The Journey

by Neil Howarth

  “That’s not the way he tells it.”

  “Am I surprised about that? What do you expect? Everything went to shit because he blew it. Even then, that was no excuse for him trying to kill the kids.”

  “He said you threatened him.”

  “Threatened him? I would have blown his fucking head off if he had harmed those kids. I thought we were the good guys.”

  “We are.”

  “Well just remember, I’m not working with him again. If I find him in front of me and I’ve got a gun in my hand, I’m just liable to pull the trigger.”

  “Joe, calm down.”

  Fagan looked at Schneider. He was wasting his time. He shook his head and walked out.

  18

  North Arlington, Washington D.C.

  A cold wind whipped in across the river, biting at Fagan’s exposed face. It felt good in a strange way. It suited his mood. He was zipped up in a leather bomber jacket, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a woolen hat pulled firmly over his ears. He sat out on the balcony of his apartment with his feet up on the rail, a glass of Scotch in his hand, looking out across the dark body of the Potomac. The lights of Georgetown twinkled like a far off world on the far side. The river was an ominous black mass, the occasional shimmering reflection catching its surface as it moved silently, cold and uninviting in the darkness. It seemed to resonate perfectly with the depths of his soul.

  The single malt was a fifteen year old. It was a special bottle. He only took it out when things were either really good or really bad. He savored the peaty flavor of the Scotch as it flowed across his tongue.

  Things were definitely not good, not good at all.

  Schneider had stood him down. A cooling off period he said. Fagan was pretty sure he was not cooling off Blanchet. Schneider knew he was better than Blanchet, more able to deal with any eventuality, but Blanchet did as he was told. Just point him at a target and tell him to shoot.

  Part of him hoped that it was all over, that Schneider would kick him out and it would all be done. But that was not going to happen. Knowing Schneider and his obsession with secrecy and security, any retirement was likely to come with a bullet in the head. But could Schneider do without him? He took another sip of the Scotch.

  Was that his ego talking?

  Maybe it was time he started making plans.

  How had he got to here? What happened to that Navy SEAL, that honorable sailor who just wanted to serve his nation? When he had first joined the military, he had been so proud taking the oath.

  To defend the constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  It had felt like he was making a real commitment for the first time in his life.

  But nothing stays the same. Things changed and in his own experience, usually for the worst.

  Was this inevitable? Did anyone really survive this, or was it just the way of the world? Was honor flushed down the toilet as we engaged the enemy on their own terms?

  The enemy, who were they? On the battlefield, it was always clear. The enemy was the guy on the other side shooting at you. But in this murky world, it was never clear. The powers above defined who the enemy was. The problem, and the question he found myself pondering - whose enemy?

  It seemed he had gone from proud sailor, decorated Navy SEAL, to accomplished assassin, without even noticing, removing whoever his boss decided, with no more details than a description of the target and the weapon of his choice.

  He finally acknowledged that he was in danger of freezing to death. He stood up with a last look at the river and drained his scotch. He walked through into the apartment and slid the patio door closed, sealing out the cold. He pulled off his hat and unzipped his jacket. He looked at his empty glass and contemplated one more. He decided to cut his losses and go to bed.

  He was heading to the kitchen when something caught his eye. It was a buff envelope, lying on the floor by the front door. Someone had obviously pushed it underneath without knocking. He could see there was no address written on it. But he could guess who it was from.

  It looked like his downtime was over.

  He picked it up and decided on another whiskey after all. He splashed more scotch into his glass, sat down on the sofa and opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside and a photograph. He quickly scanned the sheet and then studied the face in the photo.

  This time he knew he was in trouble.

  He was a distinguished looking man in his late sixties. He had a full head of iron-grey hair and the weathered face of a sailor. Fagan had seen him about, in the corridors of power, in the Pentagon. The last time he had seen him in person, face to face so to speak, the Admiral was pinning on his Navy SEAL Trident.

  Fagan had always tried to focus on the objective. He tried to not think about the targets, though that was becoming increasingly difficult. But this one was different. When Fagan was training, Rear Admiral Abraham Lancaster had been the CO of Naval Special Warfare Command, of which the Navy SEALs were part. He was a man who had served his country on many foreign battlefields and in the corridors of the Pentagon. He had gone on to become a full Admiral, and was now a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Abe Lancaster was a national hero, a legend amongst the SEALs, all of his men would have gladly followed him into hell, and Fagan was no exception.

  He called Schneider. Of course, he couldn't get through directly. He had to go through his cut out.

  He gave his codeword. ‘Mister Fox.’

  Schneider called back five minutes later. Fagan was sure he had been expecting his call.

  “This is crazy,” Fagan started straight in. “How the hell did you come up with this target.”

  “I understand how it seems and I promise you, I’m just as shocked as you are. But I can assure you, I’ve seen the evidence, and there is no doubt.”

  “What evidence?”

  “You know I can’t disclose that.”

  “Admiral Lancaster is a Medal of Honor recipient.”

