Blue Warrior

by Mike Maden

  “Domestic or foreign? You’re perfectly positioned for both.”

  “China.”

  “Are you kidding? You of all people.” Fowler was referring to a sweetheart deal she helped broker for a Chinese shipping company to lease valuable warehouse space at the Port of Los Angeles last year despite the fact that two of its ships had been seized for smuggling illegal aliens into the country. The Department of Homeland Security had originally blocked the deal, but Fiero had rammed it through with help from across the aisle. Her husband’s offshore business partners were grateful, and showed it. California news media remained characteristically uninterested in these kinds of unpleasant affairs, as far as Fiero was concerned. It was partly due to the fact that she always brought home the bacon. But Fowler suspected there were other reasons, too, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they were.

  “Who better to raise the warning flag? I’ve championed trade and commerce with China from the beginning. I’ve headed up three trade junkets to the mainland in the last five years. I’m the most pro-China senator on the Hill, so if I sound the alarm, people will listen.”

  “How will Anthony feel about that?” Fiero’s husband did a lot of business with the Chinese.

  “He’ll be fine with it. So will the Chinese. They understand the concept of optics. They probably invented it.”

  “So what’s the issue with China? Yellow Peril and all of that?”

  “Don’t be racist. I was just in a briefing two days ago. China is all over Africa now. All we need to do is provide the public a color-coded map showing African nations falling like dominoes to Chinese influence.”

  “Who cares about Africa?”

  “Seven of the ten fastest-growing economies of the world are on the African continent. And it has the most arable land in the world—over sixty percent. It’s eventually going to be the world’s food basket. And it’s also a treasure trove of rare minerals. We’re going to lose all of it to the Chinese, thanks to Greyhill. I can beat him over the head with that all day long.”

  “And what about your base? I can’t see the Sierra Club getting wet over your plan to exploit Africa’s natural resources.”

  “We can gin up the NAACP types, get them focused on China’s miserable human rights record on the continent. Get the Greens ranting about the Chinese record on environmental issues over there, and raise hell with the aid organizations—show China robbing food from starving African children to feed themselves. C’mon, Harry, this is all low-hanging fruit.” She held up her glass, signaling a refill.

  He took his time picking up the bottle and bringing it back over to her. Gave him time to think. Could she be right? She had amazing instincts. Or was there something else going on she wasn’t telling him about? He tipped in two more fingers for her, then two for himself.

  “Maybe” was all he would give her for now.

  “Do you know the real reason why Clinton beat Bush in ’92?”

  “You mean besides the dirty tricks, the media bias, and the Bush team’s tone-deaf incompetence?”

  “It was because Clinton had the balls to get in the race. Sam Nunn, George Mitchell, even Al Gore were better suited to make a run at it, but they were afraid they couldn’t take down a sitting president with high approval ratings, so they bailed. I hate that kind of weakness. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but nothing worth having ever is. Fortune is a woman, right? E con più audacia la comandano.” Fiero winked and took another sip.

  Fowler laughed. Who the hell else in this godforsaken town would have the audacity to quote Machiavelli anymore?

  What a woman.

  “Maybe we can even get him to invade,” Myers said.

  Fowler laughed. “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  Fowler shook his head. “You know Greyhill won’t invade. He’s riding high in the polls on the ‘no new boots on the ground’ stuff.”

  “Maybe he won’t invade. But if I call for military intervention, I’ll get the neocons on my side and he’ll look like a weak sister. Besides, they’re still blaming him for the budget freeze and the damage that’s been done to the DoD. He needs their support, and this would be an easy way to get it.”

  “And if he does invade?”

  She chuckled, then did her best Dana Carvey–does–George Bush impersonation: “Read my lips—no new boots on the ground.”

