The seat to his left stayed empty. That was the seat for the S-1, Operations, which is where he sat when the commanding officer was on hand.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” he said, still standing. “I know you have a lot of work to do, but this meeting comes at a critical point in the history of Operation Overtime. First, to allay any fears that General Angriff may have been injured or even killed, he is in good health. The purpose for this meeting is otherwise.
“I think we can all agree that Operations Overtime and Comeback are unique in the annals of human history. Even dreaming up something on this scale is beyond the ability of most people, and from their very beginning, Operations Overtime and Comeback were designed as a single overall mission. The purpose of that mission was to protect the unique American experience against any potentiality. When we all agreed to undergo Long Sleep and joined in this mission, we also accepted the chain of command that was put in place by the founder of these extraordinary operations.
“That chain of command was interrupted when General Angriff was illegally raised to the rank of General of the Army. I say illegally because the order, which I have personally observed, was voted on by a Congress that cannot be verified to have been elected according to the Constitution, and signed by a president that existing records do not even acknowledge to have lived.”
Sitting to Colonel Saw’s right, Rip Kordibowski raised a finger to indicate he wanted to ask a question. It was rude under the customary rules of a briefing by the commanding officer, and Saw ignored him.
“Many of our brothers and sisters in arms at Operation Comeback strongly believe that General Angriff has usurped the command that rightly belongs to another. Our situation demands unity of purpose, which we currently do not have. Therefore, after careful consideration as the acting commander of Operation Overtime, I have decided to restore the chain of command as it was originally intended to be. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the father and commanding officer of Operations Overtime and Comeback, General of the Army Thomas Francis Steeple.”
#
Steeple had presided over countless meetings in his long career and rarely felt nervous about them. Only when in the presence of superiors did his stomach churn with anxiety, and for all of his time as Chief of the General Staff and, later, as the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, that number had been exactly one; the president, the only person who could fire him. So the queasy feeling as he entered the conference room was new.
Adder went first. The intended intimidation of his hulking presence and scarred face couldn’t be missed, nor could its message; Tom Steeple had powerful allies. Adder took the third seat on the left, the empty place where Green Ghost usually sat. Next to enter was the newly reinstated Colonel Claringdon, who sat in the seat reserved for the S-1, Personnel, where Khin Saw usually sat. Saw, meanwhile, waited until Steeple entered, then saluted to indicate he was reporting for duty and as a sign of subservience. He then slid down to the S-3 slot, prompting the others at the table to exchange glances; that was Norm Fleming’s place.
The rest of the table was lined with his appointees, hand-selected for their personal loyalty to him. It wasn’t like Steeple to have such a show of force in a meeting. He’d often said, “Those who have to portray their power have less than they believe.” Few people ever held more actual power than Tom Steeple had as the long-time Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and he had always downplayed that power, but not this time. This time they all needed to see his power.
“Good morning,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. As he spoke, his gaze swept around the table, meeting the eyes of every attendee before moving on, and a feeling of warm welcome gave strength to his voice. With the exception of Colonel Kordibowski, Steeple thought of these as his people, not his friends, exactly, more like his followers.
“Forgive me if I seem emotional, but this is a day I was unsure would ever come. This day, this moment, is the culmination of my professional life’s work. And now that it’s come, it seems surreal… but enough of that. Colonel Saw, as acting commander of Operation Overtime, has turned over command to me, but as the dutiful officer that he is, he only did do so after I proved to him that the position is rightfully mine.”
With that, he smiled down on the colonel like a beneficent pope greeting a child in Vatican Square. Colonel Saw, on the other hand, squirmed in his seat.
Kordibowski wasn’t so shy and interrupted without raising his hand. “Were the charges against you dismissed by General Angriff?”
For those familiar with Steeples’ moods and facial tics, the broadened grin indicated rage, as did the slightly widened eyes. The placating tone of his answer warned of dangerous consequences to the questioner. “The charges had no validity in the first place; therefore their dismissal proved unnecessary.”
But Kordibowski pressed on regardless of what might happen to him. “Who released you from the stockade?”
“That’s not important, Colonel.”
“Maybe not to you—”
“Please await me in your quarters, Colonel. I’ll be there as soon as the meeting ends.”
With a finger, he beckoned Adder out of his seat. When Adder bent close, he whispered, “Take him to the stockade and put him in my old cell. Let’s see if that shuts him up. Use whatever force is necessary.”
The former squad commander for Task Force Zombie replied, his voice louder than Steeple would have liked. “Finally some fun.”
He stood behind Kordibowski’s seat and motioned one of the guards to join him.
The Intelligence officer glanced over each shoulder and rose. “Nothing but yes men, eh, General?”
“There are ladies present, too, Colonel,” Steeple replied with a small bow of his head. He resumed once Kordibowski had left the room. “As I was saying, we’ve lost nearly a year now. Mistakes have been made, lives lost, and potential allies turned into enemies. But that’s going to change and that change starts right this minute. From now on, we negotiate first and shoot only as a last resort. Within three years, I want a functioning country again, even if it’s not precisely what we would like it to be. America must rise from the ashes.”
