The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  It had only been two days since the ambush and subsequent interrogation but physically, Reece was ready to leave the hospital. He had been asked to stop in and see Dr. O’Halloran before he left for good, and upon his discharge, the nurse in charge of the shift walked him to the surgeon’s office. O’Halloran greeted Reece warmly and invited him to sit. The doctor swiveled his chair to face a desktop computer and selected a file before rotating the screen so that Reece would have a better view of it. He then pulled up an image on the screen that was clearly a brain scan. It immediately reminded Reece of the black-and-white forward-looking infrared (FIR) imagery they used on the battlefield, with its glowing white highlights showing three-dimensional relief on a black background. The doctor used his mouse to put a curser over a white blob on the image.

  “Two of your men came in here wounded. We fought as hard as we could to save them but their injuries were just too severe. As part of our initial assessment, we did scans to determine the extent of their brain trauma and, besides a significant amount of shrapnel, we found this. This is the CT scan we took of Petty Officer Morales’s brain. You see this?” He pointed to a white blob on the screen. “This is an abnormal mass that is not consistent with a traumatic injury. The pathologist who did the autopsy believes that the mass is an oligodendroglioma, a rare and malignant brain tumor. The lab will confirm or deny that suspicion but he knows his stuff and I agree with his assessment based on the imaging.”

  He clicked the mouse and a second image was displayed on the screen. “This is Lieutenant Pritchard’s brain. As you can see here, he has a slightly smaller but similar tumor. The pathologist and I believe that it is the same type.” A third image came up. “This is your brain, James. Now, we have no way of knowing for sure, but the mass on your brain appears to be similar in size and shape to that of your men. If we were in the States I would bring you in for a biopsy but we can’t do that here.”

  Reece’s mouth went dry and he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to be with his wife and daughter.

  “I don’t want you to panic, James. This could be a variety of things, and a malignancy is just one of them.”

  “What?” Reece stammered. “How . . . how rare is that, Doc? It seems crazy to me that three guys our age would have brain tumors.”

  “Extremely rare, James. The incidence of this type of tumor is roughly 0.3 per one hundred thousand. Only about two percent of all brain tumors are of this type. Let’s assume that yours is something different, since we can’t confirm it here. But for two men on the same team, both in their twenties, to have this same type of tumor . . .” O’Halloran shook his head. “The odds are astronomical. Have you and your men been exposed to any chemical or biological agents? Been in any nuclear facilities, anything like that?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of. I mean, when we first invaded Iraq there were a bunch of chem/bio scares but Pritchard was probably in high school at the time. And as far as I know they were just that, scares. A team was hit with a mustard gas agent of some sort but nowhere near where I was operating. As far as these two guys being together, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Hmm, well, keep thinking about it and let me know if you come up with anything. This is incredibly unusual. Like I said, we can’t do any more here, but when you get back stateside you need to get checked out, just to be sure. I’m almost done with this deployment. It’s been a long year but I’ll be back at my California clinic early next month. I want you to come up to La Jolla and see me. There are some colleagues of mine who specialize in brain research that I’d like for you to meet. You haven’t had any blurred vision, headaches, anything like that, have you?”

  “No, sir,” Reece lied, needing time to think.

  “How about Petty Officer Morales or Lieutenant Pritchard: did they or any of your men mention any unusual headaches?”

  “No, but that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary with this crew. The Teams aren’t really a culture where people complain about those sorts of things. They think it might take them out of the fight.”

  “I see,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “I’m sorry about your men. I know that probably doesn’t mean much but I really am. Get yourself home safely, hug your family, bury your men, and make an appointment with my office for when I get back. Take care, James.”

  Reece walked out of the medical facility a man adrift. Truly, he was already gone, occupied with the thoughts of the families of sons, husbands, and fathers whose bodies, or what was left of them, were being put into bags, then into flag-draped coffins for their final trip home.

  CHAPTER 5

  Naval Special Warfare Command

  Coronado, California

  THE AIDE KNOCKED before entering Admiral Pilsner’s office. “Sir, the SECDEF’s office is on the line.”

  “Tell Howard to get in here and then put them through,” the admiral responded harshly.

  “Yes, sir.” The aide scampered back out the door.

  The admiral’s JAG, Captain Leonard Howard, entered without knocking less than thirty seconds later.

  The phone on the admiral’s desk rang and he pressed the button to put it on speaker.

  “This is Admiral Pilsner, standing by for the secretary.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” an unidentified voice responded. “Secretary Hartley will be with you momentarily.”

  After close to five minutes of waiting, the line sparked to life.

  “Good afternoon, Madam Secretary, what can I do for you?” the admiral said cheerfully in greeting.

  “What the fuck happened over there, Admiral?” a furious Lorraine Hartley asked.

  “Ma’am, we did our best to manage the situation but obviously we didn’t fully achieve our mission.”

  “Your best? You’re the goddamn WARCOM admiral and this is ‘your best’?”

  “Madame Secretary, we are doing everything we can to clean this up as soon as possible.”

