by Don Brown
“What’s your point?”
“No point. Just that you’re a lucky guy.”
“You’re not planning to let anybody see those pictures?”
“Now, why would I do such a thing? In fact, once you help us the way we need to be helped, we might just forget all these little bitty pickies. Ha-ha!”
It was a classic mobster blackmail power play. Chuckie had heard of it a hundred times. The Washington rumor mill had it that someone had gotten to Republican Chief Justice John Roberts with some sort of threat or blackmail, which was the only rational explanation Chuckie could think of for Roberts’s strange switch to author a bizarre opinion upholding the Affordable Care Act on a “taxation” theory that not even the Obama administration lawyers had advocated.
Now Chuckie was staring a blackmail power play right in the face. Come what may, he had to play a cool hand. He couldn’t let this slime-ball see his forehead sweat or detect any other signs manifesting his inner turmoil.
“Okay, you’ve made your point. What do you want me to do?”
“Now that you mention it . . . See, the family is worried about a certain piece of legislation about to float before Congress.”
“What legislation would that be?”
“Well, as you may or may not know, a lot of our business depends on deliveries by sea into the great ports of this nation, and even the lesser ports of this nation. So this drone project we’ve been hearing about? This ain’t good for the family business. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”
“And this Navy commander at the Pentagon . . . what’s his name?” Vinnie reached into his shirt pocket and extracted an index card. “Ah, yes. This Lieutenant Commander MacDonald who might be writing some opinion to the Navy Secretary supporting this project, well, we don’t need none of that. We need that project opposed. Do you hear me, Senator?”
“I hear you.”
“So do your job, Chuckie.” Vinnie pulled out the black-and-white picture of the kissing scene in Chuckie’s office and smiled. “Your job is to provide excellent constituent services and kill this contract at all costs. Nip it in the bud so the Secretary of the Navy doesn’t even want it. Am I clear on the family’s needs here?”
“Loud and clear.”
“All right. I think we’re done, Senator. Failure on your part ain’t an option. And remember, I bet there’s more pictures where those came from. Kristina’s making more on the family payroll than you can afford to pay her.” He looked at his watch. “Now, your car should be out there in front of the bar waiting for you right about now. I don’t need you here no more. Not for now, anyway. You’d better get going. You got some work to do.”
Chuckie stood and looked at the tattooed human reptile. “Don’t worry, Vinnie. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He flashed another sarcastic grin, then slapped Chuckie on the back. “You know, Chuckie, you help us pull this off, and ole Phil’s going to be a happy camper. In fact, he might even help you become president, where you could really do a lot of good for business. Know what I mean?” A disgusting guffaw. Another cheesy slap on the back. “Okay, Senator. I think you’ve got a hot little twenty-five-year-old intern waiting for you outside.”
Chuckie turned from him and walked down the long, narrow bar, out the front door, and onto the sidewalk, where, just as the scum said, Kristina McRaven was already waiting for him.
Obviously she had been a plant, albeit a very hot-looking plant. And he had taken the bait.
He should have known better.
He got into the backseat of the Taurus.
“Did you have a nice meeting, Senator?”
The phoniness in her voice made him want to puke, reminding him of the pact he had made with the devil from the beginning. Politics in modern America was about selling one’s soul. Democrats morphed into Republicans. Republicans morphed into Democrats. They talked a different game on the outside, but they were all the same behind closed doors.
With few exceptions, the implicit Washington mantra was more power, more money, more freewheeling sex. More service from sycophantic staffers, more attention and adulation from the common minions over whom one lorded, more extraction of the ignorant commoners’ wages, all to fulfill the Washington mantra, swirling without end to achieve for the politician more, more, and even a greater more. The goal was taking more of all that could be grasped and to enjoy a life of an intoxicating power-money-sex-dom before the devil came to claim what had been bargained for in the beginning—the politician’s soul. He had been warned many times that the politician’s soul would die long before the body was laid in a casket.
Senator Charles E. Rodino, D-NY, like most of his colleagues on both sides of the aisle, had taken the deal, had mortgaged his soul, and gambled that he would enjoy the pinnacle of power and riches before the devil filed mortgage on his collateral.
If good fortune chose to shine before the soul was gone, perhaps a cabinet position, as had happened with former senators Bobby Kennedy, Hillary Clinton, and John Kerry. Or perhaps even vice presidential consideration, as happened with former senators Johnny Edwards and Joe Biden.
That was the goal—before the final sale of the soul.
But now, unfortunately, it appeared his career might be cut short of all that. Now the agents of the devil with whom he’d made his pact held photographic evidence that could end his career tomorrow. With a snap of the finger, they could make him the next Gary Hart, or Eliot Spitzer, or Mark Sanford, or Johnny Edwards.
They already thought they owned him from the campaign contributions they had arranged. But now all doubt had vanished. Now it was become their full-time lackey or bust.
If he didn’t deliver, Chuckie Rodino would become a first-term bust like Johnny Edwards.
He had to stop this drone contract, come hell or high water, and he would pull out all the stops.
“Take me to the office, Kristina. I’ve got some calls to make.”
