The president was livid. His vitriol was incongruent against the success of the mission to kill Osama bin Laden. That bin Laden fought back, and a SEAL was forced to kill him, was one of the many contingency scenarios practiced. The world’s most-wanted terrorist was killed. Around the world, people celebrated or lamented bin Laden’s death.
DCI Carey tuned out the harangue, rehearsing his lines mentally. The president wrapped up the meeting, telling everyone to leave the office.
“Mr. President, sixty seconds?” Carey asked.
The president plopped in his chair and spun around, turning his back on the room, as three people filed out. “You have one minute, Carey.”
The DCI walked to the front of the Resolute Desk and waited for the room to clear. “Mr. President, here’s a partial file of your activities when you were traveling as a British citizen on your British passport and visiting the man you just killed.”
The President turned slowly to face the DCI and stared at the file in his hands.
“I have the only full copy of your file. Your secret’s safe unless… you fuck with me.”
“That’s bogus shit, Carey. I can’t believe….”
“Mr. President, you’ll announce the vice president has health issues, and you’ll make me his replacement in one month. Before the election, you’ll resign due to health reasons. If you don’t heed my advice, the whole file will be released. You’ll be exposed as a fraud and a traitor, and you’ll be frog-marched out of this office and thrown in jail.”
Carey tossed the file dismissively onto the desk, turned, and said, “Good night, Mr. President.” He walked out, leaving the President of the United States in utter shock.
CHAPTER SIX
2230 May 1, 2011
The Yellow Corvette Ranch Fredericksburg, Texas
The BlackBerry vibrated, and Secret Agent Man announced it was Duncan’s favorite spook calling. “You're awake at this hour?”
“Turn on your TV,” Greg whispered.
“What channel?”
“It won’t matter. I think we got him. Talk with you later.”
Hunter jogged from the garage into the living room, snatched the remote, and hit the All On button. Five seconds later, the President materialized at a lectern.
“Good evening. Tonight, I can report to the American people and the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of al-Qaeda and a terrorist who’s responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children.”
Duncan was transfixed. The one mission he and Lynche were never part of had been executed. He thought of his old friend from the Naval War College. “Well, Bill, wherever you are, I hope that ghost has finally been put to rest.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1000 May 4, 2010
Dallas Motor Speedway Dallas, Texas
Dozens of national and local reporters filled the White House Briefing Room. The spokesman, still basking in the afterglow of the Navy SEAL team’s operation, announced, “The president announced he would personally thank the Navy SEAL team who killed Osama bin Laden.”
For four days, the nation was treated to hundreds of presidential vignettes regarding his leadership and political courage during that part of American history. The message from the White House was controlled. The media and press weren’t allowed to ask about the former senator’s previously stated virulent antiwar political views when he opposed the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq or when he introduced legislation to end them.
While the president’s polling numbers were expected to rise meteorically, the favorability bounce quickly died, as Americans were more interested in hearing about the assault on Osama bin Laden’s compound and to hear more stories about SEALs, past and present. Nearly everyone in America was more interested in their new heroes than the man who authorized the operation.
Hunter emerged from the toilet carrying a twelve—inch cardboard box and paused to watch the lapdog media on TV. Lynche, engrossed, saw Hunter frowning and turned off the set. Hunter continued his vector to the door and stepped down from the motor coach. Lynche followed with a bag and two sodas.
“I wonder how many victory laps he’ll take before the media realizes he didn’t do a damn thing?” Hunter asked. “He acts like he pulled the trigger. For someone who hates the military and is a pretend commander-in-chief, that’s disgusting. It’s like the CEO of General Motors rushing to Paris to congratulate the Corvette racing team after they won Le Mans. When he gets there, he kicks the driver out of the car and takes victory laps while he waves to the crowd, saying, ‘Look how great and brave I was.’ The man’s a total fricking incompetent and an embarrassment.”
Lynche shook his head. “Wow. Where’d that come from? I have to say I like the analogy, especially in this venue.”
Duncan hadn’t been overtly political for as long as Lynche knew him, but, with the recent election of the junior senator from Michigan, Hunter showed a distinct shift in outlook and displeasure with the new president. There was something about the erudite politician that impressed Lynche while arousing Hunter’s suspicions.
Lynche and his wife were swept up in the high emotion of the election of a historic figure. Some called him a transformational politician. Hunter thought Lynche lost his ability to rationalize. What little was known about the man from Michigan was carefully squelched and obviously choreographed.
Hunter found it difficult to get excited about a red-diaper baby raised by committed Marxists, mentored by committed Marxists, baptized by a committed Marxist, schooled by committed Marxists, and being given kudos and policy advice by committed Marxists. Why those topics weren’t the subject of the media was one of the greatest mysteries of the election.