  Fowler smiled at her joke. Back in 1990, the congressional Democrats engineered a budget crisis, then demanded President George H. W. Bush raise taxes to solve it. He foolishly complied, and Bill Clinton’s campaign staff blasted the former war hero president for breaking his “no new taxes” pledge and essentially called him a liar for doing so. No matter that Clinton himself promised to not raise taxes on the middle class and then broke that vow as soon as he took office, it would always be the hapless moderate Republican who was remembered as losing a presidency for breaking his promise.

  “If I can goad Greyhill into a Mali invasion of any kind, we can beat him with it like a club and ride his broken promise all the way to the White House in 2016.”

  Fowler smiled with admiration. “It’s still a great play, even if he doesn’t bite. You have to prove that ‘women are from Mars, too,’ if you want to be the next commander in chief. If Greyhill doesn’t invade, he’ll just be proving your point that you’re stronger on defense than he is and that you take the Chinese and al-Qaeda threats more seriously than he does.”

  She nodded. The pieces fell into place. “Either way, I win. He invades, he breaks his promise and can’t be trusted. He doesn’t invade, he’s weak on defense and can’t be trusted to protect us.”

  Karem Air Force Base

  Niamey, Niger

  The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the lights were on inside the hangar.

  Judy admired the new paint job on the Aviocar’s tail. The sergeant who’d painted the Red Crescent logo beamed with pride. Red paint stained his long black fingers.

  “The Air Force almost didn’t let me enlist because I got busted for tagging when I was a kid. Now look at me.”

  “Looks fantastic, Sergeant. You did a great job. The logo is spot-on.”

  “You can find anything on the Internet. Just hope it works.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Pearce said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. He patted the young man on the back. “Go grab yourself some breakfast. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Thank you, sir. Will do. Don’t have to ask me twice when it comes to grub.” The airman snatched up the improvised stencil off the ground and tossed it into the trash can on his way out the door.

  “Where’ve you been?” Judy asked. “And what’s that you’re carrying?” She nodded at the duffel slung over one shoulder.

  “This? It’s that thing I brought with us from Moz. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you do. And by the way, I’ve been here the whole time.”

  “But—”

  “The whole time.” Pearce forced a smile.

  “Do I need to know why you’ve been here the whole time?”

  “In case you’re ever called to testify.”

  Judy shook her head. She can only imagine what Pearce had stolen, or whom he’d stolen it from.

  “Sunrise at 6:47 a.m.,” Judy said. “We need to be in the air well before then. You should grab a shower before we leave.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Judy sniffed, turned up her nose. “Hope you’ve got cologne in that bag, chief, or you’re walking.”

  —

  Showered but not shaved, Pearce sat in the copilot’s seat as usual, studying a map. They were at cruising altitude. The steady thrum of the engines filled the cabin, muted by the noise-canceling headsets he and Judy wore.

  “You want to talk about what happened back in Maputo?”

 
Pearce left three men on the floor of the Elephant Bar, broken and bleeding. He was lucky to get the two of them out of there alive with the title to the Aviocar without having to kill anyone. But Judy was the most nonviolent person he knew, and the incident had really upset her. She still hadn’t opened up to him about it. He was worried for her.

  “Soon as you tell me why you’ve turned into a drunken sad sack. And what’s with the long hair?”

  “I should’ve thanked you earlier.”

  “You should’ve done a lot of things earlier. What’s in the bag?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Booze?”

  He shot her a look. “No booze.”

  “First you stole from God, and now the federal government. You’re not exactly racking up good karma.”

  “I figure the government owes me.”

  “What did Myers send?” Judy was referring to the sealed aluminum case with the Red Crescent logos marked Équipement médical d’urgence Holliday delivered to the hangar just before they left.

  “Plasma, bandages, and antibiotics.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. We could’ve gotten that stuff from the base clinic.”

  “And thirty thousand euros. Guess Mikey ran up a helluva medical bill over there.”

  “Holliday said something about Myers’s security situation.”

