Sean knew the CSM had responsibilities that exceeded his own on his worst day. Not only that the experience and level of professionalism embodied in a man holding that position was of the highest possible caliber. He was the senior enlisted man in all of SOCOM.
“The General asked me to come see how you were doing, Major. I think he wants to know when you’ll be up to adding to your own fruit salad.” The CSM pointed to the large number of commendation ribbons on his chest to add emphasis.
Sean noticed there was a Purple Heart with four oak leaf clusters included on his chest, plus a Silver Star ribbon. “Oh, I guess I’m doing as well as could be expected. That is, if a staph infection is expected. You know, they were actually going to take my arm, too, until Linda, I mean Lieutenant Sharpe, stepped in and told them to fuck off.”
“Yes, sir, I heard about that.” With a big smile the CSM said, “I don’t think I’d EVER want that ‘L.T.’ pissed at me. Know what I mean, Major?”
Sean broke out with a deep chuckle of his own. “Guess it’s pretty obvious that she’s staked out her territory, huh?”
“Just within most of SOCOM and among virtually every doctor and nurse working at Walter Reed. By the way and off the record,” the CSM lowered his voice, “the General approves. He also wants to keep you both, even though she seems insistent on out-processing. Anything you can do about that?”
Sean shook his head sadly. “No, Sergeant Major, I don’t think I’m going to change her mind on this one. I’m not sure what she’ll be doing going forward, but being an Army officer is not going to be part of it.”
The CSM turned to Penny Callahan and politely asked, “Ma’am, is there any way we could have some privacy? I need to get into some classified things with your son, and although I know I can trust you…”
Penny waved the CSM off with a smile. “No need to ask more than once. I’ve got some after-Christmas cookies to put into the oven. Will thirty minutes be enough time for you boys?” Penny’s conspiratorial smile showed an instinct about how to get a man’s attention.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Thirty should do just fine,” said the grizzled CSM.
“One last important question, gentlemen,” she said with authority. “Milk or coffee?”
“Milk for me, Mom. Thanks!”
“I think I’ll go that way myself. Thank you, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Oh, call me Penny, please.” She left and could be heard quietly walking downstairs.
After a moment to collect his thoughts, the CSM said, “Major, do you know what your plans are after you complete your convalescent leave?”
“What do you mean? We both know the regs, and one leg doesn’t let a man stay in Special Forces. Maybe someplace in the regular Army would take me, but I really don’t have any interest in doing that.”
“Well, Major, if you want it, the General does want you to stay in SOCOM and wants you to take over a newly created Battalion with a very covert mission. I can’t go into it with you until you first say yes, and then the offer will be presuming you are able to pass the physical fitness test with your new bionic leg. I’m sure you will since I’m giving it to you myself. You also get a promotion out of it as well. Is that something that might interest you?”
Sean sat quietly in his bed for a full ten count. Going through his head were several questions. Chief among them was what kind of shit-sandwich did the General think he could possibly handle better than all the other available competent officers that were physically healthy. In fact, it was astounding that the offer was being made when he still had at least three months, and probably more like six months, of intensive physical therapy to complete before he would be anywhere near ready to take a fitness test.
“Sergeant-Major? I’ll give you a conditional ‘yes,’ but the answer will be ‘no’ unless you give me a hell of a lot more details about what this battalion will be doing. Let’s just say I’m not particularly trusting when it comes to the current administration.”
Nodding his head in agreement, the CSM said, “The General said you’d need to know. So here it is. And this is classified TS-plus. Capiche?”
Sean nodded.
“The President has ordered the SecDef to start standing up a battalion sized unit of Special Forces trained troops for a possible insurrection within the United States. The Bitch thinks as the economy continues to tank, and with potential loss of such things as power and water, there will be those that won’t want to follow her emergency mandates.” The CSM paused to let that sink in for Sean.
Continuing, the CSM said, “The General initially didn’t want anything to do with this. His thinking was, why wouldn’t she use National Guard or regular Army troops? Then it occurred to him, she knows SF had extensive training in convincing people to do things they don’t want to do. They are also used to getting orders that are, shall we say, a bit outside of the norm.” This put a slight smile on the CSM’s face.
“Sergeant-Major, why would the General even consider this? He knows the Posse Comitatus Act doesn’t allow the use of U.S. troops in the U.S for police actions. What’s he really up to?” Sean had a healthy respect for the Commanding General and thought like all Special Operators do, looking behind the obvious.
“Major, the General thinks if he takes on this mission willingly, he will be in the position to mitigate the worst of the potential abuses and prevent some other knuckle draggers from stepping in and destroying the country from within. It’s going to be frustrating, ugly work, but he thinks you are the best man for the job. It’ll take at least four months to organize and gather all the necessary equipment. If you can talk Lieutenant Sharpe out of out-processing, you can have her run one of your companies.”
