by Bentley, Don
For the second time in as many hours, the lights went out in Georgia.
FIFTY-ONE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Peter put his hand to his mouth, ostensibly to smother a cough. In reality, the gesture was to hide the smile that appeared, despite his best efforts to look somber. Only half an hour had elapsed, but what a difference thirty short minutes could make.
“How the hell did this happen?” the President said, looking from one face to another. “Can someone please explain that to me?”
Though the meeting was once again held in the Situation Room, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different. This time, Beverly, Etzel, and Beighley were huddled together like naughty schoolchildren on one side of the table while the DIA representative, Glass, was conspicuously absent. Peter, however, sat at the President’s right hand.
Exactly where he belonged.
That President Jorge Gonzales had uttered a curse word, no matter how mild, spoke volumes about his mind-set. In a way, Peter actually sympathized with the man. From the President’s perspective, events in Syria were spiraling rapidly out of control.
But that was only because the President lacked a behind-the-scenes view of what Peter had orchestrated.
As promised, the Russians had delivered. The ill-conceived rescue attempt had been turned back, no fresh blood had been wasted on a dead man, and the entire debacle wasn’t even a blip on the media’s radar.
In a word, things were progressing perfectly.
It genuinely upset Peter to see the President beside himself, but he also understood that there was in front of him an opportunity for the taking. Peter just needed to keep up his impeccable acting skills until the moment presented itself. It was one thing to save the President from himself, and the election in the process, but it took a master manipulator to settle a score or two at the same time.
Peter had more than one grudge he intended to put to rest before the night was over.
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” General Etzel began, his cocksure attitude gone as he fielded the President’s question. “It’s extraordinary that the Russians were able to find our helicopters. It’s almost as if someone told them exactly where to look.”
Peter’s feeling of mirth vanished as the significance of Etzel’s words registered. Peter shot a glance at the General, trying to judge whether the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was insinuating anything with his comment. Unfortunately, the former aviator kept his gaze focused on the President, revealing nothing.
The man must be one hell of a poker player.
Peter needed to nip the dangerous conversation in the bud. While the President understood in a general sense that Peter had been working to establish a back-channel relationship with his equivalent in the Russian government, President Gonzales certainly did not know that Peter had the Russian consulate’s number memorized.
Or that he had been actively trading information with his counterpart for the last six months.
The arrangement had proven to be mutually beneficial, but Peter was not naive enough to think that his last phone call hadn’t dramatically altered the relationship’s balance. Once Jorge was reelected, Peter would come clean with the President.
After all, a successful Election Day tended to smooth over a multitude of sins.
Still, he was under no illusion that President Gonzales would be accommodating should the relationship come to light now. Especially given the fact that Peter had used his Russian counterpart to influence American foreign policy. That little tidbit needed to remain a secret regardless of the election’s outcome. With this in mind, Peter was just preparing to address General Etzel’s comment when Beverly of all people came to his rescue.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Beverly said, worry lines marring her normally flawless face, “but we don’t have answers for you. Somehow, the Russians found and fired upon our helicopters. No one was hurt, but the Russians have announced in no uncertain terms that the airspace over Assad-controlled territory is closed. I’m sure we’ll be able to smooth things over diplomatically, but I’m equally certain that this détente will not occur in time to save Shaw’s life. For that, I offer both my deepest apologies . . . and my resignation.”
Peter jerked. He’d war-gamed this meeting no less than three times and was prepared for a half dozen potential outcomes.
Beverly’s resignation hadn’t been one of them.
On the surface, her offer signaled his final and total victory. She’d gambled big on the rescue attempt, undercutting Peter in the process. When the operation had gone up in flames, so had her chances of redeeming herself with the President. She was done—it was just that simple.
Or was it?
Beverly had made a career out of trampling on the political skulls of those who had underestimated her. Could this be just another ploy? Was there an angle here that Peter wasn’t seeing?
Peter prided himself on his ability to understand politics at an intrinsic level, but this was a scenario he hadn’t envisioned. Perhaps now was the time to heed the old Roman adage about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer—at least until Tuesday night.
“Mr. President,” Peter said, preparing to save Beverly Castle’s career, “I think—”
The ominous sound of the security door’s electronic locks disengaging interrupted him. Looking over his shoulder, Peter watched as the door swung open, admitting two men: the DIA knuckle dragger, Glass, and someone else. An African American man walking with a cane.
On its surface, the addition of the two newcomers should have been inconsequential. The clock had run out on Shaw’s rescue, Beverly was on the ropes, and Peter had the President exactly where he wanted him.
And yet the African American man, who Peter noticed was missing part of his left arm, looked Peter’s way when he shuffled into the room. Their eyes met for a moment, and Peter didn’t care for what he saw.
Somehow, the game had changed once again.
FIFTY-TWO
Excuse me, Mr. President,” Glass said, ignoring the rest of the room, “but you need to hear what this man has to say.”
