by C. G. Cooper
"What do you think, boss?" Gaucho asked. "You think Doc could use my help? Maybe I could put on a blindfold or maybe mess up the guy's hair or something."
MSgt Trent chuckled. "Yeah, you're one big, tough Delta operator, aren't you, Gaucho? Maybe I'll put in your retired military record that you like to tousle people's hair and give them wet willies. What do you think about that?"
Gaucho shook his head, but he was smiling. "I don't know, Top. Sounds a lot tougher than all that stuff in your service record about making crème brûlée or quiche or whatever you did in the Corps.”
"You’ve told me you liked my quiche, Gaucho."
"I told you that just to keep you quiet. I much prefer your enchiladas."
Neither man could keep their composure now and they burst into fits of laughter. Cal did too until the enhanced smell of the room invaded his senses again and he pinched his nose.
"He's coming," Daniel Briggs foretold, his eyes opening and his feet once more on the floor.
Cal hadn't heard a thing except the laughter of Trent and Gaucho. He was about to ask Daniel if he was sure until he heard the creaky door open as Dr. Alvin Higgins stepped inside.
"I believe you owe me seventy-five dollars, Gaucho," Higgins stated in his not quite Northeast yet not quite British accent.
Gaucho sprang from the floor. "What? Has it already been fifty minutes?"
Dr. Higgins shook his head, "Forty-seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be precise, my friend."
Gaucho grumbled but produced the bills from his pocket and handed them over to a grinning Dr. Higgins.
"I told you not to bet him," Trent said, his grumbled laughter slow and steady.
Dr. Higgins held up his hand, the one with the fistful of bills and said, "Now gentlemen, no need to argue. Would you, or would you not, like to know what our friend in the other room had to say?"
+ + +
Two hours later they were lifting off the roof of the same building. The pilot was a salt-and-pepper bearded member of the Egyptian General Intelligence Directorate (GID). Altogether, it had been a pretty easy pay day. The request for their assistance had come from the CIA, Dr. Higgins's former employer.
An Egyptian businessman had been robbed of roughly 100 million dollars and the members of the GID thought it was tied to a young terrorist group working out of Cairo. The Egyptians wanted the best to determine the group responsible. Thus, the CIA had called on Dr. Higgins, who now worked for Cal Stokes and the Charlottesville, Virginia-based The Jefferson Group (TJG). TJG performed consulting work, most of which revolved around security and international relations. However, there was the occasional request for Higgins's interrogation savvy.
Dr. Higgins always wore a tweed jacket with a red handkerchief, even during this sojourn in Egypt. He knew how to pry truth from the most stubborn of men and was behind much of the interrogation reform at the Central Intelligence Agency. From the day he was hired by the CIA, he’d advocated for more humane tactics during the interrogation of prisoners. In fact, Dr. Higgins had perfected techniques to the point he barely had to lay a finger on any of his subjects.
His secret lay in the concoctions he'd perfected over the years. Somehow, during the 90s, he'd convinced the CIA to send him back to university to become a medical doctor, get his Pharmacology degree and a specialty in Anesthesiology. He'd singlehandedly pioneered a new realm by melding the use of mind-altering drugs with psychology. This ensured subjects were safe and more than willing to comply with his directions and answer his questions. It truly was a glorious combination.
The Egyptian official who had taken custody of the man who’d been interrogated was quite pleased with the information Higgins had extracted. They'd suspected that the man tied to the gurney was some mid-level moneyman for the terrorist organization. They'd hoped to get a few crumbs, but Higgins had exceeded their expectations. Within an hour and with a willing smile, the man had been only too happy to provide the names of the men in charge of the financial arm of the responsible organization.
Cal was still amazed at Higgins's work. He never asked for credit and was always looking to perfect his techniques. There wasn't a man at The Jefferson Group who didn't respect Higgins and all he did. He might look like Santa Claus’s cousin with his portly belly, but all TJG operators treated him as an equal team member when he accompanied them on missions.
Cal tried not to think about what the Egyptians would do to the man in the basement. Now that the information had been extracted, he'd either be put in a solitary cell for the duration of his life, possibly beaten and tortured, or he could just be killed. Cal had to remind himself that wasn't his problem. To the former U.S. Marine Staff Sergeant, a terrorist was the lowest of the low, willing to kill women and babies if it suited their purposes.
But now it was an Egyptian matter. Cal and his men had done their part to help. Since they were not in need of money, they were not motivated solely by money. They had taken this job to keep busy.
By the time they returned to the Presidential Suite at the Marriott overlooking congested Cairo, Cal had resolved to take the first flight home. He missed Charlottesville, and he missed his girlfriend, Diane Mayer. She was currently doing a stint in Dam Neck with the Navy, receiving follow-on training as a Naval Intelligence Officer.
Cal was just about to repack his bag when Daniel walked into the suite they shared. When they were on the road, Cal and Daniel always bunked together. Well, unless Diane was along for the ride.
