Blue Warrior

by Mike Maden

  Good move, Ian, Pearce thought.

  “Did you try Washington? Someone in the Pentagon?” Pearce asked.

  “It’s four in the morning there, sir. I’d just get some other poor OOD slob like me.”

  “Base commander?” Pearce asked.

  “Not picking up his cell phone. Left a voice mail.”

  “What’s the problem, Captain?” Holliday stiffened. “This is an emergency medical evacuation of an American citizen in a hostile environment. These two people are risking their lives to save another, so let’s loosen up a few buttons and get to work for these people.”

  “I’ll need to see some ID, please,” Sotero said.

  “There’s no need. I’ll vouch for them,” Holliday said.

  “SOP, sir,” Sotero insisted.

  “Not a problem,” Pearce said. He and Judy both pulled current passports from their pockets and handed them to her. She verified names and photographs.

  “I’ll need to make photocopies,” Sotero said.

  “There’s time for all of that later,” Holliday insisted. “Let them get some chow and some shut-eye.”

  “What time will you be departing?” Sotero asked Judy.

  “What time?” Judy glanced at Pearce.

  Holliday jumped in. “We’re still waiting for a shipment of medical supplies. It should be here in four hours.”

  “Destination?” Sotero asked.

  “That’s ‘Need to Know,’ Captain,” Holliday said.

  He turned to Pearce. “How soon until you’re ready to leave?”

  “Soon as we can refuel and run a brief maintenance inspection,” Judy said. She yawned.

  Sotero caught the hint. “I’ll assign ground crew to take care of the refuel, maybe have them check systems, too, if you like.”

  “That would be great.” Judy was happy to get extra hands on the job, but after they were done she would still do her own walkaround, the way her father trained her.

  The captain stepped past Judy and stuck her head in the cargo door. “Mind if I take a look around?”

  “Never seen a plane before?” Pearce said. “The Air Force used to have a bunch of them back in the day.”

  “Need to check for contraband.”

  “Captain Sotero, please,” Holliday insisted. “This is a humanitarian mission.”

  “And this is a United States Air Force base. We have protocols, Mr. Holliday, and it’s my ass if I don’t follow them.”

  “Not a problem,” Judy said. “Feel free to look around.”

  Judy wasn’t concerned. Pearce’s special-delivery cargo to South Africa was carefully hidden and stowed away in a secret locked compartment.

  “Before you get started, Captain, how about some food and drink for our guests?”

  “Of course. Let’s load back up and I’ll run you two over to the mess hall. I’ve got a couple of BOQ trailers open if you want to shower and catch some sleep.” She eyed Pearce, then Judy. “Do you folks want one bed or two?”

  “One,” Troy said, serious as a heart attack. He wanted to tease his way out of Judy’s doghouse.

  “Two beds,” Judy corrected. She punched Pearce in the shoulder. “Two trailers, now that I think about it.”

  —

  Judy had only planned to shower, but as soon as she toweled off and re-dressed in her dirty clothes, she got the bright idea to lie down on the bed for a few minutes to rest her aching back. She passed out immediately.

  Three hours later, a soft knock on the door startled her awake.

  “Ms. Hopper? Are you decent?” Holliday whispered.

  Judy bolted upright, dazed and groggy. “Uh, yeah. Come in.”

  The door pushed slightly open and Holliday slipped in, shutting it swiftly behind him as if he were sneaking between barracks in a prison camp. The bachelor officers’ quarters were little more than a motel room—a bedroom with a desk and TV set and a bathroom.

  “Sorry to wake you, but we have a situation,” Holliday said.

  “What situation?” Judy swung her legs off the bed and reached for her boots.

  Holliday touched a finger to his lips as he removed a handheld scanner from his pocket. He waved it back and forth as he moved toward the bathroom, then thrust the bug scanner through the bathroom door and checked the readings. “We’re clear here.”

  “So what’s the situation?” Judy asked again.

  “It’s your friend Pearce. He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean he’s gone? Is the plane still here?”

  “Yes, and fueled and ready to go, and your package arrived from our friend in Colorado.”

  “‘Our friend’? How do you know her?”

  “Margaret and I go back a long way. We actually dated in college for a few months. But she thought I was a flake because I wanted to join the Peace Corps after graduation, so we broke up. But we remained good friends ever since. She even nominated me to be the ambassador to Morocco, but when she resigned, Diele had me replaced and I was shitcanned to this backwater. Turns out this place is getting more interesting by the day. Here.” Holliday handed her a slip of paper.

  “GPS coordinates.”

  “Your new destination, just over the border in Mali. Got them thirty minutes ago.”

  “Why isn’t she communicating with us directly anymore?”

  “Margaret thinks her communications are being monitored, so she had to backdoor this through your man Ian.”

  “Who’s monitoring her?”

  “Not sure. That’s probably why she’s going dark for a while. You and your team will be on your own until further notice. Any idea where Pearce might have gone?”

  “Without these coordinates? No. You’re sure he’s gone?”

