by Mike Maden
She smiled, amused. “It was a lot of information, wasn’t it?”
“President Lane and I already share of lot of the same views. It wasn’t like trying to learn Greek grammar.”
“Still, it’s important that we present a united front. Some of the senators are looking for a weapon to use against the administration. If you get off script, you might hand them the dagger they need.”
“Won’t be a problem. Worst-case scenario, I’ll plead ignorance and offer to get back with them.”
“You might not get away with that.”
Pearce offered his first smile. “That’s what I have you for.”
“Did the vice president tell you how I came to be his chief of staff?”
“No. But he has a great deal of confidence in you. That’s good enough for me.”
“Thanks. But for the record, I used to work for the DoD, and that’s how I first met him, when he was chairing the subcommittee. I was giving testimony. He gave me one hell of a grilling. I can still feel the burn marks.”
“But you must have passed with flying colors.”
“Yeah, I did. It wasn’t long after that he offered me a job on his staff, and when he got on Lane’s ticket, he brought me along.”
“How long did you work for the Seven Rivers Consortium?” Pearce asked.
Grafton smiled defensively, pretending not to be surprised that Pearce had done his homework. “Six years. Five before I went to work for DoD, one after.”
“The SRC is the world’s largest lobbying firm, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“And you were putting together defense contracts?”
“That’s how I started on the Hill. Earned an MBA from George Washington. Interned at Lockheed-Martin. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“So, Seven Rivers, DoD, Seven Rivers, and then Chandler?”
“And you do math. Very impressive, Mr. Pearce.”
“I can scramble eggs, too. And a few other tricks you might never have seen.”
Pearce tried to hide his disgust. Not so much with her as with the whole damned system. Washington’s famous revolving door between government service and the lobbying agencies made him sick to his stomach. More than a hundred formerly registered lobbyists now served on congressional staffs, many of them chiefs of staff like Grafton. Worse, more than four hundred former congressmen and senators were now highly paid registered lobbyists, leveraging their congressional relationships and influence into multimillion-dollar second careers—as if their gold-plated, full-salaried retirement plans didn’t already put them in the top 5 percent of American income earners.
Grafton leaned back in her chair, folding her manicured hands in her lap. “Is my work history going to be a problem for you?”
“You’re clearly more than qualified for the babysitting job Chandler handed you. If this is what it takes, well, it’s what I signed on for, isn’t it?”
She flashed another smile, nodded. “Faint praise, Mr. Pearce, but good enough for me. Let’s get to it, shall we?”
Pearce leaned back in his chair. “Fire away.”
“Your first hurdle is going to be Senator Floyd. He’s practically a hood ornament for the aerospace industry. He’ll try to wear you down by playing stupid—which he isn’t, I assure you—and he’ll start with some innocuous question like, what is Drone Command exactly?”
“Drone Command is a new unified combat command within the Department of Defense. Its purpose is to oversee the acquisition of all new drone and drone-related systems for both military and civilian applications within the DoD and all other federal agencies. Though Drone Command is technically a Defense Department entity, it would be the only unified command headed up by a civilian.”
“I.e., you.”
“Yes.”
“Good answer.”
“Of course it is. You wrote it. I just loaded it in here.” Pearce tapped his forehead.
“From there Floyd will start drilling down into the minutia of the organizational plan, personnel, et cetera, et cetera. I strongly recommend you just refer him to the appropriate addenda included in the same report I sent you.”
“Works for me.”
“But that’s the easy stuff. It’s the ‘why’ of Drone Command that will be the heart of the battle.”
“The ‘why’ is because those money-sucking vampire squids won’t do the right thing on their own. An independent, autonomous agency with the sole authority for development and acquisition is the only way we’re going to avoid the massive maldistribution of scarce resources.”
“Let’s steer away from ‘vampire squids’ and lean more toward ‘efficiency, economy, and efficacy.’”
“What part of ‘to tell the truth, the whole, truth, and nothing but the truth’ does ‘money-sucking vampire squids’ not satisfy?”
Grafton sighed, shaking her head. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Didn’t realize that was part of my job description.”
She pursed her lips. “No, I suppose not. But it would help me do mine better.”
Pearce shifted in his chair, studying Grafton’s frozen stare. “What else do you need from me?”
Grafton pulled up a page on her laptop computer. “I did a little digging myself—legally. I’ve managed to find a few public statements you’ve made over the years.”
“Such as?”
“Foreign policy stuff.” She looked away from her computer screen and back toward Pearce. “I’m surprised a fighting man like you would be an isolationist.”
“I’m not. But either you’re all in to win or you’re out. You can’t take the middle ground.”
“And in regard to the Middle East?”
“Like I said, all in or all out. Since we won’t commit to all in, I think it’s better to get out.”
“But you’re a smart guy. A master’s degree in security studies from Stanford. You know we can’t withdraw from the world.”
“I didn’t say withdraw from the whole world. But maybe it’s time to let that part of the world take care of its own problems and spill its own blood.”