  “How are the mighty fallen. What can I say? It’s sad, but as is often the case, it comes down to money in the end. Or money and disillusion. That’s where it usually starts. One day you discover you’re no longer calling the shots, and then you realize no one is even listening to you anymore. Then someone makes you an offer. It’s innocuous at first. You just want people to sit up and listen. But they’re still ignoring you, and it’s just one small step from there to treason.”

  “You have it all worked out.”

  “I’ve read the reports.”

  “And has anyone asked him about it?”

  “This is not the boy scouts. You know as well as I do, we have to protect this nation. Our group is called in when the investigation has been done, and due process is no longer appropriate.”

  “No longer appropriate? That sounds awful scary to me, and very dangerous.”

  “Admiral Lancaster should have thought about that before he sold out his country.”

  “I can’t believe he did that.”

  “No one is asking you to believe. Your job is to do. I’m doing you a favor by telling you this much. All I can say is, what we have against him is pretty damning.”

  “And what happened to a fair trial in a court of law?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Joe. By the time we get involved, we’re way past that. We can’t have something this big, this high, get out there. It would certainly bring down the Administration, but the repercussions go much further than that. A member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff taking bribes, passing information that could seriously destabilize the nation. If this got out, it would seriously jeopardize our place in the world. No one would trust us again.”

  “And they trust us now?”

  “Are you saying you won’t do it?”

  “Why me? Why don’t you get your pet alligator, Blanchet to do it?”

  “You know the answer to that. You’re the only one I can rely on to do something this big. Joe, I’m depending on you. The President is depending on yo
u.”

  19

  Georgetown, Washington D.C.

  The Admiral had a brick built townhouse in Georgetown, in a row of four. Three levels above ground and a basement with access around the back. The upper floor formed part of a Dutch barn roof with the windows set into the grey slate tiles. It was more than Fagan could afford. In this part of town, you would get little change out of a couple of million dollars.

  The brief gave no indication of where the Admiral got his money, only the layout of the house. It did say that he lived alone since his wife died, and no helpers or staff were living inside. He had a cleaner come in twice a week, and he ate out most evenings.

  Fagan had seen him return from dinner. His security guy dropped him off but had not stayed. Fagan watched from his car, parked just up the road as the security guy drove away. He gave the Admiral a half hour to settle in then made a move.

  A service road ran around the back of the houses allowing access for the garbage truck. Fagan headed along it on foot, checking around as he went. It seemed deserted. He flicked on a small penlight he carried. The gate had the number painted on a circular plaque. He was in the right place.

  He made a quick look in each direction then climbed over the back wall. There was a small yard and a gate out to the service road with a padlock on it. The rear of the house had a glass conservatory which was in darkness, but there was a light on inside the house. A set of steps ran down to the basement level. He used the penlight to show the way and moved carefully down the steps. There was a door at the bottom. He used a lock-pick to get in. It opened easily. A darkened passageway led to a flight of stairs leading up to the floor above. He pulled out the Sig Sauer P226. The sound suppressor was already fitted.

  The stairs were made of wood. He shone the penlight underneath looking for any extraneous wiring, but he saw none. He climbed checking each step carefully before putting his full weight on it. There was a door at the top. He eased it open and stepped into the kitchen. It was a modern affair, with a granite topped, central island. It looked like it had come straight out of a magazine. Maybe his late wife had chosen it.

  The Admiral stood over by the sink washing a cup. He must have heard as Fagan stepped in because he turned around. Not hurried. Almost as if he was expecting someone.

  Fagan held out the SIG.

  The Admiral shrugged and put down the cup. “So, it’s come to this.”

  Fagan didn’t respond.

  “I was going to have a cup of coffee, but maybe I should have a real drink.” He seemed very calm. “Do you mind if I help myself.”

  Fagan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  The Admiral poured himself a bourbon from a large cut glass decanter.

  “I don’t suppose you want one of these.”

  Fagan shook his head. This was all unreal.

  The Admiral studied him as he sipped his bourbon, as if trying to recall something. “It’s Fagan, isn’t it?”

  Fagan was staggered that he remembered him.

  “I remember when you graduated as a SEAL. And I’ve followed your quite extraordinary career. I like to keep an eye on things. I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you, but it seems the world has worked out a lot different to what we all expected.”

  Fagan knew he was doing it all wrong. Allowing the subject to talk was not the way to do this.

  “Why?” He blurted out the word. He could not let this thing go through without some understanding of what happened to this man, this icon.

  The Admiral's face broke into a craggy smile. “I’m not sure I’m the man to ask that. You should ask your masters. They’re the ones who have set this all up, made it look all very nice and neat, all wrapped up and squared away with a neat bow on the top.”

  “Are you saying you’re innocent?”

  “Is anyone innocent?” The Admiral took a sip of his bourbon. “I guess we’ve all done things we’re not particularly proud of. But something to bring you here, with that in your hand." He pointed at the Sig. "I can put my hand on my heart and say I’m innocent of that. Have you seen any evidence?”

