The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  She stood with a slight smile and extended her hand.

  “Nice to see you again, James.” Her face showed genuine sadness when she followed it with “I’m so sorry about all that you’ve been through and I’ll do anything that I can to help. Thanks for making the trip up here.”

  She had the slightest hint of an accent, though most people would not have noticed. Eastern European, he suspected by her last name.

  “Not a problem. I appreciate the kind words and your being able to meet on such short notice. Let me grab a coffee and we can talk.”

  Reece stood uncomfortably in the growing pre-workday coffee line as Katie pecked away at her laptop. She caught him glancing her way and flashed a polite and knowing smile. He finally got his coffee and sat down across from her at the small table.

  Usually Reece would be very hesitant to talk about the events of the past few days in such a public setting, but the music in the coffee shop was loud enough that anyone’s attempt to overhear their conversation, either in person or electronically, would have been a failure. As it was, Reece and Katie had to lean toward one another across the table to talk. He was relieved when she closed her laptop and pulled out a long spiral notebook to take notes; he wasn’t dying to have this information on someone’s computer.

  “Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out. I promise I am not going to write about this without your permission.”

  Reece started the story with a week before the operation that wiped out most of his unit, to add a bit of context. He didn’t disclose anything remotely classified, but he did convey how unusual it was for a target to come down from higher headquarters with this much specificity and urgency. She took scribbled notes that no one but a team of archeologists could decipher. Her head snapped up when he told her about the tumors found in his men’s brains, and she asked questions that indicated she knew more than a little bit about the medical field.

  He walked her through the bizarre questioning by the NCIS agents and the inconsistencies in Boozer’s supposed suicide, and eventually got to the murder of his family. She stopped him at various points in the story, asking him to clarify details or expand on certain conversations. Stress, grief, and exhaustion clouded his memory in certain areas but he was fairly sure that he told her everything that was relevant.

  When he finished the story she put away her notebook and took off her glasses. She locked eyes with Reece across the table and her voice took on a quieter and more serious tone.

  “Look, James, I know what you do for a living and I probably don’t have to tell you this, but you need to be careful. We both do. Whoever is behind this thing isn’t playing games. It doesn’t make any sense for them to have done all of this and left you alive, which means they probably intended to kill you along with your family. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust anyone, including the Navy brass. When my Benghazi series broke, you wouldn’t believe the intimidation tactics they used against me. They hacked my email; I had two huge guys that were obviously feds block me from going down the stairwell in my building; I was audited by the IRS; they even tried to sabotage my deal when I bought my condo. They were all about letting me know they could get to me and weren’t the least bit afraid of me printing something about it. They own the big media outlets, dangle access to interviews, and exert their influence to manipulate the story while intimidating the press corps. It’s not as bad as what my family endured in Czechoslovakia in the eighties, but it’s getting there. I want to help you and I want this story, but I don’t want either of us to get killed. We need to be very careful about how we communicate.”

  Reece nodded in understanding.

  “You don’t have to tell me about what they’re willing to do. The last thing I want to do is get you hurt. I called you from my neighbor’s landline last night, and my cell phone is back in Coronado. They probably don’t know that we connected overseas so they won’t be onto you unless I lead them to you, which I promise I won’t do. Find yourself a used iPhone, maybe from Craigslist, where you have no relationship with the seller. Pay cash for it, toss the SIM card, and restore it to factory settings. You’ll need to set up a burner email to get an anonymous iTunes account. Do that from a library computer or one not associated with you. You getting all this? I know it’s kind of a lot.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Katie, not looking up as she took detailed notes.

  “Use cash to buy an iTunes gift card so you can download Signal. It’s a private messaging service from the app store. Make this your username.”

  Reece took a napkin from the table and wrote down a series of random letters and numbers. He copied the same characters at the bottom of the napkin and tore the paper in half, sticking one half in his shirt pocket. He slid the top half across the table to Katie.

  “It’s basically a texting app. You’ll need cell service to get Signal, so just use a prepaid SIM bought with cash. After that, don’t use cell again. Only use it over public Wi-Fi. Also download a VPN from Private Internet Access. Pay for it with a gift card you buy with cash. Keep Wi-Fi turned off when you are not actively using it. In fact, keep the phone turned off when you are not using it. Try to check it at least once a day. They can still get to you if they are specifically targeting you, but this will make it more difficult.”

  Katie looked up from her notes, “I’m guessing you’ve done this before?”

  “We do a lot more than just swim around and shoot bad guys these days. Plus, all Team guys are paranoid about communication and social media. A lot of us use little tricks like this to keep Big Brother at bay. We’ve seen the capability we have to track our targets overseas using their phones and we don’t want anyone doing that to us. If it weren’t for cell phones, most of the HVIs we’ve hit would still be alive.”

  “Okay, so how do I get a hold of you?”

  “I’ll contact you later tonight. You’ll know it’s me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Katie? I don’t have anywhere else to turn, but I don’t want to see anyone else get killed that doesn’t need to be.”

  “Yeah, I’m one hundred percent sure. I can take care of myself,” she said, wondering what he meant by his “doesn’t need to be” comment.

