“I still don’t like it, sir.”
“Well, handle it any way you want, Jack,” the division commander said, “but my advice is: put up with the guy for now, be nice to him, and don’t piss him off. If you don’t, and it turns out the guy has major juice behind him, we’ll both be out on our ears.
“Just keep focused on the job, Jack,” Connolly went on. “Our job is to transition that theater from a military to a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones hanging their asses on the line. Your job is to bring your troops home safely and honorably—and to make me look good in the process, of course.”
Judging by the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he wasn’t totally joking. “Roger that, sir.”
“Anything else for me?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Very good. Press on. Division out.”
Wilhelm broke the connection, then looked at McLanahan talking on his cellular earset again. If he had the technology to defeat all of their cellular jammers—the ones set up to defeat remote-controlled Improvised Explosive Device detonators—he had to have some first-class engineers and money behind him.
On the console, Wilhelm spoke: “Duty Officer, get the operations staff together right now in the main briefing room to discuss the Scion surveillance plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headset and approached him. “How did you know I was going to get a call from division, McLanahan?”
“Lucky guess.”
Wilhelm scowled at that response. “Sure,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “Whatever. The staff will brief us right away. Follow me.” Wilhelm led Patrick and Jon out of the Tank and upstairs to the main briefing room, a glassed-in soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and center computer screens in the Tank. One by one, staff officers filed in with briefing notes and thumb drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They did not waste time greeting the two officers already in the room.
Wilhelm took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner, then sat down in a chair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. “So, General, tell me about this Scion Aviation International outfit you work for,” he said as they waited for the others to arrive and get ready.
“Not much to tell,” Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for Jon and himself but did not sit down. “Formed a little over a year ago by—”
“About the same time you retired because of the bum ticker?” Wilhelm asked. Patrick did not respond. “How are you doing with that?”
“Fine.”
“There was some scuttlebutt about President Gardner wanting to prosecute you for some of the things that happened in Iran.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Right. You knew I was going to get a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you don’t know if you’re the target of a White House and Justice Department investigation.” Patrick said nothing. “And you wouldn’t know anything about the rumors that you were involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it wasn’t a skiing accident?”
“I’m not here to respond to crazy rumors.”
“Of course not,” Wilhelm said wryly. “So. The money must be pretty good to keep you in the game traveling all over the world with a friggin’ heart condition. Most guys would be sitting by the pool in Florida collecting their pension money and hitting on divorcées.”
“The heart is fine as long as I’m not traveling in space.”
“Right. So, how is the money in this business of yours? I understand the mercenary business is booming.” Wilhelm put on a feigned panicked expression as if he was afraid he had insulted the retired three-star general. “Oh my, I’m sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it ‘private military company’ or ‘security consultant’ or what?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want to call it, Colonel,” Patrick said. A few of the field-grade officers getting ready for their briefing glanced over at their boss—some with humor in their expressions, others with fear.
Wilhelm gave a slight smile, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of his VIP visitor. “Or is it just another name for the ‘Night Stalkers’? That’s the name of the outfit you’re rumored to have been part of a few years back, right? I remember something about those Libyan raids, am I right? The first time you got tossed out of the Air Force?” Patrick didn’t respond, which elicited another smile from Wilhelm. “Well, I think ‘Scion’ sounds a lot better than ‘Night Stalkers’ myself. More like a real security consultant outfit rather than a goofy, kids’ TV cartoon superhero show.” No response. “So how is the money, General?”
“I believe you know exactly how much the contract is for, Colonel,” Patrick said. “It’s not classified.”
“Yeah, yeah”—Wilhelm mugged—“now I remember: one year, with an option for three more years, for a whopping ninety-four million dollars a year! I believe it’s the largest single contract in the theater unless your name is Kellogg, Brand and Root, Halliburton, or Blackwater. But what I meant was, General, what’s your slice? If I don’t get a star in the next couple years, I might pull the plug, and if the money’s right, maybe you can use a grunt like me in Scion Aviation International. How about it, General, sir?”
“I don’t know, Colonel,” Patrick said expressionlessly. “I mean, what is it you do around here other than act like a big fucking blow-hard?”
Wilhelm’s face turned into a mask of rage, and he shot to his feet, nearly popping the water bottle in his fist apart in anger. He stepped within inches of Patrick, face-to-face once again. When Patrick neither tried to push him nor backed away, Wilhelm’s expression changed from fury to a crocodile’s smile.
“Good one, General,” he said, nodding. He lowered his voice. “What I’ll be doing from here on out, General, is making sure you’re doing what you’re contracted to do—nothing more, nothing less. You slip up, just a red cunt hair’s worth, and I’ll see to it that your sweet rich-bitch contract is canceled. I have a feeling you won’t be around very long. And if you put any of my men in any danger, I’ll solve your little heart problem by ripping it out of your chest and stuffing it down your throat.” He half turned to the others in the room. “Is my damned briefing ready yet, Weatherly?”
“We’re ready, sir,” one of the officers responded immediately. Wilhelm gave Patrick another sneer, then stormed off to his seat in the front row. Several field and company-grade officers were lined up to one side, ready to speak. “Good afternoon, sirs. My name is Lieutenant-Colonel Mark Weatherly, and I’m the regimental executive officer. This briefing is classified Secret, NOFORN, sensitive sources and methods involved, and the room is secure. This briefing will cover the findings of the regimental staff’s study of the surveillance plan presented by Scion Aviation International for—”
“Yeah, yeah, Weatherly, we’re not getting any younger here,” Wilhelm interrupted. “The good general here doesn’t need the whole Air War College dog and pony routine. Let’s cut to the chase.”
“Yes, sir,” the operations officer said. He quickly called up the proper PowerPoint slide. “The finding, sir, is that we’re just not that familiar with the technology being employed by Scion to know how effective it’ll be.”