“Yes, sir. Major William Trest.”
Trest stood and gave him a strong handshake. Trest wore his formal officer uniform. Light blue shirt, dark blue blazer and dark tie. His silver metallic name tag was on the right side of his jacket, and he was highly decorated with eight rows of colorful ribbons on the left. His shoulder flap featured a gold oak leaf badge — the insignia for the rank of Major. The lone secret service agent guarding the door was wearing a standard dark suit and tie, with a poorly concealed earpiece. Trest wondered what the agent did to get this inglorious assignment.
There was an awkward moment as Trest didn’t know if protocol allowed for casual conversation. Just as he was about to strike one up, the door opened and the Secret Service agent ushered him into the Oval Office. Trest nodded to military leaders from other branches on their way out. Followed by what he believed were DoD and CIA officials in suits. He presumed their meeting was higher priority, otherwise they would be the ones waiting for him to leave the Oval.
The President was direct and efficient, keeping the meeting brief. He asked Trest for an update on the stealth drone project — what he assumed was Project Cloudcroft. Trest opened a folder and read off dates and locations of attacks. Giving the President specifics on the targets, along with collateral damage — which was little to none.
“How many of these stealth drones do you have?”
“Four,” Trest lied. Inflating the number to rationalize the high cost of the operation. There were only two MQ-10S drones built.
“You’re doing great work,” the President said, “but why is this thing so damn expensive?”
“Two reasons, sir. The advanced technology, and the number of assets required… Air and ground, satellite imagery, reconnaissance and communications. The technology itself is unbelievable. You’re familiar with Red Flag, sir? The international War Games exercises?” The President nodded. “The F-35 had a kill ratio of fifteen to zero in Red Flag, and in our own internal exercises against the F-15, it was eighty to zero. The kill ratio for Project Cloudcroft is even higher. More precise than any previous drone strike, and with less collateral damage.”
Trest handed the President a thick, bound document. “I took the liberty of providing you with a breakdown of expenditures and their purposes, sir.” The President flipped through the pages, giving it a quick glance.
“I’ll go over this later and let you know if I have any questions.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Trest shook his hand and was about to leave—
“—One more thing, Major,” the President said. He nodded to an aide who handed Trest a document that read CONFIDENTIAL and TOP SECRET. A three letter code in the upper right corner marked it as the highest level of secrecy from the Office of the President.
Trest looked it over. It was a few names with a brief description next to each and their location. He needed no further instruction. It was the President’s new kill-list.
“Commit it to memory,” The President said. “All of it. This doesn’t leave my office.” The President gave Trest a minute to memorize all the names. One was a high-ranking Islamic terrorist and one a Taliban leader. The third name caught Trest off guard, as did his location. Adolfo Vicente “El Lobo” Garcia — Hermosillo, Mexico.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TERMINAL
Hal gripped a door handle fashioned from a heavy bottle opener. Pulling it open to a blast of AC and stale beer from the dimly lit dive bar on base called The Terminal. The clack of a billiard break sounded in the distance. A lone drunk couple danced to country music. Creating their own dance floor in front of the jukebox while others played pool and darts nearby. A tilted neon Coors sign flickered its last sparks of life on a paneled wall. Both hung when the bar opened in 1978.
Hal scanned the familiar surroundings, finding what he was looking for — a familiar face attached to a mug at the bar.
“Uncle Hank!” Hal said. Patting the man on his flannel shoulder then giving him a firm handshake. Thanks for coming down.”
“Coming down?” Henry said. “This is my second home!”
“How many nephews has this ol’ fart got?” Maggie, the barkeep asked. Smoking a cigarette and drying a beer mug at the same time.
“About everyone on base.” Hal replied.
Henry Banks looked a few years older than the buxom Maggie, both well past retirement age. His nickname was apt, as he seemed to be a mentor to most pilots on the base. Henry was the one to show Hal the ropes at the imagery analysis office, and the two became fast friends. Henry was stocky for his age. Slightly balding, with a boyish face and gap-toothed smile that could brighten anyone’s day — man, woman or child.
“The usual?” Maggie asked, and started pouring before Hal could answer. Setting the Jameson rocks down in front of the seat beside Henry’s. Hal thanked her and sat down.
“What the hell?! He threw it right to him!” Henry’s neck craned up, watching a football game on a TV above the bar. Hal looked up to watch the replay of the Denver Broncos quarterback throwing an interception. “Broncos keep playing like this and there won’t be any Monday night games next year.”
Hank glanced over at Hal and saw his mind was elsewhere — not into the game. “You okay? I think he needs another one.”
Hal waived it off. “I’m good.”
Henry knew something wasn’t right. “You sure? You don’t look yourself.”
“Maybe I will have another.” Hal held up a finger to Maggie for one more. “The whole time I was at Creech, I never once got PTSD. I thought it was a myth. An excuse for the rookies to get out of duty.”
“You think you have it now?”
Hal was reluctant to answer. “I don’t know what the hell I have.”
“You ever experience any of that from your combat?” Hal asked. “PTSD?”
“Hey!” The over-protective Maggie butted in. “He don’t talk about that. None of the old timer’s do. Different generation.”
“You know I didn’t mean anything—” Hal replied. “I was talking about after. When you got back. Did you get nightmares? Or see things, images from it during the day?”
“Not too much anymore. Once in a while.” Henry replied.
“There! That’s it—,” Hal said, looking at a news report on a TV next to the football game. “Can you turn that one up? Please?”
Maggie was busy with another customer down the bar, so Hal reached up over the bar to crank the volume. A female war correspondent was in mid-report. “…Believed to be killed in the bombing was top level ISIS leader, Ali Abbas Nasser.” The picture of Abbas Nasser appeared on screen. It was the same man in agony from Hal’s earlier vision.
The report continued. “It happened at midnight local time, and it has been confirmed that the pile of rubble behind me was indeed an ISIS safe house. Ali Abbas Nasser is also reported to be the man who replaced Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi as the leader of ISIS in Afghanistan. It’s not known whether the explosion killed any civilians, but other high-level ISIS leaders, Mohammed Jassim Ali and Hawar Abdul-Razzaq are believed to have been killed in the blast.”
An image jolted into Hal’s mind as he watched the newscast. An MP10 submachine gun sprang to life in his hands. Firing bursts of bright muzzle flashes.
“This is the third attack in as many weeks,” the reporter continued, “taking out key ISIS figures…”
The thought festered in Hal’s mind, raising questions he couldn’t answer. Has this been going on for three weeks? When did my headaches start?
The news program switched stories. This one featured the Commander in Chief, President Clarke, announcing a pledge to ease tensions between China and Taiwan. Recommending a peace treaty brokered by U.S. delegates and UN officials.