by Vince Flynn
“You’re not going to get an argument from me.”
“This shit festers. It all gets thrown into the pot whether you want it there or not. It’s your own little personal goulash. You might not think one thing is going to affect another, but listen to me when I tell you it does.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“So tell me,” Hurley said with genuine concern, “what’s wrong with you and Maggie?”
“I didn’t come out here to talk about my marriage.”
“I know you didn’t, but right now you’re one of my starting pitchers and I need you to get your head screwed on.”
“My arm feels great.”
“Bullshit. I spoke with Irene before you got here.”
“So?”
“She told me you lost your cool in front of Glen Adams.”
“Big deal.”
“She said Adams already filed an official complaint claiming that you physically assaulted him.”
“All I did was grab him by the arm.”
“You need to act like a professional. Especially around clowns like Adams.”
Nash looked across the lawn and nodded. “Message received. What else?”
“I called Maggie.”
“You called my wife?” Nash said in shocked voice.
“Yes. I’ve been hearing rumblings that you haven’t been yourself lately, so I called her up. She’s worried about you.”
“She’s always worried about me. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Listen to me,” Hurley said with a biting intensity. “We’ve got a lot in the offing right now, and you’ve got a ton of crap you need to attend to, so I’m going to cut through all the bullshit and put my cards on the table. I know you’ve had some difficulty raising the old flagpole lately…”
Nash didn’t hear another word. He felt as if he’d just been tossed into a deep, dark pit. His own personal hell here on earth. This conversation was out of bounds in so many ways, all he could manage to say was “We’re not going to talk about my personal life.” Nash started to stand, but before he got far, Hurley reached out and with surprising strength yanked him back down.
“Yes, we are, and so help me God, if you so much as raise your voice at Maggie, I’ll kick the piss out of you. You need to get your head screwed on and that means you need to make love to your wife and you need to do it quickly, boy. You’re a goddamn ace. You know what an ace gets paid in the majors? The good ones are pulling in twenty million a year. How do you think those guys would perform if they got up on that mound and knew they couldn’t get a hard-on? They’d get shelled. Their confidence would be shot.”
“Stan, I hardly see what…”
“Just keep your piehole shut for a minute, junior. This job fucks with your head bad enough, you throw something like this on top of everything else and you can become a liability real quick.”
“I’m fine. It was a onetime thing.”
“Then explain to me how you let some worthless suit like Glen Adams get under your skin this morning, because that’s not the Mike Nash I know. The Mike Nash I know would never lose control like that.”
As much as Nash hated to hear it, he knew Hurley was a little too close to the truth. With more attitude than was wise he asked, “So your point is?”
“My point is, numbnuts, that while you are diddling around with your dick, Rome is burning. That’s the problem with this whole country. Fucking vast prosperity. No one has any real problems anymore. Ninety percent of the damn politicians in this town either think there’s no war on terror, or if we’d just be nice to these zealots they’ll leave us alone. Well, that ain’t going to fucking happen. The Huns are circling, and we’re sitting around arguing about gay rights and prayer and guns and global warming and all kinds of bullshit. These idiots will eventually wake up to the threat, but by then it might be too late.” Hurley looked over both shoulders to make sure no one was nearby and then said, “You need to get laid, boy, and then you need to find out who in the hell is leaking your operations to this fucking reporter at the Post, and you need to put a bullet in his head.”
“Come on, Stan. You can’t be serious.”
“About which part?”
“I’ll take care of my love life, all right? Let’s just take that one off the table.”
Hurley ran a hand over his wrinkled face and said, “Kid, if someone at Langley is leaking shit to reporters, they’re a traitor, and traitors in our business get taken out back and shot. At least they used to until all these PC pussies got involved and everyone lost their nerve.”
“You want me to kill a fellow employee of the CIA?” Nash asked in near disbelief.
“You’ve killed plenty of men before. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve.”
“I’ve never killed a fellow American.”
“Well don’t think of them as an American. Think of them as a traitor who is exposing an intelligence operation that has done more to protect this country than anything else we’ve done around here in a good twenty years. And now we’ve got confirmation that a third cell is out there. What the fuck do you want to wait around for? You want a grade school full of kids to be taken hostage and slaughtered? You want to see a damn mushroom cloud over the Capitol?”
“No.” Nash shook his head. These were the nightmares he’d lived with since 9/11.
“Then get your head screwed on, and get out there and get these fuckers before they get us.”
CHAPTER 28
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
LELAND walked through the mess line sliding his tray along as he went. Since he couldn’t use his right arm he chose the pasta Alfredo over the meat, which was difficult to cut even with two good hands and a sharp knife. He skipped the salad bar, grabbed a piece of blueberry pie, and then came the hardest part of all. He turned and looked out across the huge dining hall. This part was never fun, trying to find an open seat, preferably next to someone he actually liked.
