He’d needed a little more help to become the vice president — as had the new commander in chief. But his father — the real one, not Old Man McKeon — had paved the way for that to happen long before Lee McKeon was ever born — while he was still known as Raza Badeeb.
Dr. Naseer Badeeb had been placing children from his orphanage in the remote Wakhan Corridor of Afghanistan into American families for two decades. These children, well indoctrinated to hate America for the beast that it was, grew up in quiet suburban homes, went to school, got married, and moved up in society. The children always went to extraordinary families who saw to it they received outstanding educations. Many rose to the highest levels of government. The doctor was no longer around to enjoy the success of his labor, but he’d known intuitively how to prepare things so they would come to fruition later. McKeon had once heard his father say that the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. It broke his heart that he’d never really gotten to know the man. But that only doubled his resolve to carry on his father’s legacy.
“What are my options?” the President asked, kicking back at the head of the long table and gazing at the myriad of television screens on the walls as if he was watching the Super Bowl instead of attending a high-level intelligence briefing from his National Security Council. Known as the NSC, these advisors included the Joint Chiefs, the secretaries of defense, state, and treasury, the director of national intelligence, and the national security advisor. All were men, all white, and all, but for the Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson, were brand-new appointees. A new man sat quietly in one of the royal blue high-back chairs along the wall. Only McKeon and the President even knew who he was.
Secretary Filson sat to the President’s immediate left, across the oak table from McKeon. He was a pinch-faced man who glared at his cup as if he was angry at the coffee.
“You know my views, Mr. President,” Filson said. Usually a man to bounce around the room when he spoke, the Secretary of Defense stayed glued to his seat, as if he was afraid someone might steal it if he got up. “I say we waterboard the shit out of them until they tell us what we want to know.”
Drake nodded thoughtfully, like that might actually be something he’d consider with so many eyes and ears in the room. The depth of this man’s stupidity made McKeon’s head hurt. The Hell’s Angels’ adage “Two can keep a secret — if one of them is dead” held doubly true amid the vaporous political alliances of the White House. Security precautions only lasted as far as the door. In a place where leaked insider information was the coin of the realm that lead to multimillion-dollar book deals, the President’s body language, let alone his spoken word, was a potential land mine.
“The Pakistanis want them back,” Air Force three-star Greg Tolliver spoke up, stepping in front of Filson’s proposal with one almost as outlandish.
“That would make trouble for me diplomatically,” Tom Watchel, the Secretary of State, said. He rested the flat of his hands on a black leather desk blotter in front of him.
The President laughed out loud. “And that’s why we’re having this meeting, Tom,” he said. “So we can all be certain and shield you from diplomatic damage.”
The Sec State appeared to shrink in his chair. “Of course I meant us, Mr. President. We, I mean to say, the United States would be damaged. These men blew up a train in…” He shuffled thorough a file folder in front of him, hunting for a particular note.
“Urumqi.” McKeon helped him, feeling impatience more than pity. For a Secretary of State, this man was sorely undereducated in world geography. “The train was leaving the northwestern Chinese city of Urumqi.”
“Yes, of course.” Watchel nodded. “Urumqi.” He closed his folder. “Beijing demands to put them on trial for terrorism.”
“What do I tell the Pakistanis?” Drake asked. “These guys blew up a… what, some kind of a store there, right?”
McKeon blinked away the look of frustration on his face. “It was a café, Mr. President.”
Drake gave a flip of his hand. “That’s right. Anyway, the point is, Pakistan wants them for trial too. And their bombing was first.”
“That’s true,” the Sec State said. “But the café was closed when it blew up so no one was killed.”
“But the building was destroyed?” Drake said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well.” Drake put both hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the acoustic ceiling. “Seems to me it would be a step in the right direction if Pakistan actually put a terrorist on trial.”
Watchel nodded. “It would,” he said. “But—”
Filson pounded his fist on the table, sending a little coffee tsunami over the lip of his mug. “We should not be in the habit of turning over terrorists to anyone. These men have a great deal of valuable information rolling around in their heads.”
“Mr. President.” Watchel made a last-ditch effort to bolster his case. “China is in a… how do I put this… in a bit of a spot at the moment. Chen Min is a very unique leader.”
Drake cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t forget,” he said. “If you’re one in a million in China, there are only three thousand more just like you.”
McKeon groaned inside himself.
“Mr. President,” General Tolliver said. “There is no doubt that the Chinese, specifically Chen Min, will view it as a slap in the face if we turn the prisoners over to Pakistan. But Pakistan will feel the same way if we give them to China. The question is, who do we need right now?”
“Let me see,” Drake said, screwing up his face in thought. “Do I piss off a son of a bitch Chinaman who’d like to eat our guts, or the Pakistanis, who, at least in lip service, are our allies?”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Secretary Watchel said. “Chen Min does not appear to be a rash man. He leads at a time when the Chinese are swollen with nationalistic tension. If we were to turn these men over to anyone other than China, Chen Min might have no other choice than to step up his rhetoric.”
The President pushed back from the table and got to his feet, forcing everyone else in the room to stand out of protocol.
“Listen,” he said, looking at the line of digital world clocks that ran along the far wall. “I have to shoehorn in a meeting in the Oval Office before I get my ass to the gym. It’s leg day,” he added. “And a guy can’t miss leg day. I’ll leave the rhetoric to you, Tom. I have to be honest, though, the Pakistanis seem to have more value in this fight than the Chinese. Work me up a brief of possible outcomes if I decide to hand the prisoners over to President Kassar.”
McKeon smiled inside himself. Despite Drake’s stupidity, things were working out just as his father had imagined.
Chapter 7
Knee-high beach grass rose up from the muddy bank. It grew quickly in the short Arctic summers and covered the hillside above the Yukon. Village women used the stuff to weave decorative baskets during the long winter nights and the sweet, wet-hay scent was prevalent in every home that had a basket maker. Quinn breathed in a lungful as he sprinted up the hill.
Rather than hiding, he had always found it more tactical to fight through the objective. Quinn’s father was not much of a talker. The senior Quinn had expressed the notion most succinctly when he’d sat Jericho down at the kitchen table before his first deployment to the Middle East. “Attack back, son,” his old man had said, dispensing serious counsel. “If you think you’re going to be captured, fight your way through it. I’d rather you die in that initial assault than find yourself in the hands of this enemy.”