  “I bet you can. Thanks again for listening.”

  “James, if I might, you should get that tumor checked out. Don’t just assume the worst.”

  “You sound like Lauren.”

  Katie tilted her head sympathetically as Reece rose from his seat. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to work.”

  Reece turned and walked toward the door, subconsciously scanning faces in the room. His meeting with Katie had shaken him out of his funk and put him back into operator mode.

  CHAPTER 15

  Riviera Country Club

  Los Angeles, California

  NO ONE KNEW WHAT Steve Horn looked like as a kid. Most just assumed that he appeared out of nowhere in a custom suit or golf clothes. Though he owned homes around the country, he rarely spent much time in them. If he was not in his office, Horn could be found on the golf course. He didn’t love the game as some would expect. Rather, it was an outlet, and Horn was after the elusive perfect swing.

  His real love was power, and money brought that power. He didn’t want to be the president of the United States. He wanted to control the president of the United States. To him that was a much more formidable position. To control the most powerful person on earth made him the de facto king of the world. His hunger to be near the throne would have made him an ideal fit for Washington, but he couldn’t stand the climate or the personalities. He liked to be around exciting and attractive people, and on that front the D.C. elite couldn’t compete with L.A. To his way of thinking, the most beautiful people in the world had been moving to L.A. for more than a century. That was five generations of breeding encapsulated along the California coast. Why would one live anywhere else?

  Horn was on the dri
ving range when his cell phone rang. Paying no mind to the daggers thrown his way through the glares of those members on the line, he looked down at the caller ID and decided to take the call. Putting his earbuds in, he turned and walked toward his cart, stepping past a “no cell phone use” sign as he spoke.

  “This is Horn.”

  “Steve, it’s J.D.”

  “Congressman, what can I do for you this fine day?” asked Horn, already knowing he was going to have to exercise a bit of damage control.

  “Steve, this thing with ‘the Project’ is getting messy. I’ve tried getting in touch with Tedesco but my calls keep going to voice mail, which is unusual. Is the group up to speed on where things stand and where we are going?”

  “Are you calling on behalf of you or your wife?”

  “Dammit, Horn, I’m calling because Lorraine and I don’t want to watch this thing go south on the evening news. What is your plan to get this mess tidied up?”

  Horn suppressed a laugh. Who watched the evening news anymore? And if J. D Hartley did tune in, he certainly wasn’t viewing it with his wife.

  “J.D., these things sometimes do not go as planned. You understand. What is important is that we keep our heads and adapt. Do you want to know why I am so successful?” Not waiting for an answer, Horn continued: “It is because I see opportunity in chaos and I adapt to it quicker than anyone else. Yes, our straggler is still alive and that is a problem. Due to media interest in the story we are going to need to explore activating one of your assets. It’s time. And it will play right into the media firestorm surrounding the ambush and the home invasion. It will wrap things up nicely, and we will be home free.”

  “Horn, you shouldn’t even know about those assets, and the only one who can authorize it is my wife. But I see your point. It would close the loop nicely. Are you sure it’s the only way?”

  “J.D., it is ‘a’ way, and in this circumstance, the ‘best’ way.”

  “All right. I’ll call her now.”

  Congressman Hartley sounded more despondent about having to talk with his wife than he did about their current state of affairs.

  “It will all be worth it in the end, J.D. Please give Lorraine my best.”

  Horn hit the END button.

  Tossing the phone on the seat of his golf cart, he walked back up to his stack of balls and carefully placed his feet to address the tee.

  CHAPTER 16

  Coronado, California

  KATIE WAS RIGHT. He needed to get checked out. The headaches might be nothing, or they could be a mass in his brain. At least he would know for sure. Reece couldn’t trust the naval medical system at this point, but he had another option.

  When Reece got home he dug Dr. O’Halloran’s card out of his deployment backpack, sat down on his couch, and dialed the number for the office in La Jolla.

  “Head and Spine Associates, how may I help you?” a friendly female voice answered.

  “Hi, my name is James Reece. Dr. O’Halloran saw me in Afghanistan and told me to call his office when I got back to the States. I know he’s still overseas but I wanted to see if I could set up an appointment for when he gets back.”

  “Um, hold, uh, hold please,” the voice stammered, clearly beginning to strain with emotion.

  That’s odd, Reece thought, a sinking feeling beginning to well up inside him.

  After a solid two minutes a male voice with a thick Spanish accent picked up the line.

  “Mr. Reece, this is Dr. German. I am a colleague of Dr. O’Halloran’s; was a colleague, I should say. I regret to inform you that there was an incident in Afghanistan, devastating to all of us. Dr. O’Halloran was killed. It just recently hit the news. Someone we thought was an Afghan ally, I’m afraid. Such terrible business.”

  Damnit, this thing is for real.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ve been a little distracted since I got back. I had no idea. I didn’t know Dr. O’Halloran well, but he sure seemed like a great man,” Reece said sincerely, his mind already connecting the dots. Could that really be a coincidence? The doctor who discovered the tumors suddenly dead. Reece’s family dead. Boozer dead. The ambush. Green-on-blue incidents are not uncommon these days, Reece thought. Good people die in war. Still, this is not adding up, or rather, it was adding up to something horrifying.