That brought a round of applause. Steeple studied every person at the table as they clapped, noting who clapped enthusiastically and who was going through the motions. Colonel Saw disappointed him with a polite but listless clap.
“I will meet with each of you in private to discuss your current status and both short- and long-range plans. Any questions you may ask then. For now, it’s time to get back to work.”
#
Operation Comeback
1032 hours, April 28
The file was one of thousands General Schiller had scrolled through on his computer monitor as he investigated the missing Stingers. Now that he had solved that mystery, he could go on to other things. The particular file he was reading wasn’t flagged and there seemed no special significance to it, but his particular talent was in recognizing important anomalies. The file’s name read HAPTIX 7.2.2. When he opened the file, the title at the top read Hand Proprioception and Touch Interfaces, External; the supplier’s name read DARPA.
The tips of his ears warmed and turned red, one of the only physical reactions William Schiller had to excitement. It made him shy around women and a terrible poker player. When something involved the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, it promised to be ground-breaking technology, and Comeback had more than its share of such surprises. When he looked at its physical location within the complex, he didn’t recognize the designation — GOATS.
The file showed a pair of items that appeared more like medieval gauntlets than gloves, with operating instructions, a key for the meaning of the numbered arrows pointing toward points on the devices, and how to adjust them to a particular hand. Along with them went something called a Smart Decal.
“Corporal Duglach,” he said into the intercom receiver, “please come here.”
> When Duglach entered the commander’s office, worry twisted his face, but Schiller stared at the monitor and didn’t look up. “Sir?”
“Do we have something called GOATS here?”
The question clearly surprised Duglach. “Yes, General, we do.”
“Is that an acronym or do we have animals in a holding pen somewhere?”
“It’s part of the compound. I’ve only seen it from down the hall, sir, but I think it stands for General Officer Access Top Secret.”
“And where is this section?”
#
Rio Rancho, New Mexico
1214 hours, April 28
Lying prone on the narrow table, head facing down through a hole in the wood with edges lined in soft leather, Abdul-Qudoos Fadil el Mofty moaned as the woman’s fingers dug deep into the tight muscles of his neck. Her name was Joan and she was an infidel, but he didn’t give two shits if she worshipped Satan himself. It was irrelevant when stacked up against her magic elbows. Joan knew where all of the trigger points were in his muscles and used the perfect amount of pressure to release them. Her training had taken years and he didn’t give a rat’s ass whether she converted to his brother’s cult or not. As long as she filled him with endorphins and kept her mouth shut, Joan was safe.
He’d fallen asleep beneath her ministrations when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Without opening his eyes, he rolled over so Joan could work on his legs, torso, and shoulders. And his hands, too, particularly the thumbs, where arthritis left both so painful that sometimes he couldn’t pick up a mug of coffee.
But it wasn’t Joan who spoke to him. It was his nephew, Sati Bashara. “Forgive the intrusion, Uncle.”
El Mofty opened his right eye and scowled. “What?” he said, the single word conveying his irritation at having his moment of tranquility interrupted.
Sati bowed his head. “General Muhdin would see you, Uncle. Riders have returned. We have news.”
The Emir wanted to scream. He was sick to death of being the Emir. Not the perks, just the work. Instead, he closed his eyes and rubbed them. It felt so good. “Tell Muhdin I will join him in a moment.”
“You do not wish to see him now?”
“No, I do not wish to see him now!” he exploded. Trying to be unobtrusive in the corner, Joan shrank back even more. Sati’s disapproving glance at her wasn’t lost on the Emir, but for the moment he allowed his anger to vent. “Tell him I will join him shortly.”
Sati bowed and walked out backward. When he was gone, the Emir reverted to being Larry Armstrong for a moment. “C’mere, baby,” he said, and Joan slid over to the table.
#
The home el Mofty had made into his headquarters sprawled atop a rocky hill overlooking an old golf course. Huge picture windows allowed light in from all four directions and by some miracle, most of the glass remained intact. Much of the furniture also remained usable, as the house’s position and limited access made looting it difficult. Other than the usual squirrels and mice, the only thing of note that his men had cleared before he occupied the house was a nest of Western diamondback rattlesnakes that hadn’t scattered yet after the winter hibernation. The men had offered him some of the snake meat but he’d declined, telling them since they had killed the snakes, they deserved the meat. The truth was he preferred eating his shoe to eating a reptile.
Emerging from the back bedroom, he found Muhdin, Bashara, and several of his advisors standing around the picture window looking down on the 18th green. On the table behind them, a metal box overflowed with golf balls, many of them showing no damage from use. The first thing el Mofty had done on entering Albuquerque was order his men to scavenge anything of use, with golf balls being a high priority. Several sets of clubs also lay on the floor in golf bags.