  “I’m losing confidence in your ability to do that. First of all, I want the survivors tied up in the investigation over there as long as possible. I don’t want the American public falling in love with these guys during the media storm around the funerals. I want them out of sight, out of mind, and I want the responsibility hung on their shoulders. I want that troop commander to be a modern-day Custer. I want charges brought against him yesterday.”

  Leonard Howard spoke up. “Madame Secretary, this is Captain Leonard Howard. We would have a difficult time charging Commander Reece with anything under the UCMJ until a full investigation has been completed.”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Howard! You find something to charge him with. We have so many federal crimes on the books the Department of Justice can’t even count them all, and you’re telling me you can’t come up with something? Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘show me the man, I’ll show you the crime’? Charge him with as much as you can but don’t lock him up; we need him to be a free man for this to end appropriately. Clean up this mess, gentlemen, or you’ll wish you’d never met me.” Both men heard a click and the line went dead.

  Pilsner looked at his JAG. “Call Horn ASAP. We need a plan in place before those men are back on the ground stateside. And tell the NCIS guys to turn up the heat on Reece.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Bagram Air Base

  Bagram, Afghanistan

  THE DAYS PASSED SLOWLY while Reece was confined to Bagram. His men were being laid to rest in front of their devastated families while Reece was stuck halfway around the world, unable to look their wives, children, and parents in the eyes and assure them that he would find out what had led them into such a devastating ambush. He knew that he’d be crucified by WARCOM, and as far as he was concerned, he deserved it. He’d gotten all of his men killed, the cardinal sin of a combat leader. And for what? Some target they didn’t know shit about? Add in the stress of a probable rare brain tumor and Reece’s head was spinning. He was recalled almost daily to answer further questions from the NCIS goons and continued
to answer all inquiries about the mission while refusing to answer the ones about his personal emails. The questions from NCIS had the smell of people with an agenda. Single sentences from emails going back over fifteen years were extracted to support a preconceived narrative. It was obvious to Reece that NCIS was not interested in what actually happened in the lead-up to and execution of the mission. They were there to put the blame on Reece and Reece alone. It had been brutal but he had taken it.

  After a cruel two weeks of sleepless nights thinking about the brain tumors and of circular interrogations from NCIS, Reece was finally cleared to go home. He leaned back in his seat on the C-5 as it gathered speed down the runway, nose up, banking tightly to quickly gain altitude and get outside the range of enemy small arms and RPGs, leaving Bagram in the background. Reece’s thoughts turned to what had happened at home in his absence. The command had mobilized. Casualty assistance officers and teams had been dispatched to try to beat the twenty-four-hour news cycle to the front doors of families scattered across the country: mothers and fathers, wives and children who would get the news every military family dreads, the unexpected knock on the door, the chaplain, an officer, a friend. The unthinkable. The screaming. The tears. The kids. The funerals. The blame. The blame. It was my fault. I was the senior man on the ground. Responsibility lies with me. And I couldn’t even be there to deliver the news in person, to do my duty.

  The flight would be a good way to get his thoughts in order.

  He would call his wife from Germany, where he would have a few hours to decompress while the pilots had their mandated crew rest.

  How can I go home and face my family when twenty-eight Rangers, four aircrew, and thirty-six SEALs of my Task Unit are going home in boxes?

  That’s war, Reece.

  No. The enemy was good. But they were not that good.

  This ambush was too well conceived and too effective. It was months, if not a year in planning. The explosives. What were they and how were they detonated? Why didn’t any insurgents spill out of that compound with the detonation of the first explosives? Was there anyone in there at all? How did they know exactly where the helos would land? Why were they forced to go on this mission? Why was NCIS so pointed in their questioning so soon after the mission? What am I missing?

  CHAPTER 7

  Capstone Capital Corporate Offices

  Los Angeles, California

  STEVE HORN WAS NOT accustomed to waiting for anything. First his tasty little assistant had made him wait five minutes for his beloved green tea, and now his most loyal lieutenant was running late, something he would not tolerate. The six-foot-four former Stanford quarterback sat behind a desk of polished walnut that he now visually inspected for any sign of dust or grime. He wore a finely tailored suit of charcoal cashmere that cost more than most families brought home in a month, cut not for comfort but to display his muscular physique. His tan neck was framed by a rigid spread collar and a violet Hermès necktie bound with a massive Windsor knot. A casual visitor would have thought that Fortune was arriving any minute to shoot him for the cover, but his staff knew better; this was Horn’s everyday attire. Horn was the very image of vanity personified.

  If Horn had ever consulted a mental health professional, he would likely be diagnosed with an “antisocial personality disorder.” He felt absolutely no empathy for his fellow man and actually relished the discomfort of others. A counselor might explore whether this detachment resulted from the disinterest of his socialite parents during his upbringing or the harsh punishments dispensed by some of his many nannies. Maybe it was his failure to bond with a caretaker or perhaps he was born a sociopath; he would never know because he would never think to question what to him was as natural as breathing. To Horn, being ruthless was a competitive advantage.