FORT BELVOIR OFFICERS’ CLUB
5500 SCHULZ CIRCLE
FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA
OVERLOOKING THE POTOMAC
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
In most cases, United States naval stations and bases around the world, from a standpoint of beauty, scenery, desirability, and weather, beat all other duty stations from the four other armed services hands down.
But to every rule there was an exception. And while places like Fort Bragg and Fort Campbell and Fort Benning and Fort Dix could not compete with anything the Navy offered, duty-station wise, the Army did contain a couple of well-kept secrets.
Unfortunately, one of those secrets, the gorgeous Fort Ord Army base on the breathtaking Monterey Peninsula in California, was closed in 1994.
The other, located on the other side of the continent, just outside of Washington, DC, and sitting above the Potomac River, five miles downriver from Washington’s estate at Mount Vernon, was the breathtaking U.S. Army base at Fort Belvoir.
When Caroline had received orders to go to Washington from San Diego, she had expected a substantial drop in the scenery quotient. But then when she arrived at her temporary quarters at the BOQ at Fort Belvoir, she discovered, inadvertently, the Army’s best-kept secret.
Frankly, she wished she would be able to stay at Fort Belvoir a bit longer, to enjoy the idyllic setting, if nothing else. But Gunner had made a call in advance to a realtor buddy of his in the DC area who had located a furnished townhouse within the next couple of days.
Sitting at her table in the officers’ club, overlooking the dogwood flowers blooming down the green banks all the way to the gorgeous blue Potomac River, Caroline found herself awash in thought.
So much to do, so little time.
Let’s see, she was scheduled to report to Code 13 at the Pentagon by Friday.
P.J.
Tomorrow she would see him. The circumstances would be harmless enough. The run from the Pentagon into DC and back would provide a venue the
y both would enjoy while participating in an exercise they both enjoyed.
Running had a way of removing pent-up anxiety, and running with a partner almost always generated a bonding effect to one degree or another between the runners. If tomorrow’s scenic jog led to a re-ignition of their relationship, then so be it. If there was no new spark, then so be it. Either way, she had decided to leave it all to the Lord.
Still, the mere thought of P.J. caused her heart to skip a beat.
How she wished this weren’t the case, but just being in the same area with him again, even before she had reported for duty, had an unexpected effect on her psyche.
Even when they were a continent apart, even with no commitments either way, the thought of him had been enough to stave off advances from the ultra-handsome skipper of the USS Cape St. George, Paul Kriete.
What a handsome, rock-solid hunk Kriete was. Without the still-lingering memories of P.J., she would have gone out with him in a heartbeat.
How ironic that the three of them would wind up serving in Washington together now that Kriete had accepted his new position as commander of the Navy’s newly minted drone project, Operation Blue Jay.
Even still, Caroline had no worries that things would become awkward between the three of them. Kriete’s responsibilities would demand all his time and set him running in circles at the highest echelons of the Navy. Commander Rob Turner, the new interim CO of the Cape St. George, had been right about one thing: Paul Kriete would soon become a rear admiral.
How easy it would have been to hitch her wagon to a shooting star.
And how tempting.
“Care for more water, Commander?”
She looked up. Her waiter, a distinguished, late-sixtyish-looking silver-haired gentleman, was holding a silver tray and spoke in a rural Virginia brogue.
“Ah yes, George. Thank you. And you can also bring the check, please.”
“Certainly, Lieutenant.”
Caroline forked her grilled chicken salad, lamenting the fact that she had paid for it but eaten little of it, in part because a nervous stomach had quelled her appetite.
Her phone rang. She fished it out of her purse.
Capt. Paul Kriete, USN.
What? Her heart shifted into sudden overdrive. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Caroline. How are you?”
“Fine, sir. How about you?”
“Okay. Just got to Washington and I miss my ship already. I know this is a big job and all, but the Navy isn’t for landlubbers.”
The waiter returned and put the check on her table. “Well, you were a great ship commander, Captain, and I know you’ll be superb in this job as well.”
“Hey, thanks. How about you? Have you reported to the Pentagon yet?”
“Not yet, sir. End of the week, on Friday.”
“Well, the JAG has picked an excellent officer to serve in the Pentagon.”
“Thank you, sir. Have you reported yet, Captain?”
“Oh yeah. I’m up on the interior of the E-Ring, fifth deck, across from the Secretary of Defense’s office. You gotta have stars on your collar to get on the outside ring.”
“I’m sure that first star will be coming to you soon, Captain. The drone project is huge.”
“Hey, enough about me. Listen, I want to go for a run. Maybe take a little hike from the Pentagon over the Memorial Bridge, then down to the Washington Monument and back. What do you say?”
What was he asking her? “That sounds like a pretty good run, Captain.”
“Yes, that’s what I hear. So what do you think?”
Was he suggesting . . .? “I think you should go for it, sir. Go ahead and get that running route established. I think it would be a great stress reliever for your new job.”
She heard him laughing. “You’re going to make this hard on me, aren’t you, Commander?” More chuckling.
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you, sir.”
“How about if I can get a running partner? How about tomorrow?”
