“Our targets were confined to the room. Without any known means of exit but the door, according to our floor-plan schematics. That was to their disadvantage,” he said at last. “To their advantage, they knew we were outside, and the doorway gave them a narrow, direct, and easily covered zone of observation and fire.” He paused again. “We could have created multiple diversions before and during our entry. A breaching charge could have been placed on the wall adjacent the door. A profusion of chemical incapacitants and distractive tools were available to us. There may have been time for our outside support teams to launch gas projectiles through the outside window. Primarily, though, I should have waited for your specific orders, directions, and countdown before attempting to break through the door.”
The kid sat rigidly in his chair. He seemed to be making a tremendous effort to contain his embarrassment. And somehow that made Ricci feel embarrassed for him.
“You were crackerjack until you swung that rammer,” he said. “Didn’t miss a beat when we were surprised by those guys coming down the stairs. Or when we got into that firefight in the hall. Both of’em were tough situations. What happened at the last? Adrenaline take over?”
Nichols’ smooth cheeks flushed a little.
“Not exactly, sir… Tom, sir…”
He shook his head.
“Go on,” Ricci said. “Let’s hear it.”
The kid inhaled, exhaled.
“When you ordered us to neutralize the men in the corridor, your words… what I heard you say… was that you wanted it done yesterday.” He breathed again, looked at Ricci. “At the time, I took it to mean you wanted us to directly move on to the next stage and complete the seizure of our target. In hindsight, I think… that is, I know… I was too eager to please you and make the grade.”
Ricci was quiet a moment.
“I’ve got this theory about mistakes,” he said. “That they’re always waiting for us, sort of like hidden mines or trapdoors. Every step along, we’ve got choices to make. The better ones are usually just enough to get us a little further ahead. The worse ones have this crummy way of being more final. Of doing us in. Which doesn’t make for joyous odds.”
Ricci eyed his penholder, transferred it to his right side, then his left, then more toward the middle of the desk.
“I’ve been a soldier, and I’ve been a cop,” he said, looking up at the kid. “Met guys on both jobs who got into trouble not knowing the difference between obedience and blind obedience. Maybe it ought to be emphasized more. Showing men how to see the line, I mean. It can be thin. Razor sharp. Slippery. But if that’s where you choose to live, you better be wise to the terrain.” He paused. “I’m your commander. My orders are supposed to be clear. You tell me the words I used had a part in your screwup, I’ll take it into consideration, give you a second chance. But there won’t be a third. Because we’re talking life and death. For you and your teammates. And because, on my team, just following orders won’t cut as an excuse. You’ve got to use your head. All your judgment, everything you’ve learned, your understanding of what the mission’s about. Of what we’re about. And keep the line in sight.”
Nichols sat quietly in his chair.
“Thank you,” he said after a few seconds, looking awkward. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. And I’m sorry—”
Ricci interrupted him with a motion of his hand, looked at his wall clock.
“Go home,” he said. “It’s late on a Friday afternoon. Weekend’s calling.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid said.
Ricci looked at him. Opened his mouth, closed it. Then looked back at his penholder and resumed shifting it around his desktop.
Nichols rose from his chair and left the office.
THIRTEEN
Roger Gordian awoke Sunday morning convinced he was fending off a bad cold.
To be sure, he’d felt more than a little out of sorts the day before but had attributed that to being wearied from a busier-than-average week at the office, the predictable stresses of running an enterprise that spanned five continents — and, at last count, twenty-seven nations — compounded by Friday’s difficult sales conference. And he’d been keeping a close eye on Tom Ricci’s war games at the New Mexico training camp. Although Ricci had been frustrated with their ultimate resolution, his team’s performance had struck Gordian as mostly exceptional. That they’d stumbled at the end wasn’t as important to him as how they’d performed overall and what lessons they’d learned from their errors. Why hold operational maneuvers but to work out the kinks?
Still, a long, draining week. And with Ashley gone off to storm the checkout counters of Los Angeles, it felt incomplete, as though a seam had been left out of its cuff. The house was less of a home when she was away, too quiet, its rooms emptier and larger. Gordian sometimes couldn’t believe how much time they’d spent apart before he’d drifted from the matrimonial through lanes onto those eye-opening rumble strips a few years back.
Also, he’d admittedly gotten used to having Julia around, despite their frequent tense moments. She seemed delighted with her new place, and he was delighted for her. But a part of him selfishly missed fathering her and being trailed at his heels by her lovably annoying greyhounds.
After turning in early Friday night, Gordian spent most of Saturday with a mystery novel on his lap, unable to muster the energy for much of anything else. When he’d warmed the homemade chili Ashley had left in the fridge and its smell failed to charge his appetite, he’d conclusively diagnosed himself as an exhausted and lonesome bird separated from his flock. Nobody to pay attention to him. No eternally ravenous dogs nosing at his plate. Not even his daughter to give him one of those zinging looks that said he couldn’t do anything right.
Gordian had listlessly eaten half a bowl of the chili and picked up his crime novel again, figuring he’d read the last few chapters, discover who murdered whom and why, shower, and go to bed. But after about ten or fifteen minutes, his eyes had felt tired and grainy, and he decided to cut straight to the shower and bed phases of his second wild night of bacheloring. He’d wanted to start out for Julia’s first thing, anyway, eager to attach the spacers and siding strips to the posts of her dog corral. Though he’d already set the posts, and the strips had been cut to size at the lumber yard, it would be a demanding affair to complete just one side of the basket-weave fence. And he was secretly hoping to start on a second section that afternoon.
Then, as he’d risen from the chair in his study, Gordian had experienced a wave of mild lightheadedness. It was over in seconds, and again all he could think was that he was blown out from a rough week, though perhaps more so than he’d guessed. A few extra hours of shut-eye would do him a world of good.
But his sleep was shallow and fitful. Each time he stirred uneasily to glance at the illuminated face of his bedside clock, he’d find only a short time had passed since he’d last closed his eyes. Twenty minutes, forty, no longer than an hour.
At about two A.M. Gordian roused, chilled and sweating. His throat hurt when he swallowed. There was a dull pain behind his eyes. His arms and back were stiff. Whatever was wrong with him, it didn’t feel like a case of simple exhaustion anymore. He felt damn unwell.
He sat up against his pillow and drew his knees to his chest, trembling in the darkness. His mouth was parched, the stiffness in his muscles had become a throbbing ache, and his stomach was unsettled. After a while, he went into the adjoining bathroom for a drink of water. The sudden brightness of the bathroom light sharpened the pain at the back of his eyeballs, and he had to turn the dimmer control down low before going to fill his glass.