“What is that mission?”
“I can’t tell you that, until you are sworn in,” Nighthorse said.
“You mean I’m going to have to just accept this mission at face value? I can’t even evaluate whether or not I will accept it?”
“You can decline being sworn in,” Nighthorse said. “But once you are sworn in, you are committed to the mission.”
Art laughed nervously. “This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of. All right, swear me in.”
“Hold up your right hand,” Giles said.
Art did as directed, repeating the oath after Giles.
“I, Arthur Kirby Jensen, having been appointed an officer in the army of the United States, as indicated above in the grade of brigadier general, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservations or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter, so help me God.”
“Congratulations, General,” Giles said, shaking Art’s hand.
“Congratulations, General,” Nighthorse said, saluting him.
“Damn,” Art said, returning Nighthorse’s salute. “You don’t know how much I have been wanting the privilege of saluting.”
“Don’t get too attached to it, General,” Giles said. “In your new position, you won’t be doing that much of it. Especially, since nobody is to know that you are even in the army.”
“So you said earlier,” Art said. “So I guess now it’s time to tell me just what my mission is.”
“You are to continue to be regarded as a discredited former army officer,” Giles said. “Continue to look for work and, from time to time, we may release some information that may help, or hurt, you in finding employment, depending upon the situation.
“Your mission—”
“Should I accept it,” Art teased, mimicking the old Mission: Impossible TV series lead-in.
Giles laughed. “Too late for that. You have already accepted it. You are to be chief of the DOD Special Function Unit.”
“Special Function Unit? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
“No, you couldn’t have. It doesn’t exist, and won’t exist until you activate it. And just to give you an idea of how secret this unit is, only seven men know of its existence. You, your father, Colonel Nighthorse, me, the secretary of defense, the secretary of Homeland Security, and the president of the United States.”
“Black Ops,” Art said.
“Black Ops,” Giles repeated.
“What about the other people in Black Ops? Surely, they know about me.”
Nighthorse laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I am the other people in SFU,” he said.
“You?”
“Colonel Nighthorse will continue with his assignment at JAG, but that will just be a cover. In fact, he will be your go-to person when you need specific military help.”
“I’m a brigadier general, but I need the authority of a lieutenant colonel to get something done?”
Giles shook his head. “You will have the authority of the president of the United States,” he said. “But you are in charge of the operations. You will know what you need and when you need it.”
“I’m your gopher, General,” Nighthorse said. “I will do nothing without your specific request, and I will do anything you request of me, so long as it is humanly possible.”
“Within reason, you can have any asset you want, any amount of money you need, to get the job done,” Giles said. “As I said, Colonel Nighthorse is your military contact. Your contact with Homeland Security will be your father.”
“I thought you were retired,” Art said to his father.
“Like you, I’ve unretired,” Cal said.
“All right, it sounds . . . interesting,” Art said, setting the word apart from the rest of the sentence.
“From time to time you may be contacted by others who will bring you information, but they are cellular. They won’t know who you are, or what your mission is,” Nighthorse explained.
“And, speaking of mission, I assume you have some immediate job for me, otherwise you would not have been able to arrange all this,” Art said.
“We do,” Giles said. “I’m sure you are aware of the attacks against the bridges in Memphis and St. Louis.”
Art nodded. “Who isn’t aware? It has dominated the news for the last month. The total killed is, what, seven hundred?”
“Seven hundred and twelve known dead, sixty-three still unaccounted for,” Giles said. “And beyond that, the disruption to our transportation grid has been tremendous. Even with temporary spans in place, we are still losing millions of dollars in production every day.”
“You want me to find out who did it?”
“Oh, we know who did it,” Giles said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We know who did it,” Giles repeated.
“Who?”
“It was Prince Azeer Lal Qambar, a member of the royal family of the Kingdom of Qambari Arabia.”
“Qambari Arabia? I thought they were friendly to the United States.”
“Ostensibly they are allies of the United States, and vital to us because of their oil. But, as I’m sure you know, Qambari Arabia is anything but friendly,” Giles said. “They are ruled by a dictatorial family who controls their people by allowing, and even planting, hatred and distrust for America, all the time making public pronouncements of friendship with America.”
“Where does Prince Azeer fit in to all this?”
“Azeer is a member of a Qambari Arabia Trade Council in the U.S. This gives him access to all levels of U.S. government and business, and, using his position as cover, he is secretly organizing and funding sleeper cells of terrorists, all across the country, including the suicide bombers who destroyed the bridges. The problem is, our government knows this . . . but the situation is too sensitive for us to react.”
“So, what am I to do?”
“React,” Giles said simply.
“Ha,” Art said. “You don’t want me to do that. My reaction would be to kill the son of a bitch.”
Giles looked pointedly at Art, but said nothing.
