Jax tipped the envelope to spill its contents across the surface of the desk: a well-used U.S. passport, credit cards and business cards, driver’s license, and assorted pocket litter, all in the name of Jason Aldrich. “Aldrich? Again?”
“There wasn’t a lot of time. Plus, it’s a cover you’re familiar with.”
Jax gave a soft laugh. “Not only me. I suspect our friend Jason Aldrich has been blackballed by every car rental agency in the world with a computer system.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think car rental agencies in Kaliningrad have computers.”
A tense silence fell. Matt shifted his weight and looked away again.
Jax watched him with a growing sense of unease. “Out with it, Matt; what else aren’t you telling me?”
“Ensign Guinness has asked to be let out into the field on this one.”
“They turned her down, right?”
“Not yet.”
Jax shoved up from his chair so fast it went skittering across the floor. “Are they nuts? What the hell do they think she’s going to do? Hold a séance on the beach or something?”
Matt snorted. “I think the idea is that she can help interpret what she saw in her viewing.”
“Right. What’s to interpret? I go there. I see there’s no U-boat. I come home, and the taxpayers take another dredging picking up the bill for a wasted trip. End of story.”
“And if U-114 is there?”
“Let’s just say for the sake of argument that by some miracle the U-boat is there; what the hell would I need a remote viewer for?”
“It doesn’t hurt to have a backup.”
“A backup? October Guinness? You’re kidding, right? She’s not a field operative. She’s a linguist…with a couple of screws loose.”
“She’s a Naval officer. And an Iraq War vet.”
Jax gathered up his cover-story documents. “She went to Baghdad as an interpreter, Matt; not a SEAL. And she still managed to almost get herself killed-and earn a psycho discharge.”
“She didn’t deserve that and you know it.”
“She can’t shoot for shit-”
“True. But she does have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do-”
“And she can’t run.”
“She’s got a bad knee!”
“My point exactly.” Jax reached under his desk for the bag he kept packed and ready to go. “Tell her to forget it. I work alone.”
“It isn’t just Tobie pushing for this, Jax. The Vice President thinks it’s a good idea, too.”
“So?”
“So, you want me to tell the Vice President to forget it?”
“Yes.”
Matt laughed and turned away. “You tell him. In the meantime, you’d better hurry. You’ve got a flight to catch.”
9
United States Special Operations Command (SOCOM),
MacDill Air Force Base, Tampa, Florida:
Saturday 24 October 7:20 P.M. local time
Lieutenant General Gerald T. Boyd was the kind of general American newscasters loved. Well-educated and articulate, tall and broad-shouldered, he had the steely-eyed, hard-jawed good looks of a born hero. Graduating first in his class at West Point, he’d served his country with distinction in theaters from Ethiopia to Iraq and half a dozen other conflicts in between.
True, his frank, forthright speech could at times veer into territory some considered racist, but in today’s climate not everyone considered that a liability. With his big, photogenic family, his unabashedly devout Christian sentiments, and his unstinting devotion to the men under his command, Gerry Boyd could have had his party’s nomination for president in the upcoming election if he’d wanted it. He didn’t.
Standing now on the stage of the freshly refurbished auditorium at MacDill Air Force Base, home of the Special Operations Command, Boyd clasped his hands loosely behind his back and felt his heart swell with pride for the five brave young men who stood at attention beside him, their gazes fixed straight ahead as the Secretary of Defense pinned a bronze star to each man’s chest.
This is what makes America great, thought Boyd as he stared out over the smiling, proud faces in the audience: parents, wives, children, sweethearts, all gathered to support the men being honored. This, and the grace and favor of Our Lord Savior.
Boyd himself had been just twenty-three years old when he earned his first bronze star. He’d been posted to Palawan province in the Philippines as an advisor when word came that a band of Communist guerrillas down in Basilan had kidnapped four American tourists from a resort on the coast.
Boyd was supposed to be in Palawan to train Philippine troops, not to lead them into action. In clear defiance of standing orders, he led his Philippine soldiers in a forced march through the jungles, tracked the guerrillas to their camp, and attacked at dawn. Not only were they successful in rescuing all four American hostages, they also killed every last one of those Commie sons of bitches. And then they cut off their private parts as a warning to all the other natives in the area: Don’t fuck with the US of A.
His commanding officer, General Levenger, had wanted to court marshal Boyd for disregarding a direct order to stand down. But then the press got ahold of the story and started calling Boyd a hero, and the Defense Department was forced to backpedal. Rather than being cashiered, Boyd had earned a bronze star. He could still recall every detail of that award ceremony, how he’d been so flush with pride when the Secretary of the Army pinned the star on his chest that his ears stayed red for hours afterward.
That had been back in 1977, on the parade ground at Sco-field Barracks in Hawaii. Not in a red-carpeted, oak-paneled auditorium like this one. In some ways, things were different today, Boyd thought as he studied the hard-chiseled faces of the five Navy SEALS standing at attention before him, heroes of the Global War on Terrorism. A different kind of ceremony, a different kind of war, but the enemy was still the same: a guy named Satan.
The fine young men being honored today were receiving their bronze stars from the Secretary of Defense. As Deputy Commander of SOCOM-the United States Special Operations Command-General Boyd could have awarded the medals himself. But the Secretary was in the area and only too happy to be of service. This kind of thing was good for the esprit de corps, and it was good for the politicians, too. The Secretary was getting great mileage out of it, meeting families and posing for lots of grip-and-grin shots, now that the ceremony was over.
“You’ve got a bunch of good people here, General,” said the Secretary, clasping Boyd’s hand. “Keep up the great work.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary.”
The Secretary’s minder was already whispering in his ear, whisking him off toward Washington. Boyd worked his way down the line of proud young SEALS, shaking hands, pressing shoulders, saying, “We’re proud of you. You did a great job.” But all the while, his gaze was scanning the excited crowd for his own aide, Captain Syd Phillips. Boyd had a flight to Washington planned tonight himself, with a brief stop first in Miami.
For more than thirty years Gerald Boyd had played by the Government’s rules. Time after time he’d had to watch while the girly men in Washington, D.C., let down the country and let down its troops because they didn’t have the stomach to do what needed to be done to protect America. But Boyd was about to change all that. If he’d learned one thing from a lifetime of leading black operations, it was that a few dedicated men, working in the shadows, could literally alter the future of the world.
He was turning away from having his picture taken with the pretty, fair-haired wife of one of the SEALS when his aide, Captain Phillips, appeared and leaned in close to say, “Your plane is ready whenever you are, General.”
“Good. I think at this point we can safely leave things to the unit commander.”