  “She might have kicked a hornet’s nest when she reached out earlier on Mikey’s behalf. I think she’s just being careful.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Easy as pie. In and out. Mikey’s supposed to be waiting for us at 0700. Put him on, drop the case, and we’re out of there.”

  Their headsets both rang, three short beeps. Judy opened the line. “This is Hotel, over.” They agreed to use the NATO phonetic alphabet for security reasons, even though their line was quite secure.

  “Hotel, this is India, over. Is Papa with you? Over.” Ian stressed the second syllable correctly. His Scottish brogue rumbled on the headsets, like a drunken Ewan McGregor whispering in her ears.

  “I’m here. What’s shaking?”

  “The situation on the ground is changing rapidly. Looks like a convoy is heading your way. ETA 0720 at current speed.”

  “What are the particulars?”

  “I’ve got eyes on one APC, five trucks. I’d estimate fifty combatants, maybe less.”

  “How do you know this?” Judy asked. Pearce Systems didn’t have any drones in the area.

  “The International Space Station is passing overhead right now. They’ve an optical camera on board for geological surveys they aren’t using at the moment.” Ian chuckled. “Or think they aren’t using. Unfortunately, it’s passing out of range. I’ll lose my link in two minutes.”

  “Military?” Pearce asked.

  “Malian army. I can see the flag.”

  Judy shook her head. Gave Pearce the stink eye. “Yup. Easy as pie.”

  “Repeat that, Juliette?”

  “Never mind,” Judy said.

  “You’re in contact with Mike-Mike, correct?” Pearce asked. Margaret Myers’s code name, not to be confused with Mike Early, code name Echo.

  “Correct.”

  “Have her communicate with her intel source. Echo’s got to be there on time or we’re all dead.”

  “Roger that, Papa. One more thing. Intel source now has a name. ‘Female, unknown’ has been identified as Cella Paolini. Mike-Mike thought you might know her. Take care, you two.” Ian logged off.

  “What?” Pearce shook his head, dope-slapped.

  Judy caught Pearce’s stunned expression. “Who’s Cella Paolini?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  CELLA & TROY

  2003

  18

  Afghanistan–Pakistan border

  6 January

  Troy Pearce scanned the village down below him through his binoculars. He was perched five hundred meters higher up on the mountain in the snow-covered trees, looking down, half hidden by a fallen log. The village was a poor excuse for human habitation, even by Afghan standards. A squalid collection of mud-brick buildings with pens attached for goats and chicken coops. A small boy, naked from the waist down, peed against the wall of his house, steam rising from the piss. The Pakistan border was just five klicks away.

  “Wyoming is just like here?” Daud whispered. A bright, incredulous smile poked out of the thick, woolly beard of the twenty-five-year-old Afghani. His dark eyes sparkled beneath his dark brown pakol, a flat woolen cap with a thick round bottom made famous by the mujahideen martyr Ahmed Shah Masood. Daud popped another piece of snow into his mouth to keep his breath cold so as not to make a vapor.

  “Maybe not as many Pashtuns, but yeah, where I come from is a lot like here. Pine trees, too. Here.” Pearce handed his friend the binoculars. The Afghani’s trusted AK-47 was slung across his back.

  “I should like to visit Wyoming someday.”

  “My grandfather built a cabin near the Snake River. I’m going to fix it up if I ever make it back there.”

  “If? Don’t speak like that, my friend.”

  “Inshallah, then. And you’re more than welcome to come.”

  “Inshallah? You are Muslim now?” Daud’s smile was infectious. He handed Pearce back the binoculars.

  “Not exactly.”

  “If I came to the States, I would finish my engineering degree. America has the best engineering schools. Everyone knows this.”

  “What kind of engineering?”

  “Civil. My country needs more roads and bridges if it is going to develop properly.”

  I admire your enthusiasm, Pearce thought to himself. You’re going to need a helluva lot more than roads and bridges to drag this dump into the twenty-first century.