“You know that’s not going to happen, Sergeant-Major. Nor should it for a number of reasons, including I should not be in her chain of command. More importantly, does the General know that I lost a leg and have a long way to go before I will be physically able to assume command? Presuming, of course, that I can even pass the physical.” Sean’s head was still spinning from suddenly being offered a command again, despite everything that had happened.
“Major,” the CSM said kindly, “the physical won’t be a problem and the General knows exactly what your status is. He plans to make use of it to delay actually getting the unit up and running. That info, like everything I’m telling you today, should not go past this room. Understand?”
At Sean’s nod, the CSM continued, “You’re an honest-to-God war hero now, so you probably ought to start wrapping your head around that idea. What we’re gonna do is get you set up, in this very room, with a full communications suite, including secure safe and the works. The General also thought you might not be able to prevail upon the good Lieutenant to stick around in the Army, so there is a company that specializes in providing specialists with security clearances to the government. She can be hired and placed here as a civilian contractor to handle your security and communications gear. I presume you’d prefer that to having a four-man security detail assigned out of MacDill Air Force Base.”
Sean nodded his head again, with a look of spreading amazement.
“Just so that you know, sir, the troops and your subordinate officers will all be told that you are at an undisclosed location receiving briefings and continuing to recover from your wounds. You being located here, at your parent’s home in Kentucky, will hereafter be officially buried. Although the NSA always has a record of where their highest level of classified equipment is located, in this case it is simply ‘on assignment in the field’ to SOCOM. I have to say, sir, that day before yesterday was one of my more enjoyable encounters when I looked the NSA liaison in the eye and informed him that, by direction of the President, they were not to be informed where the equipment was located, and that the tr
acking capability had been digitally removed from the signal. Something to do with the way it is bounced around the Internet, satellites or something. I don’t frankly understand it, but the geek back at SOCOM assured me that was the case. The General received blanket authority from the President through the SecDef, so that’s all he needed.” The huge grin on the CSM’s face confirmed the truth of his enjoyment at the encounter.
The CSM continued, “Now, sir, I know this is a lot to take in, especially in light of your injuries. With your permission, what I’ll do next is, number one, talk to your mom and tell her just enough to get her permission to turn this bedroom into a secure work environment, or SWE. That’ll let us bring in and store the safe and other equipment.”
“Hmm,” the CSM paused for more thought, “that will require that it be manned 24/7, so maybe I had best detail eight men to provide that security and coverage; will also have to make sure they bring a full kit of equipment, weapons, and ammo. Any suggestions of who should get the duty?”
With his mind still reeling, Sean gave the CSM eight names of men from his company in Colorado that did not have families and could be trusted. “Sergeant-Major? How long do you anticipate this arrangement to be necessary?”
“Sir, let’s look at six to ten months and reassess as we go along. And by the way, you will have a direct line to me twenty-four seven through a secure phone should any issues arise that you can’t handle. If I can’t handle it, the General can. Also, the men chosen to fill out the officer corps for the new battalion do not include anyone that you know. That was done by design, and I think you can probably figure out why. You’ll essentially be commanding and getting reports from them via secure video conference.”
The CSM went on, “The second thing I will be arranging is a small team from MacDill to come here and physically set up the SWE. That is currently scheduled to begin in two days. You’ll have to handle any questions that arise here locally. As soon as the SWE is established, you will get your official orders and a call from the General. In the meantime, Lieutenant Sharpe’s out-processing has been delayed and she has received classified orders to come here without telling a soul where she is going. I understand she will be arriving later this afternoon. And, sir, think carefully before you answer. Did you get notification from her that she was on her way?”
“Relax, Harold,” Sean said, using the CSM’s first name to show the kind of confidential relationship those in SOCOM enjoyed the most. “She hasn’t said a word to me about her coming. She’s up there with the best I’ve ever seen and completely professional.”
The CSM visibly relaxed and gratefully nodded at Sean. “Sir, that’s going to be up to you how you recruit her, but I’d love to be a fly on the wall when she walks in here later today.” Both men chuckled at the thought.
Chapter 6
Christmas - Plus Three Days
The Pen and Ink Saloon
Frankfort, Kentucky
2000 Hours EST
Kerry DuBois sat in his chair in the private room above the Pen and Ink Saloon in Kentucky’s state capital. The room looked like an attempt was made to create a high class boardroom, but with a lumberjack as the designer. Lots of stained wood and brass, but with a total lack of class. Kerry’s job in the Kentucky Transportation Cabinet didn’t pay enough to be able to afford even this setting, but through various dealings and acquaintances, he was able to live well above his means. Kerry had just slurped down his second double scotch and was lamenting the fact the cute bar girl, whose nice, tight ass he had been blatantly admiring, had been sent away when the meeting got started.
In a rough circle of overstuffed chairs sat men he thought of privately as his minions, but could more accurately be described as his cronies. Jerry “The Tank” Monahan was a convicted felon who owned the saloon through a shell company. He had gone mostly legitimate after his release from prison for illegal drug sales, preferring to use the money obtained earlier through those sales and other ill-gotten gains to buy political favors. This, of course, added to his fortune by opening doors to government contracts. A large, grizzled man in his mid-60s with reddening jowls, Tank gave the impression of being the Kentucky version of a Mafia don.