The place was barely a third full. Leland looked around for a familiar face but found none. He was usually on duty at this time, but Garrison had given him the night off. Not feeling like making small talk, he picked an empty table, set his tray down, and headed over to the beverage station. He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice and then Diet Coke. Back at the table he sat and took a sip. He thought about his CO and the advice he had given him—to wait forty-eight hours before writing his official report.
Leland was tempted to go over Garrison’s head on that point alone, but he didn’t know whom he could trust. The whole thing was wrong on so many levels, his head ached just thinking about all the compromises he was being asked to make. And then to make matters worse, Garrison had asked to have a word alone with him. Off the record. Academy grad to academy grad. The words stung him more than the brutality he’d suffered at the hands of the fascist from the CIA. Garrison told him that he had a reputation for being difficult. And it wasn’t just his assessment; the previous CO felt the same way. He’d already been passed over once for promotion to major. Garrison explained to him that it came down to the fact that he was not liked by either his superior officers or those he commanded.
Garrison very firmly told him if he ever wanted to live up to his abilities and become a flag officer, he was going to need to stop being such an inflexible prick. The audacity, Leland thought, to turn this into a popularity contest. It flew in the face of everything they’d been taught. This was not high school. Promotions were not based on popularity. They were at war, and during combat it was about results. Talent and results. Who could get things done, and Leland got things done.
There were a couple of ROTC guys who were his same age who had received the bump. Leland took it personally, and wrote it off to the fact that his CO didn’t like him, and here he was again with another CO who didn’t like him.
Leland stabbed his fork into the creamy noodles and found a piece of chicken. He tried to twirl the fork, but couldn’t. He was self-conscious due to his lack of dexterity and looked
around to make sure no one was watching him. Satisfied he was safe, he leaned forward and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He could feel a dab of creamy cheese sauce on his chin and grabbed a napkin. As he wiped his chin, he thought of his previous CO. The man was not an academy grad, so the fact that he didn’t like Leland was understandable. Leland had always felt there was a strong animosity in the officer ranks among those who had learned their skills at lesser institutions. Garrison, however, was an academy grad. Was he one of those officers who bent over backward not to show favoritism? Leland wasn’t sure, but he was thinking that was more than likely the case. Either way, the man was not living up to the standards and ideals of a commanding officer.
The whole situation was so entirely wrong, Leland felt almost disembodied. His wrist throbbed, his eye ached, but worst of all, his honor had been assaulted. Bending the rules was one thing, but this was far worse. These men were snapping, breaking, and trashing the very rules that were the backbone of the United States Air Force. Leland had never felt so isolated, even during the horrible hazing he’d suffered at the academy his freshman year. None of it was fair. He’d done everything by the book. He deserved his promotion to major, but he didn’t want it this way. He wanted his talent and effort to be recognized. He told himself that on a much deeper, selfless level, he wanted justice. The offer of any posting and being fast-tracked for colonel was nothing more than a bribe. Did they really think him so unprincipled?
Leland wasn’t paying close enough attention to his food and he ended up dumping most of a forkful down the front of his uniform. He swore to himself and set the fork down. As he went to wipe his uniform he heard laughter from a nearby table. He looked up to see a major and two nurses laughing at him. He knew the major well enough to dislike him. His name was Cliff Collins. He was a graduate of the University of North Dakota Air Force ROTC program. He was athletic, handsome, witty, and far too full of himself. In fact, he was pretty much the poster child for what was wrong with the promotion boards. In Leland’s opinion, the man was proof that it was more about being popular than having talent.
The stress of the last few days had worn away his patience. He glared at Collins and said, “You find this amusing, Major?”
“Sorry, Captain,” Collins said with an insincere grin.
“You don’t look very sorry, Major.” Leland fixed a laser stare on the man.
Collins changed his expression as well, the jovial smile vanishing.
“I’m glad you find humor in another man’s pain,” Leland added.
Collins nodded. Seemed to hesitate for a second and then said, “Yeah…well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Enjoy the rest of your meal, Captain. Ladies, let’s go catch the movie.” Collins and the two women got up and left.
Leland silently watched them leave, his insides slowly turning over, his gut twisting tighter and tighter. What did he mean by that? Did Collins know what happened, and if so, how many others knew? Leland felt his face flush with anger. Military bases were as filled with gossip as an American high school. The thought of others whispering about this behind his back made him want to vomit. They were all so undisciplined. Leland thought of something that had been given to him back at the academy. It was a guide that he went back to from time to time, to help remind him of who he was and what it all meant.
He left the tray on the table and headed straight back to his room. It was located near the bottom of his footlocker and after a few minutes he found it safely tucked away in the pages of his King James Bible. Leland looked down at the Little Blue Book and read the words aloud. “United States Air Force Core Values. Integrity first. Service before self. Excellence in all we do.” The words still had heft after all these years. If anything, they meant more to him today than when he’d first read them as a cadet more than ten years ago. Why couldn’t General Garrison understand their importance? Leland continued to scan the pamphlet that had been given to him back at the academy. He found the quote he was looking for on the second page.