“Wait a minute,” Art said. “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”
“Whatever you do is outside the chain of command, or even the awareness, of the United States government,” Giles replied. “You will never receive written orders, nor will you ever receive specific verbal orders. From time to time Colonel Nighthorse will make you aware of the problems.”
“And my job will be to make those problems go away,” Art said. It was a statement, not a question.
Giles looked at his watch. “Well, I must be going,” he said, pointedly avoiding a response to Art’s comment.
“I must be going as well,” Colonel Nighthorse said.
“Colonel, how will I contact you?” Art said.
Nighthorse gave Art a card. “This has my cell phone number,” he said. “Call me only on that number, never through the office. And I’d feel better about it if you learn the number, rather than carry it. If anything happens to you . . . and to be honest, General, with some of the things you are going to get into, that is a distinct possibility . . . I would not want someone to find that you were carrying my phone number.”
“I’ll remember it,” Art said.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
After Nighthorse and the secretary of the army left, only Art and his father remained.
“Well, what do you think?” Cal asked.
“I appreciate everything you have done for me, Pop,” Art said.
“Don’t be silly, I didn’t do anything.”
“Right,” Art said sarcastically. “Homeland Security just happened to get involved.”
“M
aybe I talked to a few people, but if Nighthorse hadn’t come through for you, you’d still be on the outside, looking in.”
Art laughed. “Hell, I am on the outside looking in. Here I am a general, and I can’t even enjoy any of the perks.”
“Maybe so, but look at the good side,” Cal said.
“What good side?”
“Look how much money you are going to save on uniforms,” Cal said.
Both men laughed.
“What do you say we go have dinner somewhere?” Cal asked.
Art started to say that he had eaten his dinner, then recalled that he had left half a bowl of canned chili uneaten.
“All right,” he said. “I assume that I am back on the government payroll, and this time as an O-7?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then I’ll buy.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
From the journal of Smoke Jensen
Once I escaped from jail, I knew better than to go back home to Sugarloaf, or to even try to get in touch with Sally. I figured the marshal would have people there waiting for me. The only way I could avoid going back to jail, and keeping a date with the hangman, was by finding the real bank robbers and murderers.
One of the things I had learned from my days living in the mountains with the man called Preacher was how to track. Now, most anyone can track a fresh trail, but Preacher could follow a trail that was a month old. In fact, some folks used to tease that he could track a fish through water, or a bird through the sky.
I never was as good as Preacher, but I could follow a cold trail better than most, and after I returned to where I had encountered the bank robbers, I managed to pick up their trail.
It was difficult, the trail being nearly two weeks old now, but I was helped by the fact that they were wanting to stay out of sight. Because of that, they avoided the main roads, and that made their trail stand out. The funny thing is, if they had stayed on the main roads I never would have found them because their tracks would have been covered over, or so mixed in with the other travelers’ that I wouldn’t be able to tell which was which.
But cutting a trail across fresh country the way they did led me just as straight as if they had left me a map. Things were going well until they separated. I flipped a coin, then chose to follow the trail that was heading south. That led me straight to the little town of Dorena.
I had never been in Dorena before, but I had been in dozens of towns just like it so there was a familiarity as I rode down the street, checking out the leather goods store, the mercantile, a gun shop, a feed store, an apothecary, and the saloon.
Stopping in front of the saloon, I reached down into the bottom of my saddlebag, moved a bit of leather, and found what I was looking for. I kept one hundred dollars there as an emergency fund, keeping it in a way that a casual examination of the pouch wouldn’t find it.
Fortunately it had escaped the marshal’s examination when I was arrested, and my horse and saddle were taken.
Armed with the money, which was in five twenty-dollar gold pieces, I went into the saloon, had a beer and a plate of beans, then joined a card game that was in progress.
Now you may think it strange for me to play a game of cards under the circumstances, the circumstances being that I was a man on the run. But I was also a man on the hunt, and I had learned, long ago, that the best way to get information was in casual conversation, rather than by the direct questioning of people. When you started questioning people, the natural thing for them to do was to clam up.
Interestingly, one of the other men who was playing cards that day was the deputy sheriff, a man named Clayton. With him being there, I figured that if a telegraph message of my escape had reached the sheriff’s office here, I would learn right away. But, as Deputy Clayton made no move toward me, nor gave any indication of being suspicious of me, I knew that, for now, I was safe to continue my search.
To the casual observer it might appear that I was so relaxed as to be off-guard. But that wasn’t the case, as my eyes were constantly flicking about, monitoring the room, tone and tint, for any danger. And, though I was engaged in convivial conversation with the others at the table, I was listening in on snatches of dozens of other conversations.
“I believe it is your bet,” Deputy Clayton said to me.
I looked at the pot, then down at his hand. I was showing one jack and two sixes. My down-card was another jack. I had hoped to fill a full house with my last card, but pulled a three instead.
“Well?” Clayton asked.