  “He’s not at the plane, he’s not at the hangar, and he’s not in his quarters. I can’t exactly tell Captain Sotero he’s gone missing. She’s already cockeyed about this whole thing. The last thing we want is for her to unleash base security for a manhunt.”

  Judy stood up. “I’m going to grab some more coffee, then I’ll head back over to the plane.”

  “If Pearce doesn’t show up, will you still take the mission?”

  She shrugged. “Of course. Mike Early is an American, isn’t he?”

  Holliday’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “Couple of things. You’re aware that this mission is strictly off the books, right? I know Margaret burned some bridges when she was in office, but now she’s persona non grata all over D.C., like she’s got the plague or something.”

  “She told me as much when she called me.”

  “That means you’re not legally crossing into Mali airspace.”

  “Shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

  “Not unless you get into trouble. If you do, the American government won’t be able to help you, because you’re breaking the law.”

  “We’ve never counted on anybody to help us. Especially the feds. No offense.”

  “The Air Force might also arrest you when you return, since you’re originating your flight from one of their air bases. They’ll track your plane to and from Mali using your IFF transponder.”

  “Still not a problem. I can shut it off from the cockpit before we enter Mali airspace.” That was illegal under international air traffic regulations, but Judy believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission when it came to operational security.

  “Right, and you’ll need to. But once you do, any military aircraft that encounters you will assume you’re either hostile or criminal and will likely shoot you down.” Worry framed his kindly face.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo, Mr. Holliday.” Judy tried to comfort him with a smile.

  “You’re a very brave young woman.”

  “I’m a pilot for Pearce Systems. It’s what I do.”

  “And
what is Pearce Systems, if I may ask?”

  Judy had to think about that. She’d been away for several months now. Heard through the grapevine it had changed a lot.

  “It’s a private security and technology firm. Drones, mostly. Air, sea, and land.”

  Holliday frowned, curious. “And here you are on a drone base. That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Gee, it is, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought about that until now.”

  He tried to read her guileless face. “Are you a drone pilot, too?”

  “Me? No, I’m terrible at it. Even with haptics. I fly by feel, not numbers.”

  “But a drone is safer, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, at least for the pilot. But I don’t fly to feel safe. I fly because I love it. It’s what I was born to do.”

  “Well, I’ll say it again. You’re a very brave young woman. Best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks. We’re gonna need it.”

  16

  Glory Box Café

  Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  7 May

  It was 3 a.m. when the blond woman with a French-braided ponytail and a Colorado Buffalos ball cap slipped into a padded booth. A few locals lingered in the main lounge. Sleeve tattoos and pierced noses, mostly. Dusty moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies adorned the rough-timbered walls. A performance space in the corner was empty save for a mic stand and an empty stool. She could smell the sweet tang of pot in the air.

  A heavy Hispanic kid with a mop of curly hair and a pencil-thin beard ringing his jawline dropped a large plastic tumbler of ice water and a menu in front of her. His black T-shirt was stained. Pink letters read GLORY BOX. She asked for coffee and he asked what kind, they had a bunch. “Strong,” was all she said. But he was slurring his words, probably stoned, so she added, “Caffeinated,” and as an afterthought, “two eggs, fried hard.”

  She sipped the coffee and waited. It was all she could do. Ian had managed to get her the address safely. She used every trick in the book to get here without being followed—cash only, no cell phone, and the blond wig being the three most important. Now she sat in the all-night café and waited for Ian to contact her again.

  Margaret Myers took another sip. She guessed the coffee was Sumatra, but she wasn’t sure. It was strong, all right, and a little burnt. But she wasn’t here for the coffee.

  The Hispanic kid and the cannabis aroma brought back memories. She was glad she had waged war on the drug lords. A lot of bad hombres got planted in the dirt, and drug violence had decreased dramatically on both sides of the border now that President Madero was in charge down there. The irony, of course, was that marijuana had been legalized in several states since then, including her home state of Colorado. There was much further to go in the drug war, but President Greyhill wasn’t the man for the job. Maybe her critics were right. Maybe the nation would never have the wherewithal to fight it like a real war. If that was true, legalization was inevitable, and it wouldn’t end with marijuana.

  How would history judge her? She’d asked herself that question a thousand times in recent weeks, then pushed it away before she could answer. It was a vain, stupid question, and the answer would only come long after she was dead, past her caring. But the question kept coming back nonetheless.

  So many things hadn’t gone the way she’d planned as president. Drone strikes, a showdown with the Russians, resignation. She had shown resolve, then quit. But that was the deal she had made. The alternative was a shooting war with the Russians and a showdown with Congress. But she couldn’t fight the feeling that she had failed.

  No matter how she justified it, she had quit her job, and she had never quit anything in her life. There were still so many things left undone that she might have been able to accomplish had she remained in office. And now she’d put the destiny of her country in the hands of Greyhill and Diele, exactly the kind of career politicians she’d always railed against.

  But “What If?” was a fool’s game and she needed to stop playing it. Now.