“And your friend is who?” the President said, a hint of Latino pronunciation flavoring the question.
Peter took this as a good sign. First, Jorge had uttered a curse word. Now his accent was starting to creep in. The President was pissed. Chances were that this joker Glass and his handicapped friend would be out on their asses in seconds. Then Peter could get back to the truly important business at hand—securing the President’s second term.
“My name is Frederick Cates,” the black man said, “but everyone calls me Frodo. I’d offer to shake your hand, sir, but I’m one short.” He lifted up his left arm to punctuate the statement, revealing an empty sleeve.
“Excuse me for jumping in, Mr. President,” General Beighley said, “but Frodo is a former member of a JSOC special mission unit. He’s spent the last five years on loan to the DIA Directorate for Operations—specifically, Mr. Glass here. You may remember that, several months ago, we had some trouble in Syria. Frodo was right in the thick of it. He sustained his injuries saving a DIA case officer’s life.”
At the words DIA case officer, Peter heard warning bells. The case officer in question had to be Matt Drake. The same Matt Drake who was conveniently in Syria once again and on whose supposed actionable intelligence the first potentially disastrous rescue attempt had been launched. A rescue attempt Peter was able to quash only by enlisting the Russians. It didn’t take a genius to realize that whatever Frodo was going to say, it wouldn’t be helpful to Peter’s cause.
This meeting needed to come to an end.
Now.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry for interrupting,” Peter said, feeling nothing of the sort, “but while I’m sure that Mr. Cates served with distinction, respectfully, his presence has no bearing on what we’re about
to discuss. I—”
“Actually, Mr. President,” Frodo said, talking over Peter, “I’d be willing to bet that my presence has every bearing on what you’re about to discuss. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’m here for only one reason—to keep you from making a tragic mistake.”
“That’s pretty arrogant,” Peter began, but the President interjected.
“It’s okay, Peter,” the President said, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. “At this point, I think I know what everyone is going to say. Everyone but Mr. Frodo here. Do you go by Mr. Frodo or Frodo?”
“Just Frodo, sir.”
“Okay, Frodo. Let me start by thanking you for your service. Too often decisions get made in this room without an adequate perspective on the potential consequences. Now, tell me what mistake I’m about to make, but do it quickly. Time and tide wait for no man, Frodo. Not even the President.”
“Yes, sir,” Frodo said, somehow forcing his broken frame to stand straighter as he addressed the most powerful man in the world. “Two men are about to die unless you save them.”
FIFTY-THREE
Peter opened his mouth, but once again, the President beat him to the punch.
“I’m aware of Shaw,” the President said with a frown, “but who is the second man?”
“Matt Drake, sir,” Frodo said.
“Jesus,” Peter said, not bothering to mask his exasperation. “That loose cannon got captured, too?”
“Not at all, sir,” Frodo said, still the picture of calm. “Chief, if you would?”
The DIA mouth breather picked up a remote and with a stab of his meaty finger activated one of the flat screens mounted on the wall.
“Excuse me for assuming, Mr. President,” Glass said as a frozen image filled the screen, “but I thought you’d want to see this, so I asked the tech team to have it preloaded.” He pressed a second button, and the frozen image began to move.
Peter wasn’t an operative, but he recognized UAV footage when he saw it.
“This was shot by a Sentinel approximately twenty minutes ago,” Frodo said, narrating as the UAV’s thermal camera zoomed in on a parked vehicle. Two bone white figures exited the vehicle and trudged toward a two-story building at the top of the picture. “The UAV is orbiting in Assad-controlled airspace. The two men you see are Matt Drake and his asset, Einstein.”
“What’s in that building?” the President said.
On the screen, the two figures passed the chain-link fence ringing the structure’s perimeter.
“Shaw,” Frodo said as the two figures disappeared inside. “Shaw, the terrorists holding him, and the laboratory where Einstein designed the chemical weapon the jihadis intend to employ.”
“Drake just walked into the building,” Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”
“To buy time,” Frodo said, “or, more specifically, to buy me time. Time to convince you that you should launch the JSOC QRF again.”
“Sir, this is ridiculous,” Peter said, slapping the table. “I’ll grant you that this insane man entered the compound, but so what? Other than increase the hostage count by one, he’s done nothing of value. We still have no indication that he actually found Shaw.”
“Actually, we have the best indication we could hope for,” Frodo said, still focusing exclusively on the President.
“Which is?” President Gonzales said.
“The terrorists were supposed to livestream Shaw’s execution five minutes ago,” Frodo said, pointing to the digital clock whose red digits showed Damascus local time. “So far, we’ve seen nothing on the usual jihadi social media platforms. Their silence can only mean one thing—Matt Drake has bought us additional time. Don’t waste it.”