I could see why Clayton was anxious. The deputy had three queens showing.
“I fold,” I said, closing my cards.
Two of the other players folded, and two stayed, but the three queens won the pot.
“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,” Clayton said, chuckling as he raked in his winnings.
“Clayton, you have been uncommonly lucky tonight,” Doc McGuire said good-naturedly.
“I’ll say I have,” Clayton agreed. “I’ve won near a month’s pay, just sittin’ right here at this table.”
“We’d better watch out, gentlemen, or Clayton will give up the deputy sheriffin’ business and go into gambling, full-time,” Doc said.
“Ho, wouldn’t I do that in a minute if I wasn’t married?” Clayton replied. “Another hand, boys?”
“Not for me,” I said, pushing away from the table and standing up. “I appreciate the game, gentlemen, but the cards haven’t been that kind to me tonight. I think I’ll just have a couple of drinks, then turn in.”
After a few drinks, I walked next door to the hotel, checked in, then went upstairs to the room. I lit the lantern and walked over to the window to adjust it to catch the night breeze. That was when I saw a sudden flash of light in the hayloft over the livery across the street. I knew I was seeing a muzzle flash even before I heard the gun report, and I was already pulling away from the window at the precise instant a bullet crashed through the glass of the window and slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
I cursed myself for the foolish way I had exposed myself at the window. I knew better, I had just let my guard down. I reached up to extinguish the lantern.
“What was that?” someone shouted from down on the street.
“Gunshots. Sounded like they came from the—”
That was as far as the disembodied voice got before another shot crashed through the window.
“Get off the street!”
I heard a voice, loud and authoritative, floating up from below. “Everyone, get inside!”
I recognized the voice. It belonged to Deputy Clayton, the man I had been playing cards with but a few minutes earlier. On my hands and knees so as not to present a target, I crept up to the open window.
“Clayton, stay away! ” I shouted down. I raised myself up just far enough to look through the window and saw Clayton heading for the livery stable with his pistol in his hand. “Clayton, no! Get back!”
My warning was too late. A third volley was fired from the livery hayloft, and Clayton fell facedown in the street.
With pistol in my hand, I climbed out of the window, scrambled to the edge of the porch, and dropped down onto the street. Running to Clayton’s still form, I bent down to check on him. Clayton had been hit hard, and through the open wound in his chest, I could hear the gurgling sound of his lungs sucking air and filling with blood.
“Damn it, Clayton, I told you to get down,” I scolded softly.
“It was my job,” Clayton replied in a pained voice.
At that moment, another rifle shot was fired from the livery. The bullet hit the ground close by, then ricocheted away with a loud whine. I fired back, shooting once into the dark maw of the hayloft. Then, leaving Clayton, I ran to the water trough nearest the livery, and dived behind it as the man in the livery fired again. I heard the bullet hit the trough with a loud popping sound. After that, I could hear the water bubbling through the bullet hole in the water trough, even as I got u
p and ran toward the door of the livery. I shot two more times to keep the shooter back. When I reached the big, open, double doors of the livery, I ran on through so that I was inside.
Once inside, I moved quietly through the barn itself, looking up at the hayloft just overhead. Suddenly I felt little pieces of hay-straw falling on me and I stopped, because I realized that someone had to be right over me. That’s when I heard it, a quiet shuffling of feet. I fired twice, straight up, but was rewarded only with a shower of more bits and pieces of hay-straw.
“That’s six shots. You’re out of bullets, you son of a bitch,” a calm voice said. I looked over to my left to see a man standing openly, on the edge of the loft. It was one of the bank robbers, the pockmarked, drooping-eyed son of a bitch who had set me up.
“ How the hell did you get out of jail?” he asked. “I figured old Turnball would have you hanged by now. I was some surprised when I seen you come into the saloon tonight.”
“Where are the other two?” I asked.
The man laughed. “You got some sand, mister,” he said. “Worryin’ about where the other two are, when I’m fixin’ to shoot you dead.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re in a town called Bertrand, not that it’ll do you any good,” the outlaw said as he raised his rifle to his shoulder to take aim.
I fired.
“What?” the outlaw gasped in shock, dropping his rifle and clutching the wound in his stomach.
“You should have stayed in school,” I said flatly.
“Maybe you would have learned to count.” I watched as the man fell from the loft, flipping over so as to land on his back in the dirt below.
I didn’t bother to go back to my hotel room. Instead, I saddled my horse and rode out of town that very night. If the other two were in Bertrand, I planned to get there before they left.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chateau Spud Bar, Alexandria, Virginia
The song “Stand by Your Man” was blaring in the background as Art took a seat at the end of the bar. The mirror behind the bar was encircled with a tube of blue neon. Several bottles on a glass shelf in front of the mirror doubled their impact with the reflection.
Black Ops #1 Page 16
