly where I stand in my love of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I am steadfast in my belief that only through him shall we find salvation.

  “But the Jews and the Muslims worship the same God who gave us his only begotten Son. So, this is what I propose to do. I propose to have a service, where all of our brothers and sisters are invited, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, other Protestants, a true coming together in the worship of God. I think God wants me to do this. I think Jesus wants me to do this. And I think, if we do this, we might just lay the first stone in building a bridge between our religions that will bring peace to the world.”

  United States Disciplinary Barracks,

  Fort Leavenworth, Kansas

  “Jensen.”

  Art stirred in his sleep.

  “Jensen, wake up.”

  Art opened his eyes, then, through the window of his door, saw Cooley standing just outside his cell. Cooley was one of the guards.

  “Wake up,” Cooley said.

  “I’m awake,” Art said groggily. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Oh-four-hundred.”

  Art was confused. Wake-up call was 0530. “Why so early?”

  “Colonel Garth wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now,” Cooley said.

  “All right.”

  “Better bring your book.”

  “What?”

  Cooley pointed to the journal. “You set some store by that notebook you are always reading, don’t you?”

  Art looked at Smoke’s journal. He had fallen asleep reading it last night.

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  “Well then, you better bring it along if you want it. The colonel said you won’t be coming back.”

  “Am I being transferred to another prison?”

  Cooley chuckled and shook his head. “Now, Jensen, you bein’ a colonel once, you should know better’n to ask me a question like that. That’s way above my pay grade, and you know it. I just know that I was told to tell you that you won’t be coming back.”

  “Yes, well, thanks for the heads-up,” Art said.

  “Listen,” Cooley said as he led Art by the dark cells toward the corridor gate. “To tell the truth, I seen on TV what you done in Iraq . . . and if it had been up to me, I’d’a given you a medal.”

  Art chuckled sardonically. “Too bad you weren’t on my court-martial board,” he said.

  They reached the closed gate at the end of the corridor, and Cooley turned toward the camera. “Hold both hands in front of you,” he said to Art.

  Art knew the drill. When a guard was escorting a prisoner through one of the electronic doors, the prisoner was required to show both hands, to prove that he wasn’t forcing the guard to open the gate.

  Art stuck both hands out in front of him.

  “This is Cooley. Open three,” the guard said into his radio.

  There was a buzz, a click, and then the barred gate slid open and Art and Cooley stepped through. Cooley escorted Art to the main office. The night duty officer was sitting at a desk, watching TV. Glancing toward the screen, Art saw a fiercely burning bridge. The Arch in the background identified the bridge as being in St. Louis.

  “When did that happen?” Art asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” the duty officer replied. “They hit that one, and two in Memphis. Took all three of them out.”

  “They? You mean terrorists?”

  “I don’t mean the Boy Scouts,” the duty officer replied.

  “Damn,” Art said.

  “Colonel Garth says you are to go on in.”

  Cooley started toward the door.

  “Not you, Cooley,” the duty officer said. “Just Jensen.”

  “That’s not policy,” Cooley said.

  “It’s what Colonel Garth wants,” the duty officer said. “And as far as I’m concerned, that makes it policy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cooley replied.

  When Jensen stepped into the office of the chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel Garth was standing near the window, looking out onto the well-lighted yard. Unlike the Castle, there were no towers looking down over the yard of the new facility, and there were no imposing stone walls. Instead, it was ringed by two fourteen-foot, chain-link fences, topped with razor wire. The fences were equipped with a detection system. If someone tried to climb or cut through the fence to get out, cameras would automatically begin recording that sector and guards, who were on roving patrol, would respond immediately.

  Art stood quietly for a long moment. He could see his own reflection in the window, so he knew that Garth knew he was here. He knew, also, that Garth was waiting for him to give some indication of his presence, perhaps as innocuous as a discreet clearing of the throat.

  Art remained silent.

  “You are quite the controlled person, aren’t you?” Garth said without turning around.

  “I try to be,” Art said.

  Garth turned then. “You know that I could add three years to your sentence for what you did in the yard yesterday.”

  “
I was attacked,” Art answered.