The media’s cultural code of silence and disinterest in the senator’s past didn’t resemble how the old Communist-run Prada was controlled by the Kremlin, but it resembled the Mafia-influenced omertá. Within Mafia culture, breaking omertá was punishable by death. For all its vaunted tolerance, the political left consistently demonstrated a militant intolerance for dissent. As any Republican soon discovered, any questioning of the Democratic candidate or the new president’s background and character was punished by a thousand cuts from the media.
Hunter, like millions of other Republican sore losers, sniped and fumed, resigned there was nothing to do until the next election.
Hunter just returned from several high-speed laps on the banked track, testing the car’s integrity before handing it over to his mentor and friend. The yellow race car easily sustained 150 mph with a string of other high-performance Corvettes. The weather was perfect for racing. He and Lynche had long planned to get away from the mission grind and do something fun.
When Connie Lynche wanted to give her husband lessons at a racing school for an anniversary gift, Duncan offered to provide the car, track, and the lessons. At first intrigued, Lynche became intimidated when he saw the huge oval raceway with high-banked track. His confidence was shaken as the line of cars roared around the speedway’s NASCAR track. A banked track was an unnatural driving environment for him, and when he wasn’t worrying about killing himself, he worried he would damage Hunter’s favorite antique racecar.
During the breakin racing sessions, Hunter and Lynche sat under an awning attached to the motor coach. Lynche opened the bag, and he and Hunter ate Texas brisket sandwiches before the next session began.
“The guy’s disgusting,” Hunter said. “What he’s doing is disgusting. I’ll be glad when I can turn on the TV and not see his face.”
“Mav, I’m embarrassed that I voted for him.”
Hunter wiped barbecue sauce from the corners of his mouth. “That’s why I quit watching. Break, break. New subject. It’s your turn, good Sir. You saw how easy it is. I guarantee you’ll have a blast. You’ll have fun, Mr. Lynche.”
“So how was it?”
“It’s very spooky the higher you go. The car seems to want to climb right up the bank—a
minor steering correction. It’s intuitive, so you’ll feel it. Then keep up with whoever’s in front of you. It’s your turn.” He opened the box he carried from the coach and handed Lynche a new black helmet wrapped with thick plastic with the word Grinch painted on the back in yellow letters.
“Wow. Thanks, Mav. I still can’t believe you’ll trust me with the Beast.” He wondered if learning to race was a bad idea, but it looked like he would really have to do it.
“You always trusted me with your Skymaster. No factor. Ready to hit the track?”
“I’m not driving that fast.”
As Lynche walked to the bright yellow-and-black 1967 Corvette, Hunter shouted, “If you piss on my seat, you’ll buy me a new car! Go have some fun. I have a feeling our days in the sun are coming to a close.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
1200 May 7, 2011
The Presidential Suite JW Marriott Washington, DC
The pretty blonde reporter with the word FOX on the microphone spoke to the camera. “We’re getting reports from JSOC headquarters that Navy SEALs are grateful for the nation’s show of support but are growing angry with the continued focus on their operations, tactics, and tools, claiming it could jeopardize future raids and their safety. A JSOC spokesman issued the following statement.
“’Anything further that comes out could damage their operational security, may reveal tricks of the trade, or even endanger their families.’ It was a subtle hint that the men of SEAL Team Six would rather this episode in their glorious history pass— the sooner, the better. Back to you in New York.”
Nazy Cunningham pulled the sheet up to her neck, sat up, and leaned against the headboard. “Everyone in the building is in a jubilant mood. The SEALs brought back boxes of laptops, hard drives, and cell phones. The director has been in a horrible mood since bin Laden was taken down. Rumor is that the President almost fired him, because he was looking for someone to blame for all the secret documents posted online. Then a couple days ago, he was bouncing around like he won the lottery. If you’re already almost a billionaire, why would you do that?”
“Maybe he’s had enough,” Hunter said. “You found Osama bin Laden, and it was your finding of the dispatch that forced the White House to approve the raid. As for the DCI, he should be a hero. What does he have to prove? Maybe he has a new boyfriend.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s something else. Women’s intuition.”
“What does that tell you?” He raised bedroom eyes at her.
She smiled and almost giggled. In a sexy voice, she said, “My women’s intuition tells me you missed me very much.”
“That’s true. I came as fast as I could, but I figured you’d be busy for several months with the haul they brought back.”
“The CTC and the FBI are doing all the analyses. I’ll actually have a few days off.”
“Hmmm. So what does your women’s intuition tell you I’m thinking?” He gently tugged the sheet covering her breasts.
“Why, Mr. Hunter, I think you’re very glad to see me.” The pressure on the sheet gently released.
“Why, Ms. Cunningham, I think your women’s intuition is on target again.”
CHAPTER NINE
2100 May 9, 2011
Naval Support Activity Millington, Tennessee
The former fighter pilot Commander-in-Chief left the political stage after eight years with American forces fully engaged, hunting down and killing terrorists in several locations on several continents. The troops loved him when he showed up in Afghanistan in the middle of the night on Thanksgiving to serve them turkey dinner and pumpkin pie. They loved him when he jumped in a jet and landed on a super-carrier coming back from the war. He wanted to fly onto the big deck in a Navy F-18, but the Secret Service vetoed that idea. They didn’t want an uncleared, non-Yankee White pilot taking the President for a joy ride in a jet.
