by Mike Maden
“Madame President, if I may.” The deep, resonant voice of Dr. Karl Strasburg chimed in. An old-school cold warrior, Strasburg was the elder statesman of the group, having served as a security advisor to every president since Nixon in one capacity or another. His opinion still exerted a powerful sway on Capitol Hill, and his views were deeply respected in the corridors of both power and academia around the world. His impeccable style and self-effacing manners, coupled with his faint Hungarian accent, gave him an Old World charm that few could resist.
“Please, Dr. Strasburg, share your thoughts.”
“I am embarrassed to say this, Madame President, and I certainly do not ascribe to the idea personally, nevertheless I must point out that you are already seen as a weak president because you are a woman. One thing you must consider is this: if you fail to respond to this vicious and unprovoked attack with vigor, you will only strengthen the unfortunate stereotype associated with your gender in the Latin culture.”
“I have never lived my life according to other people’s views of me, and I will certainly not do that as president, either. If I start overcompensating for the expectations of my gender, I’m only playing into their idiotic stereotype.”
From both a moral and fiscal perspective, Myers was adamantly opposed to any suggestion of going to war if it could be at all avoided. But Strasburg’s line of thinking threatened to undo everything her administration had accomplished so far.
Myers narrowly won both the Republican primary and the general election on a platform of “pragmatism above ideology.” Her primary campaign issue was to institute an immediate budget freeze once elected, and then to pass a balanced budget amendment. She managed to accomplish both in the first one hundred days of her tenure by promising progressives to keep American boots off of the ground in any new foreign conflicts, to close as many foreign bases as was practical, and to bring as many of the troops home as quickly as possible without endangering American lives left behind. Vice President Greyhill’s establishment credentials had also helped her forge the coalition with right-of-center moderates in both parties who feared new runaway social spending at the expense of defense.
Unlike many of her fellow Republicans, Myers viewed big defense budgets as just another example of out-of-control government spending. She knew that defense was necessary; she was no pie-in-the-sky Pollyanna. But how much defense spending was enough? If one new weapon system makes us safe, then two must make us even safer seemed to be the irrefutable schoolyard logic of the hawks.
As a private-sector CEO, Myers had dealt with the armchair bureaucrats in the Pentagon who were as self-interested as any Wall Street investment firm, and just as guilty of “waste, fraud, and abuse” as any welfare department in the federal government.
America’s economic malaise was being fueled by out-of-control government spending of all kinds, including the supposedly untouchable “entitlement” spending programs. As a businesswoman, Myers understood that the national debt was a millstone around the nation’s neck. It was drowning the economy and would ultimately lead to America’s systematic decline. Avoiding unnecessary wars and bloated defense budgets would actually make the nation stronger in the long run.
“The bottom line, Dr. Strasburg, is that I’m not interested in bolstering my street cred with Latin tinhorn dictators. What I want is what’s best for the American people.” She leaned forward in her chair. “What I really want is justice, especially for those grieving mothers in that gymnasium tonight. The question I’m putting on the table right now is, how do we get justice without putting American boots on Mexican soil?”
“I suppose that depends entirely upon your definition of justice, Madame President,” Donovan suggested. The dark circles under his eyes were proof that the secretary of DHS hadn’t slept in days while he sweated the details of the El Paso security setup. He fought back a yawn. “I don’t mean to start a midnight dorm-room debate, but in the end, justice for most people means getting what they think they deserve, and they seldom get it unless they have the power to acquire it from the people who stole it from them in the first place. So for the sake of our discussion, what exactly do you want? What does justice look like?”
Myers nodded. “Fair enough. I want the men responsible for the killing arrested, tried, convicted, and punished for their crimes in either an American or Mexican court of law.”
Lancet jumped in. “Forget extradition. We have the death penalty, and Mexican courts are reluctant to return Mexican nationals to American courts if there’s the possibility of a death sentence. So you’re definitely talking about a Mexican trial if the suspects are apprehended in Mexico.”
“I can live with that,” Myers countered.
Lancet continued. “It may well be possible for the Mexicans to arrest them and put them on trial. But given the lack of witnesses at the present time, let alone the current political and social crises that Mexico faces, I wouldn’t count on a conviction. And even if the Mexicans do manage to convict on what would have to be circumstantial evidence, there’s no guarantee of a punishment commensurate with their crimes.”
“If you want American justice, you’ll have to snatch them up and haul them here in irons,” Strasburg said. “SEAL Team Six can do the job.”
“And what if things go south? Do we really want American troops burned alive in an oil-drum soup?” Early was referring to the horrific cartel practice of melting people down in oil drums filled with boiling oil and lead. “These guys are batshit crazy. They’re not playing by Marquess of Queensberry rules down there.”
“Excuse me, but there are other issues to be considered here,” Vice President Greyhill said. He’d served on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for eighteen years before he had been shoehorned onto the Myers ticket. He was seen as a reliable “old hand” to steady her uncertain rudder. He relished the role, partly because he knew how deeply Myers resented it. As one of the Senate’s elder statesmen, the wealthy, patrician Greyhill had been the GOP’s hand-selected candidate in the primary, but the outsider Myers’s populist, commonsense message had killed his one and only chance to be president. “You can’t start invading countries because you don’t like the way their court systems work, Margaret. You’d be in violation of a dozen international laws and treaties.”