  “Don’t worry. I’m overlooking it,” Garth said. “You might say it’s because of the West Point brotherhood.”

  “Thanks.”

  Garth sighed. “You might say that, but you would be wrong. The truth is, you are no longer my problem.”

  Art wanted to ask what Garth was talking about, but he said nothing.

  “Aren’t you the least curious?” Garth asked in exasperation.

  “Yes, I’m curious,” Art said. “But it is not my place to ask. I assume you will tell me when you are ready to tell me.”

  Garth picked up an envelope and handed it to Art. “Here,” he said. “You are free to go.”

  This time Art couldn’t keep the question in. He wasn’t sure what Garth meant.

  “Free to go? Free to go where?”

  “Anywhere you want to go,” Garth said. “The president of the United States has commuted your sentence. You are no longer a prisoner of the United States Disciplinary Barracks.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alexandria, Virginia, one month later

  Art had always been frugal with his army pay. He wasn’t married, and had little to spend it on except for food and quarters. As a result he had a comfortable bank account, supplemented by a good portfolio, so he wasn’t in danger of becoming destitute any time soon.

  But he did need to find some type of employment, not only to keep from having to dip too deeply into his savings, but also for his own sanity. Art was not the sort of man who could just sit around and do nothing.

  He had been approached by a company called “Military Consultants Inc.” about working for them. They were a mercenary group, headquartered in the United States, but doing business all over the world.

  The pay was good, excellent, in fact, more than he had been making while he was on active duty. And the job appealed to him, consisting of training the military of small countries. What made him decide against it was the fact that Military Consultants Inc. made no distinction about whom they would do business with.

  “We don’t get into politics,” Art was told. “We will take any job, anywhere, as long as we are paid. Believe me, it is much cleaner that way.” Art didn’t believe it was cleaner that way, so he declined the offer.

  He had also been offered a job as a private detective, as chief of security for a large company, and even as a pitch person for the largest automobile sales company on the East Coast. None of those jobs appealed to him, so he was still waiting to see what would come along.

  Opening a can of chili, Art prepared a bowl, then took it and a grilled cheese sandwich out onto the patio. There, he ate his supper and drank a beer as he looked back across the river toward Washington, D.C. As he looked at the nightlights of the city, one seemed to detach itself from the others, and begin climbing into the sky. He realized then that it was an airliner, bound for some distant destination.

  His phone rang.

  “Jensen,” he said, answering the phone.

  “Art, meet me at the Watergate,” his father said.

  “When?”

  “Now. As soon as you can get there.”

  “What room?”

  “There will be a message for you at the desk,” Cal said mysteriously. “You remember the name of the kid who went skiing with us when you were twelve? The one who broke his arm?”

  “Yes, it was—”

  “Don’t say the name now. When you reach the hotel, there will be a letter at the desk. Ask for it under that name.”

  “Dad, what’s all this about?”

  “You’ll find out when you get here,” Cal said, hanging up then to prevent any further questioning from his son.

  The Watergate Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  Opened in 1967, the Watergate is best known for the role it played in the downfall of President Richard Nixon. It was built on the defunct Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, and the last lock, which diverted water from the Potomac River into the Tidal Basin at flood stage, was known as the “water gate.” It was from this lock that the hotel got its name.

  Art crossed the wide, very plush lobby, then stepped up to the desk.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  “I believe you have a message for Darrel Wright,” Art said.

  “Let me check, sir.”

  The clerk checked behind the desk, then produced an envelope, which he handed to Art. Thanking him, Art opened the envelope. The only thing written on the paper inside the envelope was the room number, so Art went to the elevator, then proceeded directly to the room.

  Art’s father answered the knock, then stepped back to let his son in.

  “An executive suite,” Art said, looking around. “I’m impressed.”

  “You are about to be more impressed,” Cal replied.

  “What’s going on, Pop?”

  “It’s not my place to say,” Cal said. “You want something to drink? There’s beer in the refrigerator.”

  Art was getting his beer when there was another knock at the door. He heard his father open it, then invite the visitor inside. Closing the door to the refrigerator, he turned to see who it was, and was surprised to see Lieutenant Colonel Temple Houston Nighthorse.