“We’re the strongest military power on the planet. Who else can stabilize the region?”
“After nearly twenty years of military intervention, do you seriously believe the Middle East is more stable and secure than before we went in? That we are more secure?”
Grafton’s frozen stare betrayed nothing.
“But we have important allies in the region. The Saudis are vulnerable. They can’t possibly defend themselves without our help.”
“The Saudis are a royal dynasty teetering on the edge of collapse.”
Grafton shrugged. “Desperate allies are more reliable.”
“They don’t share our values. It’s practically a dictatorship.”
“Sounds like you’re channeling Jimmy Carter.”
“They’re not our friends. They’ve been the power behind the OPEC cartel, screwing with our economy and politics for decades.”
“They pursue their own national interests, just like we do.”
“You know that ISIS sells a lot of its sex slaves to Saudis, right?”
“All the more reason to take out ISIS as quickly as possible.”
“Why not stop the Saudis from buying them?”
“We’ve already raised the human trafficking issue with them. It just can’t be the top priority right now.”
“It would be if you were the sex slave.”
She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a realist.”
“So are the women being trafficked, believe me.” Pearce sighed, frustrated. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
Pearce leaned forward. “If fifteen of the nineteen terrorists that took down the Wor
ld Trade Center had been ethnic Russians, do you think we would have given the Russian government a pass? Called them friends and allies in the War on Terror?”
Grafton’s face hardened.
“Me neither.”
“The Saudis have powerful friends on the Hill, and especially on the committee. If you say anything like this to them, you’re dead in the water.”
“I won’t lie if I’m asked.”
“Then it’s my job to make sure they don’t ask, isn’t it?”
Pearce nodded. “Guess so.”
Grafton was feeling cramped in her spacious office. “Speaking of the Saudis, Senator Kelly will want to know your position on Saudi drones,” Grafton said.
“It’s a bad idea.”
Grafton drew a measured breath, clearly trying to calm down. “One of the biggest drone manufacturers in the country is headquartered in his state and they’ve been approached by Riyadh. A ten-year, billion-dollar contract for MQ-9 Reapers.”
“Anything we sell to the Saudis will eventually wind up in the wrong hands. If an internal rebellion doesn’t overthrow the princes, the Iranians will overrun them eventually with Iraqi help, and maybe even the Russians.”
“Warts and all, the fact remains the Saudis are our most important ally in the region right now.”
“Don’t you mean Israel?”
“Israel can’t help us stabilize the situation. You know the reasons.”
“The ‘reasons’ are why our Mideast foreign policy has been a Hungarian cluster dance for the last forty years.”
“If the Saudis are on the edge of falling, doesn’t that prove we need to bolster them?”
“Drones won’t be enough to save them.”
“You do realize that Saudi Arabia is one of our largest defense customers? Their defense purchases put a lot of Americans to work.”
“Especially high-dollar lobbyists.”
Grafton threw up her hands. “I don’t get you.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to.”
Her features softened but her eyes were searching. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Pearce shrugged. “Sure.”
“You and the vice president have a history. Care to fill me in?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Vice President Chandler is the second most powerful man in the world.”
“Then that makes him the single most powerful asshole in the world.”
“If Chandler heard you say that, he’d run you out of D.C. on a rail.”
“Call him. I’m happy to repeat it. Hell, I’ll even draw him a picture if that’s easier for him.”
Grafton laughed. Her eyes raked over him again, sizing him up. “I’m starting to like you.”
“Are we done?”
“That was the easy stuff. Let’s cut to the chase.” Grafton opened up a file on her desk. “You passed your FBI background check with flying colors. Unfortunately, some of your record has been redacted.” She held up one of the file pages. Three-fourths of it was blacked out entirely.
“Maybe you don’t have the clearance.”
Grafton bristled. Security clearance was about the biggest status symbol in Washington there was these days, and hers was pretty damn high.
“You don’t have to worry about my clearance. Your government service is strictly ‘need to know.’ But Senator Floyd is also on the intelligence committee. He’ll ‘need to know,’ and if there are any skeletons you’re hiding behind these black lines, he’ll find out and use them against you.”
Pearce searched her face. What did she know? Pearce had left a trail of corpses across the globe, starting with his CIA service in the Special Operations Group in the War on Terror. Even Pearce Systems had been involved in the sanctioned killing of dozens of people around the world, including the United States. But in his rage and grief and sense of justice, he’d personally killed dozens more—in Africa, Asia, and even Russia. Was she just fishing, like Chandler, or did she really know?
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We all have skeletons, Troy.”
“Show me yours first and I’ll show you mine.”
Grafton rubbed her forehead. A headache was coming on fast. “It’s going to be a long day today, isn’t it?”
Pearce checked his watch. “Not really. I’ve only got another five minutes before I have to leave. Got a plane to catch.”
“What? I’ve cleared my entire calendar today just for you.”
Pearce shrugged. “I’m sure you can fill it back up. Or, better yet, take the rest of the day off. The wheels of government will grind on without you.”
