by Vince Flynn
“You’ve always put yourself at the center of the storm for this country,” he said, releasing Rapp’s hand and slapping Nash on the shoulder. “You both have. Now, grab a seat.”
They took opposite sides of a sofa and the president dropped into the chair across from them. “I have a lot of faults, but ingratitude isn’t one of them. So, let me start by thanking you for my job, Mitch. If you hadn’t gotten the power back on, I’d be governing four million square miles of dead bodies and scavengers. The reason this country still exists is because of you. Period.”
Rapp nodded respectfully, trying to hide his discomfort. He’d spent his life pursuing anonymity and being gushed over by the president of the United States was pretty much the opposite. If it had been up to him, he’d have given the FBI credit for saving the grid and faded comfortably back into the woodwork.
“Sorry,” Cook said, demonstrating his famous ability to read people. “I’m embarrassing you. I know. But it had to be said and now I’m done. I promise.”
“Yes, sir,” Rapp said simply. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Nash grinning at his discomfort.
“Obviously, we’re still mopping up the mess,” Cook continued. “But I think we as Americans—including me—learned a lot about ourselves during that crisis. And not all of it was positive. What do you think?”
“I’m not sure I’m qualified to offer an opinion, sir. My area of expertise is pretty narrow.”
Cook laughed out loud at that. “Beautifully put. But still, you must have an opinion. If not as an expert, as a citizen.”
Rapp let out a long breath. “I think your analysis is fair. A terrorist attack like that should have pulled the country together but it seemed like it pushed us further apart. Obviously, you had to expect that it would eventually turn into an every-man-for-himself scenario. That’s just the way survival goes. What surprised me was that people started turning on each other before their freezers even melted. And it wasn’t even about anything real. Political differences and conspiracy theories, mostly.”
Cook nodded. “It was a Pearl Harbor moment and we showed that we’re a very different country than we were in 1941. I suppose some of that’s inevitable but still we need to get some of that magic back before it’s too late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rapp could see why Kennedy was unsure about the man. Like all politicians, he was slick, but unlike his predecessor, Cook didn’t let that façade slip in private meetings. He was as much the politician in the Oval Office as he was on the campaign trail. And while the imagery of lost magic played well on TV, it wouldn’t impress a woman who preferred to work in specifics.
“Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done,” Cook continued, examining Rapp from across the coffee table. “And that’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet you. You’re an anomaly in the government. A person who actually seems to be able to get things done. That makes you worth your weight in gold. To me. To the country. Even to the world.”
Now he was laying it on a bit thick. What Rapp had said earlier about having a narrow skill set was true. It was something he himself had recognized a long time ago but that still tricked others. In a way, killing terrorists was easy. The problem was about as straightforward as problems got and the solution was simple and permanent. The search for America’s mojo, on the other hand, wasn’t necessarily improved by a guy with a Glock.
“So, the question is this,” the president continued. “Are you still in? I know that transitions in administrations aren’t easy for someone in your position, but can I count on you like President Alexander did?”
It was a question that Rapp had been unsuccessfully working on for a while.
“If you have a problem and I’m the right man for the job, sir.”
A hedge for sure, but not one that was too obvious.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Cook said before turning toward Nash. “And now I know that Mike’s anxious to get on with my intelligence briefing. Do you want to sit in?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m getting on a plane tonight and I haven’t even started packing.”
“I understand.” The president stood and held a hand out. “I’ll look forward to the next time. Enjoy your trip.”
* * *
Rapp started down the hallway thinking that his meeting had gone pretty well. No specific demands, loyalty pledges, or over-the-top power plays. Maybe Cook really had just wanted to meet and thank him for getting the lights back on.
“Mr. Rapp! Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
The voice behind him was immediately recognizable from television and he turned reluctantly toward Catherine Cook. A warm smile was framed by hair worn a little looser than it had been during her stint as the First Lady of California. Her tailor had the same formfitting aesthetic as her husband’s and the effect was to highlight what an attractive woman she was. No one disputed her brains and determination, but good looks could open doors, too.
“Sure,” he said, knowing he had no other option. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She led him back to her office and offered him a seat in front of her desk. “Black?”
“That’d be fine.”
She handed him a steaming cup and then scooted a chair into a position that put them face-to-face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope Tony didn’t make you blush. He’s a bit of a fanboy.”
“No, ma’am.”
She flashed that smile again and Rapp remembered what Nash had told him earlier about how she was trying to improve her interpersonal skills. It seemed to be working.
“It must be strange to be the guy every man wants to be. The secret agent who saves the world from the forces of evil. Gun in one hand, beautiful woman in the other.”
Rapp laughed. “I don’t remember the beautiful women. I do remember eating bugs, bullet wounds, and a couple bouts of malaria.”
“Once you put a romantic image in someone’s head, it’s hard to get it out.”