  “No, but I’m told it’s damning.”

  “I’m sure it is. Probably an offshore account in my name. A large deposit. They have no imagination. Do they really think I would be that stupid? If I was covering my tracks, I could make a better job of it than that. Hell, I’m a goddamned Admiral, I deal with strategy every day. But it’s not the kind of evidence that is ever going to get to court, so I guess they figure they can get away with it.”

  “Are you saying someone is framing you?”

  “You were the one who said the evidence was damning. What do you think?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It’s what happens when you ask too many questions. When you get a little too close to the truth. There are people up there on the hill with too much power and too much self-interest.”

  “I seem to remember that was the way my boss described you.”

  “Ah yes, Mister Schneider. I guess he would say that.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “By reputation. He’s known as a man who gets the job done. Whatever the job. Whatever it takes. I'm not one who pokes at the command structure, but you would do well to watch your back with that one.” The Admiral took another sip of his bourbon. “But whatever it is they’ve cooked up against me, they need me out of the way. I guess that’s where you come in.”

  Fagan’s hand squeezed the pistol grip. “What do you think I am? A gun for hire? A hitman? The organization I work for gets its orders from the very top. Everything is vetted and double checked. I wouldn’t be standing here otherwise.” A part of him wondered who he was saying it to, the Admiral or himself.

  The Admiral shook his head. “Don’t worry, son, that’s not your problem. I'm not going to plead for my life. If you let me go, it will only be bad for you. You’re following orders. They don’t tell you why. Hell, I never explained any of the orders I gave.” He swallowed the last of his bourbon and placed the glass on the kitchen counter. “Okay sailor, I guess that's the talking done. I’m ready. I always stayed loyal to my oath, and so should you. Do your duty.”

  Fagan looked at him and held up the gun. The Admiral looked strangely calm.

  Fagan held out the gun but his hands were locked solid, and there was no way he was pulling the trigger. This was crazy.

  “Sir, this isn’t right. I’ve never questioned an order in my life, but I can’t do this.” He de-cocked the SIG and shoved it back into the holster beneath his arm.

  The Admiral looked relieved. He picked up the bourbon decanter.

  “Maybe you should have that drink now.”

  He poured generous shots and passed Fagan a glass. He held up his own. “The only easy day was yesterday,” he said quoting the SEALs unofficial motto.

  Fagan nodded, and they clinked glasses then sank the bourbon in a single swallow.

  “They’ll send someone else after me.” The Admiral opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a Glock 19. He ejected the magazine, checked the load then reloaded it and looked at Fagan. “But you, you’re a bigger problem. They’ll not forgive you for this.”

  “I know that, but I’ll take my chances. I guess I knew this moment was coming. I’ve known for a long time. I’ve been following orders but not following my oath. It’s time for things to change. Now is as good a time as any.”

  “Well, you had better move. You should try to get a head start on them.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I have some people loyal to me. I’ll get someone to pick me up. I’ll drop out of sight and see what I can do to fight this from off field. One thing I'm certain of, I don’t intend to let them get away with it.” He glanced at his watch. “You had better go.” The Admiral held out his hand. “Good luck, son. And thanks.”

  Fagan could still remember his grip to this day.

  20

  Georgetown, Washington D.C.

  Fagan went o
ut the way he had come in. The back service road was deserted as he slipped over the fence. He made his way back to the main street and stopped by a wall as a car drove past. He watched it continue down the street and disappear around the corner at the top. A couple were out walking a dog on the other side of the street, but they were not interested in him. The car was parked a short distance up the road from the Admiral’s front entrance. He walked up to it, a man with a purpose, and checked for anyone watching as he fumbled for the keys in his pocket, but everything seemed clear. He climbed in and started the engine. His breath condensed against the windscreen. He looked at his hand. It was shaking. Whatever happened from here on, there was no way he was ever going back. Despite all the shit that was about to come down, somehow he felt a great weight had been lifted.

  He should have taken off then. He had a grab bag in a left-luggage locker in Union Station with all the essentials he needed, passport in another name, cash, credit cards. He could take it and run, be long gone by dawn. But he figured he had time. It would be tomorrow before they realized the assignment had not been carried out, then they would most likely call him in, maybe give him a chance to explain himself. By the time they worked out he was missing and sent someone after him, he would be long gone. He figured by that time he could be in Florida with a new identity. Beyond that, anything could happen.

  He was ready for this. He had some money stashed. There had been a job in Panama city, drugs had been involved and cash, large amounts of US dollars cash. He had been left standing with a bag full of money. He had seen the way things were going, even back then, and he figured maybe it was time for a little insurance. But he still had a conscience. He took half the money and visited four local churches, shoving wads of dollar bills into their poor boxes. By the time he had finished he still had a substantial amount left. He stashed it in a safe place, an obscure offshore account in a false name, stowed away for a rainy day.