FIFTY-FOUR
I don’t agree,” Peter said, turning to the President. “Sir, we can’t afford to start a war with the Russians over two men who for all intents and purposes are already dead. I’m not trying to be callous. I understand a thing or two about sacrifice. I buried my little sister, for Christ’s sake. We could claim ignorance or a misunderstanding the first time we violated Russian airspace. That won’t fly a second time. Sir, if we go after these men, it will be an act of war. I can’t allow that.”
“And I can’t allow you to leave them,” Frodo said, his baritone rumbling through the room.
“What did you say?” Peter said.
“Mr. President,” Frodo said, again ignoring Peter, “I hoped to be able to persuade you to do the right thing based on my eloquence, but maybe I’m not such a great speaker. Truth is, I was a damn good sniper, but my career as an operator is over. I don’t know what my future holds, but I do know this—Matt Drake is the single bravest man I know. He’s my brother, and if he’s willing to risk everything by walking into the lion’s den on the off chance he can somehow bring one lost sheep home, I have to be willing to do the same.”
The former commando glanced down for a second as if gathering himself for what would come next. When he looked up again, his remaining hand shook against his cane’s wooden handle, but his voice rang through the silence without so much as a quaver.
“Before I left my office, Mr. President, I wrote an e-mail with a time delay. A very detailed e-mail. It lays out exactly what happened over the last forty-eight hours up to and including your administration’s decision to let two men die rather than risk an international incident. If I don’t stop it, the e-mail will go out to Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal.”
“You’re blackmailing the President of the United States?” Peter said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Frodo said, his eyes never leaving the President’s. “I’ve already submitted my resignation and will voluntarily surrender myself into custody. I’m ashamed of what I’ve done, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Men like Matt and me took a vow. We don’t leave fallen comrades behind, no matter the cost.”
“What about the Russians?” Peter said, feeling as if he were having an out-of-body experience. “Did you forget about them?”
“Fuck the Russians,” Frodo said, directing a contemptuous look at Peter before turning back to the President. “Sir, we are the United States of America. The Russians pushed us out of Assad’s airspace because we let them. It’s time we started pushing back.”
“You’re insane!” Peter screamed, getting to his feet. “You’re going to start World War Three. I—”
“Peter, stop. Now.”
Once again, the President took charge of the room with a barely audible command. Even so, there was an edge to the President’s voice, a sense of authority that broke through Peter’s anger and silenced the words on the tip of his tongue. This was no longer his old friend Jorge Gonzales, the mild-mannered politician Peter had known for almost two decades. This was the President of the United States, and the President had spoken.
“Mr. Frodo,” the President said, looking up at the cripple, “I want to establish something. I don’t respond to threats. Not now, not ever. In truth, I can’t decide what I detest more: the notion that you thought you could blackmail me into acting or that you believed such extraordinary measures would be necessary. Those men went into harm’s way on my say-so. Mine. I may not have served in the military, but after four years in this office, I understand the burden of command. I will do whatever it takes to bring my boys home, Russians be damned. But Peter has a very good point. If I’m going to risk World War Three, I have to at least know that your friend and the captured CIA paramilitary officer are still alive. I need confirmation.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” Frodo said. “Matt has a beacon concealed on his person. As soon as he locates Shaw, he’ll trigger it. We just need to be ready when he does.”
Peter tried to speak, but the President turned toward the Generals instead.
“Gentlemen,” the President said, looking from one man to another, “
can we make this happen?”
General Etzel slowly nodded. “I have the conventional forces in theater to set the conditions, but the JSOC operators will still have to do the heavy lifting.” General Etzel turned to General Beighley. “It’s your call, Jeff. What do you think?”
The squat commando didn’t even hesitate before directing his answer to the President instead of to his superior. “Sir, let’s do it.”
Beighley’s words brought an accompanying nod from the President, and suddenly, everyone was all smiles.
Everyone but Peter.
He was too busy thinking about the rows of flag-draped coffins that would soon be joining Kristen’s in the cold November soil.
FIFTY-FIVE
MANBIJ, SYRIA
The floodlights felt like ice picks stabbing into my eye sockets. I blinked against the ungodly glare, tears streaming down my blood-crusted cheeks. Instinctively, I tried to wipe the grime from my face, but my hands refused to cooperate. My wrists were bound, but not with handcuffs. Plastic zip ties bit into my flesh, and that changed everything.
Regardless of what I’d told Shaw, this time, the game really was over.
Unlike handcuffs or duct tape, zip ties had no locks to pick and no tensile fractal points that could be reached with a good downward thrust. Without a knife, my hands weren’t getting free. Shaw and I were at the jihadis’ mercy, and judging by the giant rack of floodlights, whatever they had planned for us wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Ready?”
“Almost.”
The Arabic conversation was taking place out of view. I could hear the voices, but couldn’t see anything beyond the migraine-inducing lights.
Dipping my head so that my forehead took the brunt of the optical assault, I looked around the room. I tried to minimize my head movements so that I could get my bearings without drawing the jihadis’ attention.
