She takes him by the wrist, leading him to his old office. “Take a look, boss. Fisch and I fixed it up, just the way you left it.”
Gunnar opens the door, catching a whiff of carpet shampoo. The big metal desk in the corner has been cleaned off, the file cabinets, ransacked long ago by the FBI, now back in place. The solid brass table lamp with the gold Penn State emblem against the navy shade has been reassembled, situated in its proper place on the left side of the desk. The computer has been replaced with a newer model, its screen saver flashing “welcome back.”
He steps inside, his heart pounding. Opposite his work space is the old beige, vinyl sofa. Rehung on the wall above the sofa are rows of framed photographs. Gunnar, age twenty-five, bare-chested on a beach, posing with his Ranger buddies. His Special Ops graduation photo, in which he is accepting congratulations from Colonel Jackson. Assorted shots from his days at Penn State, Fort Benning, NUWC …
He notices that the pictures have been carefully rearranged to compensate for the ones no longer there, the ones of him and Rocky. The black-and-white of him and Simon, standing on either side of President George W. Bush in the Oval Office, is also gone.
Gunnar exhales. He raises the venetian blinds, staring out at Puget Sound. This is no longer his office. This is no longer his life …
“All right people,” Bear growls, entering the lab. “Staff meeting’s in two hours. Until then, get back to work.” Jackson steps inside Gunnar’s office. “Fisch, Jensen, that means you, too. And Jensen, take that damn thing out of your eyebrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general shuts the door. “Let’s talk.”
Gunnar continues to stare out the window.
“There’s a lot of history between us, son. I think it’s high time we cleared the air.” Jackson loosens his tie. “Now, I know things have been rough—”
Rough? Jesus …
“Why did you refuse my letters?”
“Guess I was too busy to read them.”
“You mean angry. You’re angry at your country. Angry at the Army. Angry at me and Rocky. It’s understandable, being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit. The question now is—what are you going to do about it?”
Gunnar bites his tongue.
“Hell, Gunnar, how do you think I feel? You were like a son to me. When the judge sentenced you—it ripped my heart out. Practically destroyed Rocky.”
Gunnar says nothing.
“Covah was your best friend, and he set you up. He committed treason against our country, and now he’s murdered thousands of innocent men and women. You were the finest Ranger, the finest soldier I ever trained. I need you back in the game. I need you to take this guy out.”
Gunnar can feel the veins throbbing in his neck. He turns slowly to face the Bear, a man he respects more than any person, living or dead. “With all due respect … screw you, sir.”
Jackson’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘screw you,’ General, or didn’t you hear me?”
For a dangerous moment, the Bear’s eyes seem to ignite. He turns away slowly. Removes his hat. Takes a long breath. Runs a hand through his auburn Afro, his blood pressure still simmering. Quietly he asks, “What the hell happened to you?”
Gunnar says nothing.
“This isn’t about serving time in prison, this has been brewing for quite a while, hasn’t it?”
Gunnar stares out the window.
“I said hasn’t it, Captain?” Bear growls.
Gunnar exhales, searching for the words to a speech he’s rehearsed a thousand times.
“I got sick of it. The hypocrisy. The politics. Sick of humanity. There’s so much blood on my hands, I just … I had enough.”
“What do you mean, you were sick of the hypocrisy?”
“The hypocrisy of modern warfare. The hypocrisy of being a soldier, and all the political bullshit that conceals the truth. I spent most of my adult life risking my neck on missions that never changed a goddamn thing. I killed pawns when I should have been going after the real murderers.”
Gunnar’s words become impassioned as he paces. “Want to know what really gets me? It’s the White House policy of financing the most cruel and fanatical fighters, as long as they’re fighting the enemy of the moment. How many times has that little hypocrisy bitten us in the ass? It was the United States who supported the Shah of Iran. Then, when Iran became our enemy, we supported Saddam Hussein, hell we even provided that nutcase with biological weapons. We looked the other way while he gassed his own people and repressed his population, as long as he invaded Iran. Poor Israel does the right thing and blows up Saddam’s nuclear reactor, and we actually condemn the action, even though it probably saved millions of American lives!”
“Gunnar—”
“The Soviets invade Afghanistan, so we rush to provide weapons to Osama bin Laden. Hell, even Manuel Noriega was on the CIA payroll. The only reason George H. Bush went after him had nothing to do with drugs, it had to do with Noriega’s refusal to cooperate with our terrorist contra war against Nicaragua.”
“I’m not here for a history lesson. You were an American soldier. You were trained to do our nation’s dirty work.”
“Then my nation should have let me do it!” Gunnar shakes his head in frustration. “Explain to me why it’s acceptable to slaughter platoons of men with families while Arab assassins remain off-limits? Explain to me why President Bush backed off when we had Saddam dead to rights. And Milosevic … we should have taken that murdering bastard out the moment he ordered the first Kosovo village burned. Bunch of damn sadists—”
“You burned out. I should have seen it coming. It was my fault—”
“Burned out, burned up, blown up, fucked up—call it whatever the hell you want. Know why I originally joined this man’s army? It was to complete my education. My father decided to cut me off financially when I decided I wanted something more than working twelve hours a day on a dairy farm.” Gunnar turns his back on the general. Stares out the window, tears of frustration blurring Puget Sound. “Guess what I learned? I learned to kill. Thanks for the education, Uncle Sam.”
Jackson stares at his former commando. “You’re venting years of frustration, but I know you, Gunnar. I know there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
Gunnar wipes his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jackson wonders whether to push it. “Okay, tell me about the Goliath. What made you want to destroy the sub’s schematics?”
“Not want—did. I destroyed the schematics, but I didn’t touch the computer components or sell the plans, I wouldn’t do that. And I swear on my mother’s soul that I didn’t know Simon was going to steal them either.”
“All right. But that still doesn’t tell me why.”
Gunnar paces again. “I was blindsided. There was a meeting … I was called to the Pentagon. It was just after Rocky and I got engaged. The DoD ordered me to redesign the Hammerhead as a remotely operated vehicle.”
“And?”
“It was their reasons behind the design changes that pissed me off.” Gunnar turns to face his former mentor. “Seems some four-star general decided my stealth subs would make the perfect delivery system for pure-fusion bombs.”
Bear rubs his forehead, grimacing.
“Oh, you should have heard ’em, Bear, sitting around the table, reviewing the improved dimensions of the killing field … sounded as if they were discussing a profit and loss statement. Pure fusion … the way of the future. You familiar with the weapon?”
“Somewhat. The bomb requires no plutonium in the mix.”
“Correct. What you’re left with is a bigger blast but no radioactive fallout. Perfect if you want to eliminate your enemy but rebuild at a later date. A pure-fusion device small enough to squeeze into one of Goliath’s minisubs could potentially wipe out a country the size of Kuwait.”