Cole clicked on another page and activated a video. It opened with a shot of a dozen or so muscular, heavily armed fellows in skintight T-shirts advancing across a swampy field at the company’s two-thousand-acre training facility on the Maryland Eastern Shore. Gunfire erupted, loud enough to awaken half the household. Cole quickly shut it down.
He returned to the map and clicked on the logo just north of Baltimore. A photo of corporate headquarters popped up, a gleaming three-story building in Hunt Valley. Close enough to Washington to keep a hand in, but not so close as to appear to be breathing down the neck of the Pentagon, or the CIA. And it was certainly convenient for keeping tabs on Mansur.
He searched the site for any reference to “Lancer,” just in case, but came up empty.
The deeper he explored, the wackier things got. Embedded in the section for prospective employees was a page offering company logo products like T-shirts and caps, so you could dress like a mercenary in your own backyard. At the bottom, in a deft bit of cross-marketing, you could click a link to join the National Rifle Association, a paid advertiser.
He navigated to the description of IntelPro’s corporate structure.
The founder and chairman was Michael “Mike” Boardman. Former U.S. Army Ranger. West Point, class of ’87, meaning he’d be in his mid-forties. Decorated during the Persian Gulf War in ’91. Family man. Self-made millionaire. In his picture his hair was clipped as short as on the first day of basic. Not even a hint of a smile. Charcoal gray suit, white shirt, red tie. Just another uniform, in other words. Below the photo were links to profiles in the news media, plus a Wall Street Journal editorial that praised him as a “visionary entrepreneur” and concluded, “While some misguided souls inevitably label him a mercenary, Boardman has found a creative and muscular way to serve his country even as he serves his company’s impressive bottom line.”
A blow job. That’s what Steve would’ve said, and Cole found himself agreeing. He doubted he shared many political viewpoints with the journalists, but in some ways he was already seeing things from their point of view. Stockholm syndrome, which made him chuckle.
His laughter caught in his throat when he saw the next name in the IntelPro hierarchy:
Phil Bradsher, Chief of Operations.
Or, as the web bio helpfully pointed out, “Major General Phil Bradsher, recently retired from the U.S. Air Force.” He’d come aboard almost two years ago. A quote from CEO Mike Boardman summed up the rationale behind the hire: “With Phil in the cockpit, IntelPro hopes to motivate its associates to ever bolder and more decisive action. While we believe we have already made an impressive mark on a brave new frontier of private endeavor, with Phil’s guidance and counsel the value of our mission will become ever more apparent, perhaps even to those who tend to question our raison d’être.”
A bullshit way of saying it was time to take no prisoners, or so it sounded to Cole. The same boilerplate the brass used to imply that they were men of action in a passive world. On paper, anyway.
The most intriguing thing about Bradsher was his former spot in the Air Force chain of command. He had led the U.S. Air Force Warfare Center at Nellis, a plum posting reporting directly to Combat Command. Just below Bradsher at Nellis — and presumably still just below Bradsher’s successor — was Brigadier General Mitchell Hagan, commander of the 57th Wing, with jurisdiction over Colonel Archer Milroy, head of the 432nd Air Expeditionary Wing at Creech, with all its Predator crews, including the ones commanded by Cole’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Scott “Sturdy” Sturdivant.
He studied the photo and thought about the timing. By the time the shit hit the fan for Cole, Bradsher had been out of the Air Force several months. But Cole was guessing he stayed in close touch with all his old buddies, and he probably knew exactly what was going on inside the Predator program — its successes, its fuckups, its booming budget appropriations, and the growing chatter about pilot burnout. Cole recalled Bickell’s complaints about green badgers and blue badgers and all the incestuous relationships out in the field. If IntelPro’s people ever needed help from a Predator crew, they certainly had the right man to ensure their request would be heard at the highest levels. He was pondering the implications of that when a voice made him jump.
“Next time, ask first.”
Barb stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips. Cole exed out the page and sat up straight.
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d look some stuff up.”
“Like my emails, maybe?”
“No. Web stuff. Didn’t even know this was your machine.”
She crossed her arms, the same pose his mom had used whenever Cole missed curfew. She wore a white flannel nightgown, decidedly unsexy, although her hair looked disturbingly the way it had in his dream. He shifted self-consciously.
“Maybe you should have a password for your log-on,” he said.
“Up to now I’ve never needed one. We’re a team here. Or were. We trust each other not to go snooping around on each other’s laptops.”
“Even team members need to keep some stuff to themselves.”
“Tell me about it. I’m having a drink. Want one? And no, this isn’t a test of your sobriety.”
She turned back into the kitchen. He heard the clink of bottles, the gurgle of a pour.
“Maybe just a touch.”
She emerged with two glasses, no ice. He could already smell the bourbon.
“What were you perusing so intently?” She handed him the glass.
“IntelPro website. Trying to get up to speed.”
“Learn anything?”
He told her about Bradsher. She raised an eyebrow and swallowed without a shudder, an old pro. Then she leaned over his shoulder and tapped the keyboard until the general’s bio popped back up. Her flannel sleeve brushed Cole’s cheek. It smelled like her skin, like the warmed sheets of a slept-in bed.
She nodded, reading.
“Good stuff.” She sounded pleased. “That chain of command you mentioned, write it down. You said the line goes straight to your unit?”
“Like an arrow.”
“And you think Bradsher would be able to exploit those connections?”
“Absolutely.”
“At what price?”
“He wouldn’t need a price. It’s an old boy network.”
She smiled and lowered her head, as if embarrassed for him.
“There’s always a price, especially in old boy networks. But that’s a good thing. Gives me more trails to follow. Deeds, stock transactions, any sign that your old chain of command is living beyond its means.” She sipped more bourbon. “You always keep these hours?”
He shrugged. In the desert he’d never been conscious of time, apart from what the sun told him. Earlier, when he flew Preds, the shifts had changed so often that his inner clock had been constantly out of balance. She shook her head.
“Just what this crowded little house needs. Another insomniac.”
“You, too?”
“Only since that.” She nodded toward the photos.
“How long ago?”
“Year and a half. But at this time of night it always feels like about an hour ago.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I suppose you do.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“The back of beyond. Little tribal village, Tangora, in Nangahar Province.”
The name was vaguely familiar.