“I suppose.”
“I assume he asked you if you were on board to help us like you did Josh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what was your answer?”
“That I’d do what I can.”
Her smile was a little more subdued this time. “So vague and mysterious. Maybe politics was your true calling?”
“I don’t think so.”
She warmed her hands with her coffee cup in a way that reminded him of Irene Kennedy. The clarity of her eyes and the wheels spinning behind them wasn’t too far off, either.
“You know how dangerous the world is, Mitch. And I’m guessing you’ve noticed that those dangers are becoming more complicated. Closer to home.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, though he was pretty sure he did.
“Take the Russian power grid, for instance. You used it against them to get President Utkin to give up the name of their agent here.”
In truth, it had been Kennedy, not him. The United States had good penetration into the Russian system, and she’d put Moscow in the dark before threatening to take down the rest of the country if Utkin didn’t give her what she wanted.
“Irene did.”
“And thank God it worked, right? But it won’t work again. They’ve already completely overhauled their cybersecurity and hardened their physical infrastructure. On the other hand, do you know what Tony’s managed to accomplish by way of securing our own grid? Basically nothing. He’s run headlong into a maze of bureaucracy, local politics, and congresspeople who won’t lift a finger unless we offer them political favors.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“No, I suppose you’ve been around long enough that it wouldn’t.” She took a sip of her coffee. “And the Chinese are no different. Even with their huge population, they can turn on a dime if they have to. Then you have the multinational corporations who don’t answer to anyone but their boards. And the growing number of billionaires who are all but above the law.”
/> Rapp nodded, thinking that this was just another example of what he had been thinking about—problems that he couldn’t solve and wanted nothing to do with.
“The world used to be pretty much the same century after century, Mitch. And despite the fact that the earth is constantly moving beneath our feet, we need to figure out how to pull this country together. To put it back on top and position it to stay there.”
“I don’t envy you,” Rapp said honestly. “But this is all way above my pay grade. I deal with external physical threats. That’s it.”
“What if that’s not where the danger’s coming from? What if it’s coming from inside?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Good answer. Because it’s not an easy question. Could you do me a favor, though, and put it in the back of your mind? Where do you think this country needs to go? How are we going to get there? And what role would you like to have in that? Because in Tony’s administration your pay grade can be whatever you want it to be.”
5
SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
LIEUTENANT Jeremiah Grant wasn’t sure if his current situation was best described as a shit show or a clusterfuck. But it was one of those for sure. In fact, he’d never been so sure of anything in his life.
It had all started out so well. He could still feel his initial elation at being put in command of this operation. Naïve wasn’t a word he’d generally use to describe himself but, like clusterfuck, it fit perfectly. Of that, he was also dead certain.
Dead. Another word that would likely come in handy soon.
In his defense, being told that the president of the United States had personally requested his involvement in a critical mission was something he’d fantasized about since his G.I. Joe days. Virtually overnight, he found himself transferred to the big leagues. The leader of the free world had entrusted him with protecting God, country, and apple pie. One day, he might even find himself getting a medal hung around his neck in the Oval Office. He could almost picture the adoring faces of his friends and family as they watched.
The delusions of grandeur had faded quickly, though, leaving him with nothing but hard, ugly reality. While he had distinguished himself to some extent in both Iraq and Afghanistan, why would the new commander in chief have any idea who he was? And why would anyone pick an infantryman who had spent his combat career in the desert for this operation?
The pickup that Grant was riding in hit a particularly deep rut, nearly bouncing him from its rusty bed. Once stabilized, he went back to scanning the deep green of the surrounding mountains. There were probably more trees over one hundred square yards in Uganda than in the entire country of Afghanistan. He had virtually no experience fighting in this kind of terrain. He didn’t even have experience living in it. Arizona born and bred.
Grant turned his attention to the men sitting around him and wondered if they shared his background. Because he honestly didn’t know. He’d never fought with any of them and questions were very much discouraged. This wasn’t the Middle East. This was secret agent shit.
One thing was obvious: they were all around the same age and outfitted in a mix of eco-touristy, off-the-shelf outdoor gear that would briefly—very briefly in his estimation—fool a local into thinking they were there to snap photos. What wasn’t obvious is that all had M17 pistols hidden beneath their shirts and HK MP7s in their packs. In case things got ugly. Which he’d bet his meager life savings was exactly what was going to happen.
In the end, the situation was crazy and stupid, but not overly complicated. Four days ago, some egghead scientists may or may not have fled into the jungle when they’d been attacked by a psycho who thought he was God. The psycho in question had men—and children, apparently—searching for them, likely in hopes of securing a fat ransom. The Ugandan government didn’t want to get involved because they were afraid of psycho-guy as well as not wanting to piss off the Congolese. And the Americans couldn’t roll in a force of a few hundred men from Africa Command for political reasons that he didn’t fully understand.
