Albert’s eyes narrowed. No one joined the Special Forces without the underlying certainty that they were the best at what they did; the toughest and most capable soldiers in the world, the men who made terrorists scared of the dark. In his years in Force Recon, he’d crawled through bogs and climbed mountains to slip into terrorist training camps and kill them all, or call in air strikes from a bomber loitering so high overhead that the terrorist scum had no idea that they were there. He’d carried out missions in over a dozen countries, including several that it would have surprised the general public to know that American troops were operating there. And he’d come alarmingly close to losing his life on several occasions.
“Yes, sir,” he said, flatly.
“The Director will brief you on your mission,” O’Neil said. “The mission requires an operative with unique qualifications. Failure is not an option, Sergeant. These orders come from the very highest levels. Once you know the mission, you will either carry it out as you see fit or you will be placed into lockdown until the mission is completed.”
Albert nodded. As insulting as it seemed, one lesson the United States had learned quickly was that it couldn’t really trust its allies in the Middle East. The only way to keep operations from being blown — or raiding empty buildings — was to have them kept highly confidential until the mission was over. There were so many American units, helicopters and aircraft moving through the Middle East and Afghanistan that it was easy to put together a mission without letting too many people in on the secret.
“I must say that I have protested the orders,” O’Neil added. “You have the authority to determine if you want others to accompany you or if you want to operate alone.” His eyes darkened. “But if you get caught, we will deny all knowledge of you. Understand this; there will be no reinforcements or support from anywhere else. You’ll be effectively on your own.”
“And expendable,” Albert said. The nasty feeling in his gut was mingling with growing excitement. It sounded like a mission that would test him — and his buddies, if he brought them along — to the limit. Or, alternatively, an invitation to suicide, like several other missions that had gone badly wrong over the years. “I will carry out the mission.”
“Good,” the Brigadier said. “I will withdraw now. Once you’re done, you will receive your instructions, but remember — nothing is to be written down or stored in a database, no matter how secure.”
He left, closing the door behind him. “Sergeant, this will not be easy,” the CIA Director said. “The Brigadier was not kidding when he said that you and your team would be on their own — and expendable, if you get caught. If you want to back out…”
“No, sir,” Albert said, firmly.
“Very well,” the CIA Director said. “It has been announced that Iran will receive a visit from one of the Snakes, someone who will negotiate with Iran for the introduction of Galactic technology into their society. The Iranians have been pushing for this visit for some time and the Snakes have finally decided to grant it. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to assassinate one of the Snakes.”
Albert stared at him. “Sir?”
“You heard me,” the CIA Director said. “You have to get into Iran, assassinate the Snake and then get out again, all without being detected.”
The thought was exciting — and terrifying. Albert had scant respect for Iran’s security forces — they’d tangled with them before, on missions that were officially denied — but the Snakes might have all kinds of technology protecting their scaly behinds. He would have to travel into Iran on his own, sneaking through the desert and into Tehran, before finding a place to strike at the Snake. It would be the thrill of a lifetime, if he pulled it off. Failure would mean certain death.
“Sir,” he said, “with all due respect, what has been done to determine how the Snakes will react to the death of one of their people?”
“Nothing,” the CIA Director admitted. “We need data, Sergeant, and we need to get it in such a manner as to ensure that someone else gets the blame…”
Albert saw it all, neatly. Iran had been one of the countries threatening bloody retribution for losing its oil revenues. If he carried out the assassination, the Iranians would get the blame and the brunt of any alien retaliation. And it might distract the terrorists from going after American targets.
“I understand, sir,” he said. “I won’t let the country down.”
“I know you won’t,” the CIA Director said. “Under the circumstances, as your CO said, you have complete freedom to plan the operation as you see fit. Good luck.”
Albert was already considering it. It would be fairly easy to link up with smugglers and head east to Tehran. The Gulf was lousy with smugglers, despite the presence of the American Navy and — for that matter — Iran’s naval patrols. Iran’s forces were generally bought off with large bribes, a constant problem in the Middle East, allowing smugglers to ship contraband all over the region. The Teams had used it before to slip in and out of Iran.
“I’ll need one other person,” he said. “Sergeant Bainbridge. We both speak fluent Arabic and Farsi; we can pass for Arabs or Iranians if necessary.”
“You have complete freedom to decide how to carry out the mission,” the CIA Director reported. “Just remember, if everything goes south…”
“We’re rogues,” Albert agreed. “And you will never have seen us in your life.”
“They confirmed McGreevy as Vice President,” Toby said, grimly.
His father looked up from where he was poking the fire. Gillian sat at one end of the sofa, watching his antics with apparent amusement. Toby had only been able to slip out of Washington at very short notice and they hadn’t really had time to chat. His father had been eager to talk about his other plans, but Toby had refused to listen. The less he knew the better. With an apparent security breach opening up the path to taking down Air Force One, the FBI was gearing up to run checks on everyone who’d already been cleared. It might uncover the resistance’s growing network of cells.
“The bitch,” his father said. “The President should have appointed someone harmless, not someone who…”
He shook his head in disgust. “You want to bet that she planned the VP’s assassination herself?”
“No,” Toby said. The President didn’t understand his former Secretary of State, not really. He knew that McGreevy was ambitious — it was why he’d tried to co-opt her into his administration in the first place — but he’d underestimated just how far she was prepared to go to gain power. Now she had become Vice President, she was only one step away from the Presidency. The Secret Service had quietly strengthened the ring of steel around the President, but Toby wasn’t sanguine about the risks. God alone knew what the aliens could do to assassinate the President. “I think we have to count her as an outright collaborator.”
“So we deal with her,” his father said. “Can’t you get a kill-team somewhere near her?”
“I doubt it,” Toby said. The Secret Service would be hardly likely to accept him vouching for anyone, particularly a group of old soldiers carrying weapons. “I think we have to assume the worst.”
He stared down at the fire. “The DHS is already in her pocket,” he said. “I think the Director is one of her people, which gives her a great deal of authority; more, I think, than the President recognises. They’re already gearing up for dealing with mass civil unrest — after the riots in Washington, they have ample justification to prepare for further trouble. I think the next step will be to clamp down on our freedoms down here.”
“Not until they’ve finished disbanding the army,” his father said. The Colonel spat into the fire, causing it to splutter back at the watching humans. “I cannot believe that so many military men so tamely complied with the government’s orders.”