The President relented by flying onto the USS Abraham Lincoln as the copilot of an S-3A Viking with an airsick Secret Service agent in the back. They loved him when he left office, often to meet returning warriors from the war when they landed in Dallas, Texas.
The election of the junior senator from Michigan was viewed as cautiously optimistic. For most of the uniformed services, they reserved judgment. The new president’s proposed social engineering policies were anathema to the rank and file, while his dubious past associations with domestic terrorists, radicals, and communists stretched the limits of credibility. No president could be that far to the left. Honesty, integrity, and leadership were what mattered to the military, both the officer corps and the enlisted ranks.
The new president’s reported associations were incredible and so radical as to be unbelievable, almost un-American. His pastor of twenty years was a venom-spewing racist and anti-Semite, as were his college professors. His neighbors were aggressive radicals and communists actively working to overthrow the government.
There was the head of a large, Black Muslim terrorist group and a husband-and-wife team that made national news as part of a group of unrepentant domestic terrorists who bombed police stations and military installations, killing dozens in uniform. It strained the limits of credulity to believe any American citizen could have been elected being the most-liberal senator in the Senate, or being close friends with avowed communists and Marxist radicals, or were cozy with unrepentant domestic terrorists.
For the mainstream press, the new president got a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. His past associations were viewed as immaterial. After all, he only lived in the neighborhood, and it wasn’t possible to choose one’s neighbors, professors, or pastor.
For a large segment of the intelligence community and professional military, warning bells rang when the conservative, informal media began to accumulate information on the new president. Several military members refused their deployment orders until he could prove he was a natural-born citizen, per the Constitution. When the president’s autobiographies clearly stated he was the son of a British subject and therefore should have been one, too, the press and the left went into hyper-drive to protect their newly elected liberal standard bearer and dismissed anyone who brought up the issue as a nut or an extremist. The national mood reflected the national employment rate—very bad and getting worse.
The country seemed to be bumping around the edges of civil war, with the president openly pitting class warfare and fomenting what some suggested was the beginning of a race war. For the intelligence community and the military, a shift in policies and priorities meant military heroes were removed from commands and replaced by liberal-minded, docile officers, while the intelligence community leadership embarked on fulfilling the president’s priorities of Muslim outreach and hiring more minorities, including those who were openly homosexual.
Morale within the two communities entrusted with national security was at an all-time low, but that was never reported in the press, nor were the reasons for the decrease. It became clearer every day to some that there was an active plan to emasculate the IC and the military. To some, the president crossed the line, and a growing number of his former supporters began working against him and his radical policies.
After three years, despite what the press portrayed, the president was a polarizing national embarrassment. For a military man or woman, there was an expectation of confidence and leadership from the Commander-in-Chief whoever it was. It was very difficult for senior and junior military members to respect their Commander-in-Chief when the president didn’t know the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, refused to put his hand over his heart while the nation anthem played, avoided being photographed with the American flag or a cross, bowed before Muslim leaders when traveling abroad, and spoke well only when he had a teleprompter. Without the device, he sounded like a buffoon.
For someone marketed as the smartest Harvard lawyer ever to hold the office, he completely lost the respect of the majority of the military when, during an awards ceremony at the White House, he called a heroic Navy Corpsman a “
corpse man” several times. To the military, it was obvious that the president was a reader, not a leader.
No one was fooled when he began to take the stage with dozens of Stars and Stripes, neatly folded, prominently displayed. He even started wearing an American flag pin, eliciting comparisons from the political Right to Dracula being able to overcome garlic.
With campaign promises leading to legislation that specifically targeted the good order and discipline of the military, morale continued falling. Polling trended toward a steady decline in American confidence in the president. Pollsters stopped polling troops. Those who returned from firefights in Afghanistan uttered sentiments to family members like, “Feel sorry for those Air Force and Marine aircrews having to transport the POS. We were the lucky ones.”
Some joked privately, “An illegal alien, a Muslim, and a communist walk into a bar. The bartender asks, ‘What can I get you, Mr. President?’”
When the CIA told the president in August, 2010, that they knew with very high probability Osama bin Laden was located in Pakistan, the president forced the military and intelligence community to continue developing intelligence and waited months before ordering an attack. A massive intelligence leak that strongly suggested Osama bin Laden’s location in Pakistan compelled the president to order a nighttime assault. He told the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs he still had to “sleep on it” before giving the execution order.
On the first of May, the president announced that the United States conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden. Osama bin Laden was taken down by a large contingent of US Naval Special Warfare Development Group, formally DEVGRU, informally as SEAL Team Six. Afterward, politicians had to applaud the president’s leadership in killing the world’s most wanted terrorist.
The political left and the media stepped up their slobbering over the president, marketing how brave he was and over-extolling the organization that did the deed.
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