Like the situation, the mission was also equal parts crazy, stupid, and straightforward. Starting from a burned-out hospital, he would lead his eight men into the jungle, dodge an unknown number of armed cult members, and find these scientists who, after four days, were almost sure to be dead. Further, he was to do this with no outside support and intel that could be summed up as “it’s two white guys and a Chinese chick. You can’t miss them.”
Piece of cake.
As he scanned the faces of his men, Grant felt his cynicism grow. He’d given money to the president’s campaign and his wife had actually volunteered to help get the vote out. Did that have something to do with him being there? Did the men around him have similar stories? Because this was clearly the purview of a SEAL team or Delta or some of those crazy recon Marines. Men who had trained together, who specialized in these kinds of ops, and who had experience in this kind of terrain.
Did the White House figure he was so blinded by the radiance of Anthony Cook that he wanted to get his ass shot off? If so, they needed to think again. He’d supported Cook because the entire US political system needed an enema and he was the best bet at making that happen. The man wasn’t the second coming, though. Just a politician who was maybe a little more competent and less sleazy than the others.
Or maybe not.
* * *
The vehicle began to slow, and Grant looked over the cab at the remains of something that only a few days ago had been a research facility funded by none other than Nicholas Ward. It wasn’t much more than a burned-out ruin now, but the forest behind it was barely even singed. Based on the information he had, the fire had been set in a rainstorm that kept it from spreading. It seemed likely that Chism had been inside at the time and, as far as Grant was concerned, his barbecued corpse probably still was.
They stopped in what appeared to have been the parking lot and everyone climbed out.
“This is the place,” their local guide said, raising his index finger toward the jungle to the east. “They would have had to escape to the—”
“Don’t point,” Grant said, assuming they were being watched. “Now get your gear together. I want to be out of here in ten minutes.”
He looked around him at basically nothing. There was no reason for any of the facility’s employees to return. There was nothing left that would interest looters. And the Ugandan responders had pronounced the debris free of bodies days ago. Gideon Auma’s men were still in the area, though, taking the long-shot bet that the scientists were alive and out there somewhere.
His men had donned their packs and were similarly examining the tangled forest that they were about to wade into. Grant motioned them to the other side of the lot, away from their guide.
“Are we good?” he said when they formed around him.
All looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something. Finally, a man to Grant’s right spoke up.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“I don’t think I understand the question…” He almost said “soldier” but managed to catch himself. This clandestine bullshit wasn’t his thing.
The man—his man—pointed to the tree line. “There could be a battleship twenty feet away in there and we’d walk right by it. Do you have some kind of intel that we don’t know about? Because, if so, I’d like to hear it. I’d like to hear that our plan isn’t to wander around a hundred square miles of jungle hoping to bump into three scientists everyone knows are dead.”
“We’ve all received the same briefing,” Grant said.
“Then we are officially the most expendable sons of bitches on the planet.”
“Were you ordered to take this mission?” Grant said.
“No. I—”
“Then stow it.”
They fell silent for a few seconds, likely all lost in the same thoughts. Finally, another of his men nodded toward their guide. “What do we know about him?”
/> This one wasn’t as fiery as the other. His tone was calm, and he had eyes that seemed to take in everything they passed over. Grant had a good intuition for men, and this was one who could be counted on. He’d remember that if—when—this thing blew up in their faces.
“Not much.”
“He looks like he’d slit his own mother’s throat for eight bucks.”
Grant had come to roughly the same conclusion. He assumed that the intelligence side of this op—if that was indeed the correct word to use—had discovered that reputable tour companies tended not to operate in the same areas that Gideon Auma did. And that had left them scraping the bottom of the barrel for an asshole who probably spent more time guiding poaching expeditions than photographic ones.
“We’ll let him take point,” Grant said. “That way we can keep an eye on him.”
That didn’t seem to make anyone feel better.
“I have something else to say,” his thoughtful man said. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Go ahead.”
“Being expendable doesn’t bother me. I knew I was expendable the day I walked into the recruiting office. But this is different. I feel like we’ve been set up to fail and now we’re being led to slaughter. Nicholas Ward got his panties wadded up about losing his people and he promised some politician a bunch of campaign donations if he sent a rescue mission. And that politician said ‘Sure, why not? We’ll send a few dumbasses to Africa to put on a show. And when they’re all dead, you can send over a check.’ ”
“Your point?” Grant said.
His man thought about the question for a moment, either not registering that it was rhetorical or choosing to ignore the fact.
“If I’m gonna die out here, I don’t want to die a chump. When I go down, I at least want you assholes to know I did it with my eyes open.”
The rest of the men grumbled in agreement. Grant remained silent for a long time, finally speaking at a level that wasn’t much more than a whisper.