  “That he was, Mr. Reece. An incredible man, a world-class mind, and a better person than most, I dare say. He did share your case with me over email, and I have been hoping you would reach out. I am very interested in getting to the bottom of this. Dr. O’Halloran asked me to help you if you called. I handle the neurosurgery here at the clinic and would be the one performing your biopsy. I am happy to do it; in fact, I insist. I consider it the last request of my late friend. Stay on the line and one of the ladies will schedule you an appointment. It is not a big deal, I promise you. And there will be no charge, on this I also insist. Hold, please.”

  Reece made an appointment for later in the week and was given instructions on how to prepare for the procedure. They made it sound so routine, though Reece couldn’t envision a way in which they were going to get a tissue sample from inside his skull that he considered “routine.”

  Five minutes later, as Reece was contemplating the procedure, the phone rang. It was Commander Cox’s command master chief, a SEAL named Dave, with a thick New York accent that, along with the ever-present toothpick in his mouth, made some words almost indiscernible over the phone. He had a long family history in the New York Fire Department and had lost his brother and an uncle when the towers came down on 9/11. Dave had worn their Ladder 55 patch on his shoulder each time he had pulled the trigger in combat ever since.

  Dave got right down to business. “Reece, I’m not sure what this is about. Cox is out of the country so I took the call. You’re to report to WARCOM at 1400 today. Admiral Pilsner wants you in his office.”

  The hits just keep on coming.

  “Roger that, Dave, I don’t think I can take any more good news. So much for taking the rest of the week off.”

  “Not our show, Reece. And Reece? Um, I’m really sorry about your family. I don’t have the words except to say that I’m sorry. Keep your chin up, you’ll get through this. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  “Thanks, Dave, I really appreciate it.”

  Reece leaned back on the couch, wondering if he had a uniform clean enough for WARCOM.

  CHAPTER 17

  Naval Special Warfare Command

  Coronado, California

  REECE DROVE AS IF on autopilot. He was behind the wheel, but it felt like the Land Cruiser was driving itself and he was just a passenger, his movements dictated by something outside himself, as if in a dream. The numbness had given way to anger, which he knew had clouded his judgment. As he drove he couldn’t help but think of his family, the pain in his soul pushing him toward the edge of that proverbial cliff of despair. Once over, it would be hard to return.

  He pulled off the Silver Strand Highway as he had done innumerable times over the past eighteen years and pulled up to the gate. The young gate guard recognized the Land Cruiser immediately. Something about the guy driving it had always seemed special to him. In a world filled with egos, thousand-yard stares, and rank elitism, this officer gave off a different air, almost akin to a cool college professor. Never at a loss for a smile and a brief encouraging word, he stood out, especially because this was the same gate the admiral had to use to get to the Naval Special Warfare Command, more commonly referred to as WARCOM, from which all the SEAL Teams were administratively managed. To the gate guard, WARCOM had the aura of a death star, with the Admiral as Darth Vader, or even worse, Darth Vader’s master, what was his name? The line of cars moving through the gate each morning filled with staff officers headed for their doom . . . .

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Ken.”

  No officers called Ken by his name except for Commander Reece. In fact they barely acknowledged his existence, just a nui
sance before finding a parking spot and starting their days.

  Reece showed his military ID and Ken saluted, as was protocol for officers.

  “How’s your build coming?” They had talked cars once, and Reece knew that Ken was rebuilding an old ’69 Mustang.

  Jeez, even with what happened to his family, he still asks about my car.

  “Good, sir. And, sir? Um, I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone knew.

  “Thanks, Ken. You take it easy.”

  “I will, sir.” Ken stepped back, and even though he didn’t need to do it again, he straightened up and snapped his sharpest salute as Reece slowly moved through the gate.

  The view of the Pacific Ocean through the sand berms in front of him was spectacular. Slow rollers were hitting the beach, the cacophony of the sound reminding all that within the beauty was a power that should not be underestimated. Reece couldn’t help but think of their journey from Antarctica to their terminus here in Southern California.

  Reaching a stop sign, Reece began to swing the wheel to the left but then paused. To the left were his beloved SEAL Teams, where he had spent the majority of his time in the Navy. He caught himself and remembered where he was going today. To the right. To WARCOM. Everybody hated going to WARCOM. The uniforms, the brass, the protocol. WARCOM was the antithesis of everything that drew guys to the SEAL Teams. WARCOM was where the senseless directives came from. Delivered down the chain from people so far removed from the tactical application of said directives that they became the definition of bureaucracy. Politicians in uniform. Reluctantly, Reece swung the wheel back to the right. WARCOM was where the admiral reigned supreme.

  Reece pulled through yet another set of gates and began to look for a parking place. The SEAL Teams had expanded considerably in the years following 9/11: new commands, more SEALs, additional support personnel. What had been neglected was the parking to accommodate those additional bodies. Typical military planning, Reece thought. He scanned the lot, immediately noticing a dark blue Bentley parked in the admiral’s visitor spot. Odd.