They turned as he pulled out a chair and sat. “What was so important that I had to be interrupted?”
As if on cue, the men all turned to Muhdin.
“Many of our scouting parties have come back, Excellency, and bring news of our enemies.”
“Well?”
Muhdin cleared his throat. “In the west, one group encountered Americans and drove them into a cave, where they are trapped. While attacking this cave, they were attacked in turn by Apaches, but they drove them off. A second group has now joined our men.”
“This was in the west.”
“Yes, the farthest group in the west.”
“Go on.”
“Another western group, which was supposed to be up in the Gallup area, hasn’t been heard from for several days. It could just be a radio problem—”
“They are very good radios,” chimed in Ibrahim Yaleen, one of el Mofty’s least favorite people. He was the Minister of Production for the Caliphate, however, and procurement of equipment came under his responsibility. “Most likely one of your horsemen dropped it.”
“My horsemen know the value of a radio, Senior Minister!”
“Apparently not, General, otherwise—”
“Enough!” cried el Mofty. “If I wished to hear bickering, I could have brought my wives! Continue with your report, Hussein.”
Both men bowed in apology. “The center groups have encountered men of the so-called Shangri-La to the northwest, north, and northeast of our current position. The eastern groups report nothing more than scattered settlements.”
“There is no sign of the Americans?”
“No, Excellency, except the small number in the west. But the failure of one group to report I believe to be cause for concern. At least for caution.”
“It worries me as well, Muhdin, but my brother, our beloved Prophet, already chaffs at our inaction. He wants proof that the expense of pouring so many of the Caliphate’s resources into this army was worth it. If I now have to tell him that we have found no reason to delay our move against the infidels other than one reconnaissance group of cavalry going silent, he will be very angry. He will begin to question the leadership of this army. I do not think any of us wants that.”
“No, Excellency, of course not.”
“You are prepared to put your attack plan into action?”
“Of course, whenever you give the word.”
“Consider the word given, then. Send your outriders to the west and east to seal them in their valley, after which we will attack with the main force.”
“Do you still intend to use the infidels as human shields?”
“Of course. What else would we do with them?”
“May I ask, O Blessed One, if you still intend for the woman Tracy Gollins to participate in our actions?” interjected Yaleen.
El Mofty’s voice dropped into a hoarse stage whisper so low they all had to strain to hear him. “Have I not made myself clear on this matter, Senior Minister? Or do you challenge my decision?”
“I would never challenge you, Excellency,” Yaleen said with less of an apologetic tone than El Mofty wanted to hear. “I merely wished to verify your decision.”
“If you ever question me again, Yaleen, it will mean your head. Tracy Gollins is leading one of the regiments and there is nothing more to be said on the matter. She is more of a warrior than most men in my army, and is more ruthless than any of you here. Women are meant to be seen and not heard, it is true, but when you question me, you question the will of Allah. Is that what you are doing, questioning Allah?”
“Never, O Blessed One.”
“Good. Let us speak no more of this.”
Once his visitors had left, including his nephew, the Emir sank into a chair wearing a dark scowl. A servant came in to see if he required anything.
“Send word to General Gollins that I wish to see her.”
#
1521 hours
El Mofty lay on his bed with the drapes closed, trying to nap in the stifling heat of the late New Mexico spring afternoon. With an arm shielding his eyes, he heard the door open and one of his servants start to speak, only to be cut off by an all-too-familiar female voice.
“I’m here. Wha
t do you want?”
Moving his arm, el Mofty saw the guard standing in the doorway, wearing his anxiety on his face. “Leave us,” he said, and the guard quickly scooted backward and closed the door.
“Where’s the poison dwarf?” the woman named Tracy Gollins said.
El Mofty sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The mattress was very old, yet still remarkably comfortable. He hated having to get up from it. “You know he’s back in Houston with my brother. Besides, that’s no way to speak about your father’s most senior advisor.”
“What do you want, Your Majesty?”
El Mofty squinted. “One of these days, you’re going to slip up and say that in front of the wrong people. They already want to know why you’re even allowed to come along on this expedition, much less lead men into battle.”
“Is that why I’m here? You dragged me away from my regiment to tell me the boys don’t like me? Like that’s news…”
“It’s dangerous for you to have your command and you know it. Just because I’m your father doesn’t mean anything since we can’t tell them that, and even if we could, that wouldn’t make any difference. They’d still expect you to wear black and spit out babies.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“That’s not the point. We’ve been over all of this a dozen times… I want you to get battle experience and earn their respect, not piss them off more than they already are.”
“What did I do?”
“Look, some of these people are whack jobs, okay? Just be careful. And beat them all into Shangri-La so I can point to that success as proof of your talent for command.”
“Can I go now?”
“Win and win fast, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
#
Chapter 48
A very little key will open a very heavy door.
Charles Dickens
Groom Lake Air Force Facility
1540 hours, April 28
Standing Before Hell's Gate Page 25