"I just got a call from Neil," Daniel stated, referring to The Jefferson Group's head of the Technology and Development division. "He says he needs you and Gaucho on the phone NOW."
"Did he say what it was about?" Cal asked.
Daniel shook his head.
When they arrived in the adjoining suite, the mismatched pair of Gaucho and huge MSgt Trent were digging through heaping plates of room service food. They looked up when Cal and Daniel entered the room.
"What's up?” Gaucho asked, his mouth full to bursting.
Daniel held up their secure phone. "Neil wants to talk; he's got some news."
Gaucho and Trent both cocked their heads. The repartee between this duo reminded Cal of the movie Twins with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito. The characters were so different and yet their mannerisms somehow matched at strange moments like this, just like Gaucho and Trent.
Daniel dialed Neil's number and placed the phone on the table. A moment later Neil's voice came over the receiver, loud and clear. "Cal, you there?" Neil asked.
"Yeah, I'm here," Cal said, "And I've got Daniel, Gaucho, and Top with me. What's going on?"
There was a pause followed by the scratching sound as the encryption took hold. Then Neil's voice returned.
"We had an emergency message come in. It's from your friend, Vince Sweeney."
"Did he use the E.T. phone home?" Gaucho blurted, a bit of bread falling out of his mouth.
Cal heard Neil exhale before saying with exasperation, "You know, I don't like it when you guys call it that." Neil Patel had originally named the small emergency one-time device something technical, but Cal couldn’t remember the name. Like most of Neil's inventions, The Jefferson Group operators always renamed them for the purpose the devices served. Therefore, the tiny device had been christened “E.T. phone home.” It made sense to them, if not to Neil.
"Yeah, he used it,” Neil confirmed.
"What did he say?" Cal asked, glancing over at Gaucho, now on his feet.
It was Gaucho who'd introduced Cal and his team first to Karl Schneider and then Vince Sweeney. They'd helped The Jefferson Group when a bunch of idiots thought it was a good idea to try to get the Marine Corps disbanded. Sweeney's men had uncovered the leak or at least found the trail that led to the ringleader.
"I'm still triangulating the signal to determine their last location. I'm not sure why, but it's not as clear as it should be; I can figure that out later. I do know that it's somewhere along the Eastern coast of Africa."
“What did the message say?" Cal interrupted.
"Well, that's the other part that has me concerned. The message didn't come through in its entirety. It was a little clipped. I really don't understand how that happened. You know I tested it all over the world. The variables were all aligned and the satellite placement was perfect. I just don't understand how—"
"Neil, what did the message say?" Cal asked again, his frustration apparent.
"What? Yeah, sorry," Neil said, refocusing. "Here, I'll read it verbatim. Plane down, possibly shot. Then there's a blank, forces firing, another blank, and then the word dead and a period. Will E and E. Ask your best friend in Washington about the details. That's it."
Most of the message made it clear as to what occurred, but there were holes. Some kind of plane Sweeney was on had been shot down. Maybe they'd been attacked on the ground. E & E meant that he was going to escape and evade - basically hide and try to get away from the enemy. Cal’s best friend in Washington—well, there was only one person that fit that description because he didn't have many friends in Washington.
Cal said, "Thanks, Neil," and terminated the call. If Vince Sweeney had popped a flare and called for help, he was in deep trouble. Time was of utmost importance; therefore, Cal didn't hesitate to dial the number from memory. There was a series of clicks and whispers of vague sounds before the president of the United States answered the phone.
Chapter 3
The crowds cheered and waved as Congressman Antonio "Tony" McKnight waved back, flashing a wide smile. He'd graced the covers of Forbes, GQ, and just the day before was approached by Men's Health. He wouldn't pose shirtless, of course, but the writers had claimed America wanted to know more about him and, of course, his health secrets.
A group of girls in the front row begged for autographs but McKnight pretended not to hear their pleas. He observed the crowd and frowned inwardly when he saw how close they had been to the barriers. He knew what that meant.
He gave one final wave and yelled out “God Bless America” before exiting the stage. His lead handler was at his side ready to spew out the pertinent details of their next campaign stop.
"How many people were present?" McKnight snapped.
"Five thousand," the woman declared without looking up, her eyes glued to her tablet.
McKnight stopped and his head swiveled slowly. She turned to face him, her glasses perched on the end of her delicate nose.
"That did not look like five thousand – more like four thousand, Sonya."
She looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I promise, Congressman, we'll have more at the next stop." Congressman McKnight gave her a curt nod and walked away, leaving her in his wake. He didn't need the details of the next stop. It was just another Californian town - one of the endless stops in a primary campaign for the presidential election. He was well behind the leader, and he needed California if he were to have any chance to clinch the nomination.
He was almost to the door of the tour bus with McKnight for President splashed across the side, his perfectly tanned face welcoming the public to vote for him. He groaned at the thought of boarding the bus again. Running for Congress had been one thing, but running for the presidency was a marathon with no ending in sight. Scratch that, there was an ending, and if he wasn't careful, it would come much sooner than he'd expected.