It read:
In 1965 I was crippled and was all alone (in a North Vietnamese prison). I realized that they had all the power. I couldn’t see how I was ever going to get out with my honor and self-respect. The one thing I came to realize was that if you don’t lose your integrity you can’t be had and you can’t be hurt. Compromises multiply and build up when you’re working against a skilled extortionist or manipulator. You can’t be had if you don’t take the first shortcut, of “meet them halfway,” as they say, or look for that tacit deal, or make that first compromise.
—Admiral James B. Stockdale
Leland ran his fingers over the words and recited them again, this time with tears in his eyes. When he was done he told himself that he would not take the first shortcut. He would not meet them halfway. He would not make that first compromise. He would stand up to them. He would show them what it was like to live life with integrity and honor.
He closed the booklet, placed it back in his Bible, and began reviewing his options. If he did not handle this properly, he could easily ruin his career. If done the right way, though, this could catapult him to great heights. But where to go first? He was isolated on this base, thousands of miles from those who were most sympathetic to his cause. Whom could he call? Whom could he turn to? There was the Office of Special Investigations, of course, but that presented a whole other set of problems. A great many people would think of him as a rat, and the old boys’ club that still ran the air force would likely never trust him again. His name would forever be attached to the scandal that was sure to follow. He needed someone else to blow the whistle. To sound the alarm and show him as the true victim in this travesty of justice.
Leland paced nervously from one end of his small room to the other. He went through a mental list of all the commanding officers he’d had and none of them fit the bill. Who would be willing to lock horns with the CIA? Leland asked himself. He suddenly stopped, thought back to earlier in the week, and said, “Of course.”
Leland raced over to the tiny desk he shared with a fellow officer. He moved a stack of magazines and a pile of opened envelopes and letters and pens and junk and then finally, there it was. A beautiful embossed card with a gold eagle smack in the center. Leland snatched the card off the desk and held it up as if it were a winning lottery ticket. He ran a finger over the embossed name and wondered if the person would remember him. After a brief moment Leland decided he would. This was his way out. He would call Washington and sound the alarm and then that arrogant imbecile would have to answer for what he’d done.
Leland grabbed one of his prepaid phone cards that had been sent in a care package and then tried to think of the safest place to make the call from. It was mid-morning in Washington. Probably the best time to call. Leland started for the door. For the first time in days a smile spread across his face. As he raced down the hallway he thought of Rapp and said to himself, “We’ll see how smug you are after I’m done with you. You’re going to wish you’d never laid a hand on me.”
CHAPTER 29
TRIPLE FRONTIER
IT was fast approaching noon. The sun high in the sky. The valley turning into a soupy mix of heat and humidity. Karim waved away a large bug that almost flew up his nose and then mopped his brow with a drab olive bandana. He looked over at the white and blue plane. It was a Basler BT-67. Basically an old DC-3 that had been refurbished with two Pratt & Whitney turboprop engines and a new skeleton and avionics. It sat a mere fifty feet from the ramshackle warehouse, its two propellers glistening in the sun.
The tractor had been retrieved from the edge of the jungle, and the bucket had been removed and replaced with a set of forks. The two pallets of cocaine were then eased out of the warehouse and positioned as close to the plane as possible. Four of Karim’s men formed a line, passing the bricks of cocaine to each other and into the cargo hold. They’d been working steadily for an hour. One pallet was loaded and they were about halfway through the second one. Unlike the me
n they had just killed, these men worked without complaint and were far more efficient at their task.
Karim glanced at his watch and thought about the pickets he’d placed on the two main trails. It had been nearly thirty minutes since they’d last checked in. He thumbed his radio and asked for a situation report. They both reported back that the trails were quiet. Karim felt his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. He was caught in a no-man’s-land between two conflicting thoughts. The first was that he simply wanted to get out of this horrible place, and the second was that he hated to fly. New engines or not, this plane looked to be of a very old design. His friend Hakim had told him that it was indeed an old design. Nearly a hundred thousand of them had been made in the 1930s and then during World War II, but that was a good thing. The fact that they were still being refurbished and flown after all these years was a testament to the plane’s simple and robust design.
Karim looked nervously over his shoulder at the plane and wondered if his childhood friend knew what he was doing. Not in terms of flying. He was more than capable of that. Hakim had been flying since he was sixteen. Helicopters, planes, jets, gliders—pretty much anything he could get his hands on, and besides, he’d got the thing here and landed it with only one tiny bounce. Karim’s more immediate concern was how they were loading the plane. He didn’t know much about such things but it seemed there would have to be a science to it. The two men had met at the age of seven. They lived only a few short blocks away from each other and attended the same school. Karim knew that his old friend had many talents, but academic proficiency was not one of them. Hakim had never been a good student, and the thought that he was now trying to load more than a thousand pounds of cargo onto a plane made him extremely nervous.
Karim marched over to the plane and told his men to take a quick five-minute break. All four of them were dripping with sweat and could use a drink of water.