“I hope it’s damn important.”
Pearce stood. “It is. I don’t have a cushy government job yet. Still gotta pay the bills.”
“Then be here bright and early tomorrow so we can go over a few more things. Trust me, you’re walking into a minefield.”
“Won’t be my first.” Literally, he thought.
“Hearing’s at ten. Can you make seven?”
“Eight-thirty works.”
Grafton stood. “Why do I get the feeling you really don’t want to do this?”
“Maybe because I don’t.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I owe my country a lot. It’s the least I can do, even if it makes me want to puke.”
10
SEVIER COUNTY, TENNESSEE
Pearce gunned the motor again, flipping the paddles on the steering wheel, pushing the tachometer into the red again. The pit of his stomach dropped as the Mini Cooper S convertible went slightly airborne over the sudden dip in the paved two-lane road. The rental bounced on its stiff, sporty shocks when it landed and Pearce downshifted into a sharp hairpin curve. He knew he was driving way too fast on a road with too many blind curves. He didn’t care. He was having fun.
He loved this part of the country. He’d been here only once before a few years back, but it was beautiful here near the Smoky Mountains, and the people he met were great.
The road wound through rolling, grass-covered hills dotted with variegated greens of pine, maple, hemlock, and several other species he couldn’t identify. It was farm and ranch country with houses and outbuildings to match. But there were long stretches of road blemished by broken-down trailers or ancient barns crumbling into ruin, too. They weren’t much for building codes in this neck of the woods, and pride of ownership was optional. Around here he saw mostly cattle dotting the steep pastures, but he knew that farther east there were a knot of apple orchards, and the fishing was pretty good on Douglas Lake—not that he’d have the time to dip a line this trip.
The next curve jumped up on him like a snake out of a hole and he turned hard into it, downshifting fast and letting up on the gas. The centripetal force threw him against the shoulder belts, but the sturdy little car gripped the asphalt like a Formula One racer. The road dived violently down and then took another hard blind curve. He punched the gas anyway and geared up, turning the wheel hard, but he was moving too fast and the car crossed the faded yellow line—
A step-side Chevy pickup blared its horn and swerved hard out of its lane and into the soft gravel shoulder. Pearce barely missed sideswiping it by inches. He caught a quick glimpse of the driver, a thick lump of chaw pouching his cheek, his mouth open in a cursing scream. Pearce downshifted and slowed enough to check his rearview mirror. The truck was throwing dust as it skidded to a stop just inches from a rocky outcrop. Relieved, Pearce punched the gas again and raced ahead.
The GPS map flashed when he arrived at the address twenty minutes later. Good thing. He nearly sped past the weathered hand-painted metal sign that read Goose Gap Farm. He turned in toward the shuttered steel gate and stopped. An incongruous security camera was perched on one of the gateposts. A blinking red light finally turned to a solid gr
een and the steel gate swung open. Pearce nudged his car forward past the security camera and over the thumping cattle grate before his tires began crunching on the gravel road. The narrow track headed straight toward a steep hill, beyond which stood his destination. He punched the gas again and the tires spun. Pearce felt the rocks spanging against the undercarriage and no doubt stripping off some of the paint. He didn’t care. The rental was fully insured.
To hell with it.
—
PEARCE STOOD BY the half-ton Ford flatbed pickup, faded red and rusting. GOOSE GAP FARM was stenciled in white letters on the battered driver’s door.
“Good to see you, Virgil,” Pearce said.
“Same, for sure.” The two men shook hands. At least his grip is still strong, Pearce thought.
At nearly six foot six, the sixth-generation Tennessee native seemed even thinner and more gaunt than Pearce remembered him. He assumed it was the chemotherapy. The drooping Hickory shirt and baggy overalls added to the effect. The skin beneath Dr. Virgil Ponder’s neck was loose and his bald head was flaking badly beneath the stained orange-and-white UT Vols ball cap. Behind the thick lenses of his Soviet-styled frames, his big brown eyes seemed larger than normal. Other than the crazy glasses, Pearce thought Ponder could have been the stern-faced farmer in Grant Wood’s famous American Gothic painting. All he needed was a pitchfork to complete the ensemble.
Pearce saw that Ponder was irritated.
“Sorry I’m late. Got held up.”
“Time’s a scarce commodity these days.”
“I know. I blew it.” He nodded toward Stella Kang, his Korean American security officer. “I see you’ve already met Stella.” Stella was ten yards away, directly behind the flatbed, fiddling with a radio-controlled transmitter in her hands, its lanyard looped around her neck. A homemade radio-controlled Styrofoam airplane with a six-foot wingspan lay in the grass in front of her. The rear-mounted pusher-styled airframe featured a double tail and a boxy front fuselage that held the engine and electronics. Ponder had built the drone entirely from sheet insulation from Home Depot for about ten bucks. It was meant for function, not beauty.
Ponder grinned. “Stella’s a pistol, all right. Where’d you find her?”