  “Come in, Colonel,” Cal invited.

  Nighthorse, who was carrying a briefcase, came into the room, then looked over at Art. “Good evening,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?” Art asked.

  “Easy, Son,” Cal said. “You’ll see everything in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m not all that sure I want to see it,” Art said.

  “Aren’t you going to offer our guest a beer?” Cal asked.

  “He’s not my guest, he’s yours,” Art said.

  “He was just doing his job,” Cal said.

  Art paused for a moment, then smiled at Nighthorse and extended his hand. “Hell, Colonel, I don’t mind you doing your job,” he said. “I just wish you weren’t so damn good at it.”

  “Believe me,” Nighthorse replied, shaking Art’s hand. “It wasn’t something I wanted to do.”

  Art returned to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out a beer. “Have one,” he offered, handing the beer to Nighthorse.

  “Thanks,” Nighthorse said.

  There was another knock on the door and Art looked toward it in surprise. “What the hell, Dad, is there anyone who isn’t coming here tonight?”

  “This is the last one, I promise,” Cal said. When Cal opened the door, Art gasped in surprise at the sight of the tall black man who was standing there.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Cal said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m a little late,” Secretary of the Army Giles said. “I had to testify before a congressional hearing this afternoon, and it ran long.”

  “No problem. We’re having a beer. Will you join us?”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Giles said. Looking toward Art, he smiled. “Does he know yet?”

  “No, sir,” Cal replied. “I figured that was for you to tell him.”

  “Know what?” Art asked. “Will somebody please tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on?”

  “I guess there’s no sense in holding it back any longer,” Cal said. “You asked why Colonel Nighthorse was here. He was very instrumental in getting the president to commute your sentence.”

  “Really? Well, I thank you for that, Colonel,” Art said.

  “It wasn’t only commuted,” Nighthorse said. “You have been given a full pardon.”

  “And reinstated in the army,” Cal said.

  Art could scarcely believe the good news. A wide smile spread across his face as he looked at Giles. “Is this true, Mr. Secretary? I have been reinstated? At my rank?”

  Giles shook his head. “Uh, no, not at your old rank, I’m afraid.”

  “So, what am I? A major? A captain? I don’t care, I’ll work hard and—”

  “You are a brigadier general,” Giles said, interrupting Art.


  Art gasped, and felt his head spinning. “What did you say?”

  “Read the orders, Colonel Nighthorse,” Giles said. “Then I’ll swear him in.”

  Nighthorse opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder. Extracting a paper from the folder, he began to read.

  “Special Orders 102005, by authority of Congress, Arthur Kirby Jensen, DOB 22 November 1972, HOR Alexandria, VA, is reinstated to active duty in the U.S. Army with unbroken continuity of service, with the rank of brigadier general. DOR from date of swearing in. Signed, Jordan T. Giles, Secretary of the Army.”

  “Is all this real?” Art asked, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing.

  “Oh, it’s all real, all right,” Giles said. “Assuming you agree to the terms.”

  “The terms?” Art asked, a look of confusion crossing his face. “What terms?”

  “As far as the world is concerned, you are still a discredited civilian. Your reinstatement to the army is top secret.”

  “I don’t understand. Why is it top secret?”

  “From the moment the trial was over, Colonel Nighthorse has been pursuing this,” Giles said. He chuckled. “He made himself such a pest in the offices of the secretary of defense and secretary of homeland security that they started coming down on me.”

  “I thank you for backing me up, Mr. Secretary,” Nighthorse said.

  “Yes, well, I figured if you were that dedicated, I could take a little heat for you.”

  “So, I not only owe my freedom to you, I owe my reinstatement as well,” Art said. “It could be that I had you all wrong, Colonel.”

  “Could be,” Nighthorse said. “But maybe you had better hear the rest of it before you get carried away with your praise.”

  “Yes, maybe I had better,” Art said. “You can begin by explaining why my reinstatement is being kept a secret.”

  “It is not only your reinstatement and your rank that are secret, your mission is secret. Top secret, in fact.”