Myers bristled at his accusatory tone but chose to ignore it—for now. “It seems to me that breaking the rule of law in order to enforce the rule of law is a moral hazard. I don’t want a war, legal or otherwise; I want justice. Let’s give the Mexicans a chance to give it to us. They have a vested interest, too.” Myers took another sip of bourbon. “Sandy, I want you and Faye to coordinate with Bill on this, and with Tom Eddleston when he gets back from China. When does he return?” Myers rubbed her forehead. A massive headache was coming on fast.
“The secretary of state will be back in town the day after tomorrow. But we can video-chat with him before then, of course,” Jeffers gently reminded her. He knew she was at the end of her rope, physically and emotionally.
“Then what I’d like the three of you to do is put together a memo for Ambassador Romero and tell him what he needs to communicate to President Barraza. Something along the lines of affirming our support for his newly elected administration, our desire for swift and certain justice, well, you get the idea. But run it by Tom first. I don’t want to step on his toes.”
“Will do,” Jeffers said.
Myers set her empty glass down. “Let’s give our friends south of the border a chance to do the right thing. We can always step up our game later, if need be. Who knows? They might even surprise us. Are we clear?”
The heads on her video screen nodded in unison. “Good. It’s very late and I have another long day tomorrow. Good night.” Myers snapped off the video monitor and rang for the white-coated steward, who appeared a few moments later.
“What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“A couple of Excedrin and a club soda would be helpful. Have Sam and Rachel had some
thing to eat?” Myers was referring to the two Secret Service agents who were accompanying her to Denver.
“Yes, they have, and they asked me to thank you.” Normally, Secret Service agents didn’t eat while on duty, but it had been a long day for them as well, and Myers insisted that they order from her kitchen galley.
The steward slipped away to fetch Myers’s club soda and aspirin.
Myers sat alone in the empty cabin, drained. She turned around in her chair and stared at the aft compartment door. She rose and crossed over to it, then stood there for a moment gathering her courage, then went in, careful to shut and lock the door behind her.
* * *
Ryan Martinez’s sealed casket lay on the center of the floor, lashed down with half-inch cargo polycord. The casket had been removed from the wheeled transport dolly for fear it might fall off should they experience any turbulence. The room wasn’t designed to carry cargo, and the casket was heavy, posing a possible danger during takeoff and landing if it should start sliding around. Myers hadn’t cared. She’d have flown the damn plane herself if the air force pilot objected. He hadn’t. His own son had been killed in Afghanistan last year. A half hour later, the plane’s chief master sergeant had bolted right-angle flanges into the aluminum floor with a pneumatic drill and secured the load with the cords. It was the best he could do on short notice, but it worked. Myers was grateful.
She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the floor next to the polished aluminum casket. It was just like all of the others. Myers had paid for the funerals of all of the kids killed that night—anonymously, of course, and out of her own personal funds. The El Paso families were mostly working poor. Myers saw no need to add crushing debt to their inconsolable grief.
Ryan’s status as a hero on that fateful night was confirmed by both surviving witnesses and the county coroner’s autopsy. Rather than running away from the gunfire, Ryan had run toward it, and thrown himself on top of two of his students, shielding them from the hail of deadly bullets with his own body. Miraculously, both girls had survived, though badly wounded. They were still in intensive care and unable to attend the memorial service for Ryan and the others.
She laid her hand gently on the lid. It had been three months since she’d spoken to Ryan on the phone. Years since they’d had a real conversation. She hadn’t seen him since the inauguration earlier in the year, but even that reunion had been brief. At least it had been civil. God knows they knew how to push each other’s buttons. She had to hit the ground running on the first day. Hadn’t stopped running since.
Until now.
Myers’s mind replayed a dozen conversations she’d had with the mourners before the memorial service. A pretty young math teacher introduced herself as Ryan’s girlfriend. Her lovely green eyes were red with tears. Myers hadn’t known that Ryan had a girlfriend. But of course he did. That was normal, wasn’t it? Normal people have relationships, she reminded herself.
The girl’s name was Celia. Or was it Celina? Myers couldn’t remember. The girl was nice. Very pretty. No wonder Ryan fell for her. Myers felt sorry for her.
Myers’s hand stroked the brushed-aluminum casket, but she was so lost in thought she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.
The mother of one of the slain students handed her a slip of folded paper scrawled with a recipe for chile rellenos. “Señor Ryan asked me all the time for the recipe, but I never got around to it. He said it was his favorite. Lo siento mucho, señora.”
Myers thought Ryan didn’t like chile rellenos. Maybe he still didn’t like them. Maybe he was just being nice to this lady. Or maybe he really did like hers. Or maybe he did like chile rellenos. Maybe it was tamales he didn’t care for. She wasn’t sure now. They hadn’t had a sit-down meal together for quite a while now. Years, actually. Myers was never much of a cook. Never had the time. Too busy building a business, then too busy running a state. She accepted the recipe from the grieving mother. “Thank you,” Myers told her. “I’ll have to try it sometime myself.” But she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t like Mexican food at all.