“Ah, I can’t tomorrow, sir. I already have plans.” She almost added “with P.J.”
“Okay. I understand. How about Friday?”
“From the Pentagon?”
“Sure. I hear it’s a great run. Unless you’re ashamed to be seen with a drone driver.”
What to do? Maybe a little jog wouldn’t hurt. “I think I could work that out. I mean, I’m checking into Code 13 on Friday, but I hear Captain Guy is pretty flexible about PT time.”
“Super. I’ll see you outside the Pentagon at the beginning of the jogging trail at 1300 on Friday.”
“Look forward to it.”
“Me too.” The line went dead.
Great. Now what? So much for her notion about all this not getting awkward. This she could say for Paul Kriete, though: at least he would go for what he wanted. Why couldn’t P.J. be as aggressive?
Maybe he would be.
Then she decided. If things went well with P.J., she would call Paul and cancel their run.
If P.J. seemed disinterested, she would go forward with the run with Paul.
Her grandmother often said the Lord worked in mysterious ways.
Her grandmother never mentioned the confusing part.
CHAPTER 12
OFFICE OF THE COMMANDER
U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND
E-RING
THE PENTAGON
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Captain Paul Kriete walked down the long corridor of the E-Ring of the Pentagon, passing the office of the Secretary of Defense on his right. The clicks of his white uniform shoes echoed off the wide tile floor as he reached the next angled bend, just past SECDEF’s offices.
A moment later, he turned through a large double-door office on the left.
“Attention on deck!” the new command master chief in the newly formed U.S. Navy Drone Command barked. Four officers and three enlisted men jumped to immediate attention as the commander of the U.S. Navy Drone Command walked into the room.
“Everybody at ease,” Paul said.
“Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Sir, welcome aboard.”
“Good to be here, everybody. Now, let’s get to work. What have we got on the agenda? Commander Wong?” He looked over at a short Navy commander with Asian features. The commander wore the wings of a U.S. Navy pilot and had been assigned as Paul’s second in command at Drone Command, the functional equivalent of the executive officer on board a ship.
“Sir,” Wong said, “the first thing I see on our schedule is a written brief for you from the Secretary of the Navy outlining our proposed operational sharing between the Navy and Homeland Security in Project Blue Jay.”
“Between the Navy and what?” Paul said.
“Between the Navy and Homeland Security.”
“What are you talking about, Wong?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I forgot that you’d not been briefed on that portion of the project, Captain.”
“Come into my office, Wong. And bring that report.”
“Aye, sir.”
Paul stepped from the foyer area of the offices back into his new but basic-looking personal office, complete with a window view of the outside alley separating the E-Ring and D-Ring of the Pentagon. He had not yet taken time to, nor did he care to, decorate. No diplomas or military commissions on the wall. No photographs of himself and all the admirals for whom he had worked.
He wasn’t much on “I love me” walls and would get to all that stuff later. Right now, his new chief of staff had piqued his curiosity. And he didn’t like the direction of the pique.
“Have a seat, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So . . .” Paul sat for the first time behind his new desk. “What were you saying about Homeland Security?”
“Yes, sir. As you will see from the briefing papers, for political reasons, there is a proposal that the Navy and Homeland Security share operational control of the drones operated under Operation Blue Jay.
The Navy would have ultimate control, and you would, of course, remain overall commander. Homeland Security would assume operational control over the drones operating over domestic areas of the United States, while we assume operational control at sea.”
Paul shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Commander.”
“I wish I could say I am, Captain. Homeland Security has been pushing hard on all the political buttons here, because they feel trying to sell a drone project to Homeland Security for purposes of conducting domestic surveillance would run into trouble getting passed by Congress.”
“I could see why.”
“So they want to piggyback in under a drone contract sold to the Navy, which they think has a better chance of passing in Congress.”
Paul shook his head. “I love last-second surprises.”
“I don’t know what their thinking was in not telling you until you arrived, sir. But I know they’re trying to keep a lid on the Homeland Security part and emphasize the Navy part of the operational plan. But the Homeland Security component has been the most controversial part of the internal debate. In fact, as I understand it, Navy JAG here at the Pentagon is expected to deliver a legal opinion to the Secretary evaluating the Homeland Security component.”
Paul looked at Wong. “JAG?” His mind moved to Caroline.
“Yes, sir.”
“The Admiral Brewer himself?”
“They’ve assigned it to Code 13 here in the Pentagon. Last I heard Admiral Brewer was waiting on the opinion.”
“Interesting. We just had a JAG officer transfer to Code 13 from San Diego who was doing a ton of work on my ship getting us ready to deploy.”
“Well, sir, maybe he’ll be able to give us some insight on what they’re thinking.”
“Not he. She.”
“I see, sir.”
“Anyway, let me see that briefing paper.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Paul opened the yellow envelope and extracted the three-page, top-secret briefing paper, titled “Operation Blue Jay—Joint U.S. Navy–Homeland Security Operational Plan.”
Paul read down the brief, outlining the plan to give the Navy ultimate operational control over Blue Jay but to “loan” Navy drones to Homeland Security, under ultimate Navy authority, for “domestic surveillance operations.”