  An email on the twenty-seven-inch screen of his iMac indicated the arrival of the tardy lieutenant. Phone calls or door knocks from his receptionist were not acceptable. Despite his strong desire to hear what the man had to say, Horn made him wait ten excruciating minutes in the lavishly decorated reception area. With Horn, everything was about power, and he spared no opportunity to remind everyone that he was in charge, a fact that no one but him questioned. The touch of a key on the desk phone indicated to the receptionist that he was ready to receive his appointment, and she quickly and sympathetically ushered Saul Agnon through the thick oak doors and into Horn’s office.

  If Horn’s appearance signaled power, strength, and grace, Agnon’s did the opposite. He was slight of build, with small features, pallid skin, and a generally disheveled manner. His suit was cheap and off the rack, fitting him accordingly. His shoes were worn and unpolished. His fingernails were soft from nervous biting; his hair, thinning and greasy. Horn observed him with disgust as he passed through the doorway, defeated and hopeless, with the posture of a man headed to his own execution. Horn had always suspected Saul of being a homosexual but couldn’t fathom a gay man with such a hopeless lack of style. Saul Agnon brought two things to the table, though, that made him indispensable: cunning intelligence and unwavering loyalty. Agnon worshipped Horn the way an abused animal serves its cruel master, doing anything for a hint of approval or sign of pleasure.

  “Not only are you late, Saul, but you come in here looking like a fucking rat. I thought Sears went out of business. Where did you get that suit? Don’t sit down, this won’t take long. What do you have for me?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry for being late, there’s no excuse, it’s just that—”

  “You’re right, there is no excuse. Stop wasting my time with your contrition.”

  “Sir, the ambush went as planned. You’ve seen the media reports.”

  “As planned? I’m reading that there were survivors; that was not the plan. The admiral called. Hartley is pissed. She wants this thing handled before it gets out of control.”

  “Sir, I’m working the issue, and we will deal with it. This was always a possibility. There’s another problem, though.” Agnon paused to gain the courage to continue. “A doctor in Bagram discovered the tumors and was asking too many questions, but he’ll be out of the picture soon. We’ll use what they call a ‘Green on Blue’ since they are common enough not to raise suspicion. Our team on the ground found an Afghan military officer with a sick child. We promised to get the child medical care in the United States in exchange for one of his troops taking out the doc. Done deal.”

  “So now we have to arrange care for some sick kid from a third-world shithole?”

  “No, sir, we have no intention of making good on that promise.” Saul glanced down at his small spiral notebook. “Next item: As you know, Lieutenant Commander Reece survived the mission, as did one of his men. Reece is in the air now and will land in Coronado later this morning. Holder is headed to the other man’s apartment as we speak.”

  “What’s your plan for Commander Reece?”

  “That situation is fluid, sir. The other events may have put him on guard, and we could have a problem on our hands. We don’t have adequate personnel in the area to handle someone of his capability without the element of surprise.”

  “Saul, he’s been put through the wringer by the investigators and has flown halfway around the world. He’ll be jet-lagged and exhausted. All he’s gonna want to do is give his kids a hug, bang his wife, and forget about Afghanistan.”

  “ ‘Kid,’ sir, singular. He has one daughter.”

  “Whatever. Get some gangbangers from L.A. or Mexico to take him out. Make it look like a home invasion robbery. Just make sure it gets done. We have cops on the payroll that can arrange it but don’t let them know he’s a SEAL. I don’t want them going ‘sentimental patriot’ on us. Now get out of here, I have bigger matters to deal with.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Coronado, California

  THE MAMMOTH C-5 GALAXY touched down at Naval Air Station North Island and taxied slowly toward the small World War II–era terminal building. Upstairs in the barely occupied passenger area, James
Reece stood and stretched, trying to shake the exhaustion and jet lag. He had long since shed his uniform for jeans and a T-shirt, the only connection to his combat load being the AOR 1–patterned pack and the hiking boots he wore nearly every day of his life. This pair was almost ready for the dumpster, he thought as he waited for the signal to deplane. He looked down at his right boot and smiled as he saw the unmistakable evidence that his three-year-old daughter had decorated it with a Magic Marker. The other boot, covered with the blood of his dying teammates, quickly wiped the smile away.

  He’d taken an Ambien to try to force himself to sleep on the long flight but it wore off after three hours and he spent the rest of the trip in a surreal state of exhaustion, grief, and drug-induced fog. He’d replayed the events leading up to the op over and over in his head, trying to find an answer to what had led them into the ambush—some clue that he’d missed, some shred of evidence that would explain what happened. He found no answers, only a blinding headache like the ones he’d had leading up to the ill-fated mission. He scrolled through pictures of his daughter on his iPhone, his eyes misting over from the pain of his months-long absence from fatherhood. He couldn’t get home soon enough.

  Down in the massive cargo area, he steered clear of the pallets of gear and brushed past some Air Force ground crew personnel who were already preparing to offload what looked like enough crates and boxes to fill a Wal-Mart. He grabbed his oversize gear bag and weapons case and headed toward the ramp. The rest of his gear, along with that of his troop, had been palletized and sent back with Boozer on an earlier flight while Reece was spending quality time with the assholes from NCIS. He set down his heavy bag and pulled his sunglasses over his eyes before walking down the ramp and into the blazing Southern California sunshine. Love it or hate it here, the weather was always good.