  “I have an uncle in Texas. Perhaps a school there.”

  Pearce shook his head. “Stanford is the ticket.”

  “It is difficult to enter, yes?”

  “Maybe I can pull some strings for you there.” Like someone once did for me, he thought. Changed his life. Without Stanford, he wouldn’t be here.

  “You like to fish, Daud?”

  “I don’t know. I have never fished.”

  “What? How is that even possible?” Pearce took a rod and reel with him everywhere he could.

  “We eat goats around here, mostly. They cannot swim.”

  Pearce scanned the village again, then the thick trees around it. “You think Khalid’s still coming?”

  “Where else would he go? His wives are here and it is cold, is it not, and nearly night?”

  Pearce nodded. He and Daud had led a small band of fighters to observe the village below on a rumor that the local chieftain, Asadullah Khalid, a Taliban commander, was returning from Pakistan today with a load of RPGs, traded for heroin bricks cultivated in the valley. Their goal was to capture him, but failing that, he was authorized to terminate the bastard. The trick for Pearce would be to keep Daud from killing him first.

  The wind gusted. Pearce shivered despite the government-issue polypropylene thermals beneath his eclectic mix of local garb. Daud was clad in little more than woolen pants, a Canadian army surplus sweater, and a knitted scarf, but after six hours out here in the snow it was Pearce’s teeth that were chattering. He never ceased to admire the endurance of these mountain villagers.

  Daud’s village was ten kilometers away. He was the son of the village chief and had studied English and engineering in Peshawar. He volunteered as a translator with the U.S. government, which is how Pearce found out about him. Daud’s village hated the Taliban almost as much as they hated Khalid’s village. It was easy enough for Pearce to recruit Daud and his men into the CIA’s war on the Taliban in this part of the country. He’d been embedded with them for the last two weeks.

  “Why do your people hate the people in
this village so much?” Pearce asked in bad Pashto.

  Daud spit. “They are worse than kafirs, with no honor or loyalty except to themselves. In the last war they made alliances with the Russian pigs. Two of my uncles were killed by the Russians, and other men, too, and our women raped because of those dogs.”

  “And now the Taliban,” Pearce added.

  “And the Devil, too.” Daud spit again.

  A branch cracked behind them. Both men whipped around.

  “Ahmed!” Daud whispered loudly.

  Nothing.

  Daud raised his AK-47 in the direction of the sound. “Ahmed!”

  “What?” a voice whispered back.

  Thump.

  A grenade landed in the snow at Pearce’s feet.

  Daud shoved Pearce backward over the log. Troy tumbled ass-over-teakettle with a yelp, and on his first rotation caught a glimpse of Daud tossing something back up the hill. Automatic-rifle fire split the air above. Pearce spread his arms wide to slow his roll, then dug his boot toes into the snow on the next tumble. He was facedown in the powder when he heard the whoomph of the grenade explosion. He leaped to his feet, snapping the M4 butt stock against his cheek and aiming at the tree line. Caught a glimpse of Daud racing straight up the hill and dashing into the pines.

  Pearce called after him. Stupid, he knew.

  “DAUD!”

  Savage cries and more gunfire. Pearce’s brain registered AKs, for sure. But also the high snapping crack of HKs. Strange.

  One of Daud’s men, Hamid, dashed parallel across the ridgeline, firing his weapon above where Daud had entered the trees. Pearce charged up the mountain, legs burning with every step, like hundred-pound weights were clamped on his boots. A burst of bullets chopped the snow around him. He wheeled to the right and put three rounds in the chest of black-turbaned fighter. The man’s mouth opened in a silent cry as he toppled backward, rifle flying through the air.

  Pearce turned back uphill and stormed toward Daud’s position in the trees. It felt like sprinting in molasses. He finally reached the trees. Hamid was there, kneeling down, Daud grimacing and holding his bleeding thigh with both hands, blood pooling in the snow.