The Republican congressman from Miami, Florida had entered the race as the frontrunner, but a few missteps and missed opportunities had nearly crippled his campaign. They'd clawed their way back to second place, but the former governor of Texas, a shrewd woman who had served twenty years in the Army as an attorney, was making a valiant play. She'd outflanked him on foreign policy, immigration, and even matters concerning the economy. As a senior member of the Armed Services Committee, Congressman McKnight had, at one time, almost seen the writing on the wall, but it wasn’t in his blood to give up. He had never given up.
He was about to step back onto the bus when somebody called out his name. It wasn't a well-wisher or a potential voter but instead a man he hadn't seen in months. When McKnight looked at the man, one word came to his mind – lumpy. While McKnight prided himself on his appearance, this man seemed to take great pleasure in looking slovenly and unkempt.
McKnight reluctantly gestured the man over, informing his security detail to provide them privacy. They spread out to make a wider cordon to give the congressman his space.
"That was a fine speech," the man declared. "I always wondered whether you guys change it up for every stop or if you just switch Bakersfield for San Diego in your notes."
McKnight frowned. The man was teasing him. Chiding was this man’s special gift in order to get under the congressman’s skin.
“It’s been months," McKnight said. "Please tell me you've come to provide an update rather than give me your tips on what I should or should not say at the next campaign stop."
McKnight crossed his arms over his chest and waited. The man known only to him as “Jim,” though he suspected it wasn't the man's true name, grinned and flashed cigarette-stained teeth. McKnight groaned to himself as he spotted a remnant of the man's lunch wedged between two corn-colored choppers.
"It looks like your ship just came in, Congressman," Jim said.
McKnight's heart leapt. This was what he'd been waiting for and the only reason he’d taken a chance with the slob standing in front of him.
"Tell me," McKnight said.
"Your intel was spot on. They shot them down before they could get a message out."
McKnight wanted to pump his fist in the air and scream in victory. It had been a delicate situation. He'd heard about the covert operation from none other than the president himself. If all went his way, he would be soon run against the president in the general election. The irony of the entire situation was President Brandon Zimmer considered Congressman Tony McKnight both an ally and confidante. Thus, he'd seen nothing wrong with confiding in McKnight about his concerns as well as what he meant to do to alleviate the problem.
It had all come at a perfect moment for McKnight, who was floundering from the latest attack leveled by his opponent. Sure, it could be construed as treason, but what the president had done wasn't exactly legal either: sending special warfare operators in disguise to spy on a supposed ally. Well, how aboveboard was that?
At least that's how McKnight saw it. It hadn't taken much nudging in his mind to determine whether or not he would use the information for his own benefit. This was politics after all, and politics was war. Just like the generals of old, men like Julius Caesar, Napoleon, and even Dwight D. Eisenhower, rose from the ranks to become leaders of their country. McKnight, a man with lofty goals, believed he was doing the same.
The political world had been a perfect match for him from the first day they shook hands. He'd been seeking something his entire life, and when someone had suggested he run for public office, he jumped at the opportunity. It had really been a bet, and in those days, Tony McKnight always took a bet he knew he could win. He'd won that first contest and, from that first run, every win made his political aspirations rise.
Now he was vying for the ultimate prize, securing the White House. The path was still cluttered with obstacles, tripwires and moats. He'd have to use every trick he'd ever learned and call on all the contacts he could squeeze to pull out this victory. So he had made a deal. Sure, elections were about debates and how photogenic you appeared, but you could have those things in addition to a great message and a solid platform to build a presidency on. The dirty truth was you needed endless money to truly win. That's what always made McKnight laugh.
Everyday citizens polled were vehement in stating that they had voted for a guy because they believed in his immigration policy, because gun control was something they did or did not hold dear, or because they'd always voted Democrat or Republican since the days of FDR. What always surprised McKnight was how easily such people could be manipulated. All it took to sway their votes was leaking a neg
ative story to a news outlet or having an inappropriate picture posted on a website that had the ability to spread like wildfire. Thus once ardent fans became lifelong haters – this was helpful in stealing votes from opponents.
McKnight had never been so naïve, because he saw democracy for what it truly was – a mechanism to manipulate and control the populace by the politicians that demanded reelection. Money was the key because without endless amounts, you couldn't win. Sure, you could pick up a councilman's chair or a seat on your local school board, but if you wanted to run, really run, you had to have not millions but billions behind you. This requirement, he lacked. There had been promises, but once the tide had swayed against him, the influx of money into his coffers had shriveled up.
That's where Jim came in. Jim was one of those guys that nobody liked to admit was in your pocket, but they had always existed, and everybody knew it. In the early days, they'd show up with a suitcase full of cash for some bigwig running for office in New York. Someone who somehow had the ability to control the boroughs and the warring ethnicities. The game was still the same, although it had gotten a little more complicated and much more high tech.