Myers sighed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, indeed. She would bury her son in the family plot outside of Denver next to his father, John Martinez, with no one to stand beside her.
* * *
The steward reappeared in the empty conference room with a tray carrying the club soda on ice and a brand-new bottle of aspirin. He set the tray down on a small table and began to leave, but something in him made him pause. He knew she had a terrible headache. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was in the room with her only child. Myers hadn’t told him she wanted to be left alone. And she needed the aspirin. So he stepped over to the aft door.
Just before the steward knocked, he paused. He heard a sound. He leaned his ear as close to the door as he dared and listened.
Myers was weeping.
The steward stepped softly away from the door and headed back down to the galley.
4
Idaho Falls Airport, Idaho
The sun had just crept up over the horizon.
Pearce kept his hands thrust in his jeans against the chill as he stood near the tarmac. He watched the Pearce Systems HA-420 HondaJet touch down effortlessly, its wheels kissing the asphalt without a sound. Crisp sunlight glinted on the gray and white carbon fiber composite fuselage as the unusual over-the-wing pod-mounted engines began to cycle down. The sleek corporate jet taxiing toward Pearce reminded him of a completely different plane on a distant tarmac in a previous life he wished like hell he could forget.
Baghdad International Airport, Iraq
March 5, 2004
“What kind of name is Pentecost anyway?” Early asked. Like Pearce, he was dressed like a local and wore a three-day growth of beard on his chin beneath a bushy black mustache. He and Pearce leaned against a Humvee as they waited for the big C-130 to cut its engines in the predawn light.
“Beats me.”
“Sounds religious. Tongues of fire and all of that.”
“You should ask her,” Pearce said. “Maybe she’s a fanatic.”
“Don’t need any more of those around here,” Early grunted. “What else did Connor say about this hotshot?”
“Straight off the Farm but first in her class. A premium Core Collector by all accounts.” The air was cool. The slight breeze coming out of the south put a chill on him.
“Is that why she rates her own plane?”
“Connor said she was eager. Wanted to get deep in the shit fast.”
“She’s probably a Poindexter with a pocket protector.”
“Connor knows what he’s doing,” Pearce said.
The Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) had authorized a special task force to deal with the recent wave of devastating IED attacks by Iraqi insurgents around the country. Connor had picked Pearce to lead a small hunter-killer team in Baghdad. Pearce chose Early, a first-rate gunfighter from the 10th Special Forces Group he had met during Operation Viking Hammer in 2003, along with an S-2 from Early’s unit. But after the intel officer was killed by a sniper, Connor selected Pentecost to fill the slot.
The big four-bladed props on the C-130 finally spun down and the rear ramp lowered.
“Here she comes,” Early said.
The woman coming down the ramp could have stepped out of a recruiting poster for Southern California surfer girls—lean, blond, and blue-eyed. But apparently she’d swapped out her flip-flops and bikini for combat boots and black tactical gear on the ride over.
Early’s jaw dropped. “Whoa.”
“You must be Early.” She stuck out her hand. “Name’s Pentecost. Annie Pentecost.” She smiled. “Connor described you perfectly.”
Early grinned, not sure if she was complimenting him or not. “Mike Early. Real nice to meet you, too.”
Annie turned toward Pearce. Looked right through him.
Those eyes.
“Troy Pearce,” he said, offering his hand.
She had a firm grip
. Held his hand just long enough to feel the heat. “Annie Pentecost.”
“Welcome to the shit,” Early said, trying to get her attention.
“I think he meant ‘team,’” Pearce corrected.
“Thanks. I’ve heard good things.”
“So have we. How was the flight?” Pearce asked.
“Hard seats, cold coffee. The usual. The pilot just told me another IED ripped inside the Green Zone an hour ago.”
Pearce nodded. “Police station. Three Iraqi policemen killed. One of our guys wounded, too. A contractor. Critical.”
“We’re supposed to find you a hot and a cot.” Early yanked open the rear Humvee door. “We can check it out first thing tomorrow.”
“It already is tomorrow,” Annie said. “Let’s go find us some bad guys.” She tossed her duffel through the door and climbed in after it.
Pearce and Early exchanged a glance. Maybe Connor was right about this one.
And those eyes.
Idaho Falls Airport, Idaho
Pearce made his way into the state-of-the-art cockpit and dropped down into the plush leather passenger seat and buckled in. With the HondaJet’s flat-panel displays and touch-screen controls, Pearce felt like he was trapped inside of a video gamer’s wet dream instead of an actual airplane.
Pearce pulled the headset on and adjusted the mic.
Judy Hopper sat in the pilot’s seat with an unreasonably radiant smile for such an early morning. “Fresh coffee in the thermos,” she whispered in his earphones. She was a decade younger than Pearce, with a plain, honest face and clear eyes. She kept her hair pulled back in a ponytail and never wore makeup.