Freddy Dobson, sitting with an extremely bored expression to go with his pale face, was the antithesis of Tank. Freddy came from an East Coast family with a great deal of money. His father had worked very hard to accumulate his fortune, but those genes apparently didn’t pass on to Freddy. In disgust at his son’s irresponsible, partying ways, his father had sent the 27-year-old Freddy to the family horse farm in Central Kentucky two years earlier, where the hard-nosed Irish farm manager was supposed to teach the boy how to operate a business and help him grow up. The manager’s gambling habit had insured Freddy’s father received good reports and had cost only an initial sixty thousand dollars to pay off his gambling debt. Other periodic costs of an additional five or ten thousand dollars from Freddy’s trust funds continued to bail the manager out of more trouble. Freddy considered the farm manager one of his better investments. After meeting Kerry at a political fund raiser, life had gotten much more interesting for Freddy, but was still barely enough to tear him away from the girls provided by the local escort service.
Mickey Blondiac, known as Blondi, was the only man in the room, besides Kerry, that held a regular job. Blondi, with his trademark blond hair, published a weekly newspaper column dealing with political issues in Kentucky. During the campaign season, his column ran daily. Blondi had known Kerry in college at the University of California, Berkley and had taken Kerry’s suggestion to move to Kentucky after he was caught in bed with his editor’s boyfriend. Blondi had developed excellent sources throughout the area for all things involving politics and the dirt associated with state and local governments.
John Chapman had been the Lieutenant Governor in the previous administration and had contacts in almost all of state government. This included those parts that he deemed important due to their significant budgets, like the National Guard and Transportation Cabinet. John had been a community organizer in Louisville before being discovered and catapulted into office by the quiet support of Tank Monahan. John’s brother-in-law was General Steven Thompson, the Commander of the Kentucky Army National Guard.
“Well, John, what’s the word from your special source?” Knowing John made it a point to meet with his brother-in-law regularly, Kerry asked the question to start the official part of the meeting. Up until then, Blondi and Kerry had been joking with Tank about how often he enjoyed the services of the cute bar girl that had just left.
“He’s at the Pentagon right now, having some sort of super-secret meeting that he won’t even talk about with his wife. From some friends in the Fontaine administration, I’m hearing that as the economy keeps getting worse, there’s talk about another stimulus package coming down the pike. There are also moves in the Department of Homeland Security to start preparin’ for a declaration of emergency. The way they’re talking now is Homeland Security is going to set up regions and expect the National Guard to support anything they think they need to do.” With this comment, John couldn’t help but smile. “Normally, if there were some sort of emergency in the state, the Governor would have to request federal assistance, and he would run things through the state government. Now, it looks like federal aid is probably going to run separately. And you know who is in charge of the region covering Kentucky, West Virginia, and Tennessee? None other than our own state democratic party chairman.”
The surprised looks came from each of the others present. Even Freddy sat up before asking, “You mean that ol’ Coyote Collins you guys keep talking about is really going to be running things?”
Everyone had heard the story about how Coyote had gotten his name. One day in high school he brought in a coyote he had run over in his ancient pickup truck. H
e wanted to put the carcass in the cafeteria refrigerator until he could skin it and mount it later. His friends began calling him Coyote, and from that day on, he wouldn’t answer to anything else.
“Yep, that’s the one,” John said grinning ear to ear. “Coyote is going to not only be in charge of everything in his three states, but he’ll have the National Guard to order around in support of his Homeland Security officials.”
John said the word, ‘officials’ with the kind of emphasis an organized crime figure would use to describe his thugs or enforcers. “Should learn a lot more when my special source gets back.”
All around the room each man was calculating how he would be able to take advantage of the new situation for personal power, influence and profit.
. . .
Washington, DC
2100 Hours EST
President Katherine Fontaine’s husband, Walter, had just finished a meeting with three of his closest friends. He had wanted to discuss the terrible economic situation and how he could continue to insure his own investments didn’t slide down the chute like the rest of the economy. Just over six feet tall and a pudgy 250 pounds, Walter’s power came from his suave demeanor that could charm the socks off a snake, if a snake had socks. Two of the three men were with a prominent Wall Street brokerage house. The third, like the other two, had steered several donations, including a few that could be counted in eight figures, to the Fontaine Foundation. Much of the foundation’s assets were located offshore, helping to prevent federal investigators discovering that less than ten percent of the foundation contributions actually went to charitable causes. Instead, it was essentially a private slush fund used by Walter and Katherine for political and personal expenses. It had also provided a big chunk of seed money to Walter’s retirement fund. All three of Walter’s friends had assured him that the retirement funds were as close to recession/depression proof as possible.
The Final Proclamation (An America Reborn Thriller Book 2) Page 4