  Myers’s free-range eggs finally arrived, fried hard, along with four triangles of whole-wheat toast. The menu solemnly promised, “Non-GMO, soy-free, vegan, Kosher” foods. No mention of rubbery and burnt. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

  The one good thing she’d taken away from last year was meeting Pearce. She’d lost the ability to trust very many people, especially after entering politics. But Pearce was definitely one of the good guys, good as his word. That was hard to come by in politics or anywhere else these days.

  She’d once felt the same way about Vin Tanner, too.

  The only people she knew she could trust with her life were Pearce and, by extension, Ian. As soon as she fled her home, she bought a burner phone with cash, called Ian on the road, told him she needed a perfectly secure method of communicating with him. An hour later, he made the arrangements.

  Once secure, Myers explained her situation. Told Ian cryptically she needed some alone time, her first use of coded language in this new adventure. He understood. They decided to go old-school. He sent her a package, indirectly, through third and fourth parties. The package directed her here, to the Glory Box.

  Now she was waiting for the next link in the chain. She felt like she was in a cheap spy novel. Felt foolish sitting in this hippie dive at three in the morning with a six-hundred-dollar wig on her head and picking at a plate of rubbery free-range eggs. What was she doing?

  She was hiding, of course. And running for her life. At one time, she was the most famous woman in the world. She couldn’t exactly walk around in broad daylight without attracting some attention. But the wig and the tortoiseshell glasses and a dark café full of alternative lifestyles allowed her to hide in plain sight. At least long enough to hear from Ian.

  A rusted Subaru Outback with dented door panels and a bent roof rack pulled up to the sidewalk. A tall, thin woman with a buzz cut and neck tattoos pushed through the door. She glanced around the room, looking for somebody, her head on a swivel until her eyes locked on Myers. She marched over to Myers’s booth.

  “Are you Margo Denver?”

  Ian had given Myers a different name on the previous delivery, but the same pattern. The first letter of the first name had been an M, too.

  “Yes.”

  The woman’s long, thin fingers fished a padded envelope out of a fringed paisley shoulder bag. Myers noted the black fingernail polish and the sad, large eyes highlighted with blue eye shadow. She handed the envelope to Myers.

  “Thank you. Do I owe you anything?”

  “Nah. I’m doing this as a favor for Troy.”

  “You know Troy Pearce?” Myers asked. Her curiosity got the better of her.

  “Yeah. But I haven’t seen him around in a while. He used to come in here at least once a month. Is he okay?”

  “He’s been away. On a business trip.”

  “For a whole damn year?”

  “Something like that.”

  “If you talk to him, tell him Sadie said ‘Thanks.’”

  “For what? If I may ask.”

  “Paid my rent for the year. He’s been a real good friend to me and my kid.”

  Meyers motioned to the booth. “Have a seat. Let me buy you breakfast.”

  Sadie shook her shaved head. “Can’t. My boy’s asleep in the car. I just ran over here to give you that. I was told I had to deliver it in person exactly at 3:15 a.m. But thanks anyway.” She looked at Meyers’s plate and the half-eaten eggs. “You should try the veggie empañada next time. It’s real good.” She nodded, turned on her boot heel, and left.

  Myers watched her climb back into the Subaru and pull away from the curb before opening the envelope.

  It was from Ian. Keys. Codes. Instructions.

  Relief flooded over her. She was almost there.

  17

  Fiero National Campai
gn Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  7 May

  Harry Fowler wanted her. Always had, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her twenty years before. Fiero knew it, too. Didn’t matter. They could still work together, even be friends, which they were. But she was immune to his charms as few women were. That made her all the more desirable to him, of course. But business was business. He poured them each two fingers of his favorite, Bushmills twenty-one-year-old single malt.

  As her national campaign manager, Fowler’s job was to consummate her greatest political desire. The next best thing to bedding her, he supposed. Hated telling her today that she wasn’t going to be the next president of the United States, at least not next year. Ruined all kinds of prospects. He handed her a glass.

  “Why not wait for 2020?” he asked. He sat in a chair across from her, getting out from behind his desk. The walls were lined with photos of him and all of the politicians he helped get elected over the years, including Fiero.

  “I’m not getting any younger. And Greyhill is weak. He can be taken out.”

  “He’s bulletproof, I’m telling you. If the election were held today—”

  “—he’d win. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before. Poll after poll. I don’t believe in polls. Opinions can be changed. Look at Bush 41. He had an approval rating of over ninety percent at one time. He couldn’t be beaten either, until he was.”

  “Greyhill’s invulnerable right now. He’s continuing everything Myers initiated. The economy’s picking up, thanks to her energy policy. That means the deficit’s inching down without raising taxes, thanks to her budget freeze. And for the first time in a long while we aren’t gearing up for a new ground war. Just exactly where do you expect to find the key to his chastity belt?”

  “That’s just it. He isn’t invulnerable. He’s Calvin Coolidge. The do-nothing president.”

  “What’s your bumper sticker going to say? ‘Trust Me, Not Your Lying Eyes?’ Everything getting better feels like he’s doing something right to most people.”

  Fiero shook her head. “No, that’s not my point. I think I’ve found the issue.”