Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Spanish nationalist parties in Madrid wanted both order and central government, and saw Catalonian nationalism as a threat to the Spanish state. If Catalonia seceded, other regions in Spain might follow.

Europe and the rest of the world were struggling with the centralism-nationalism debate. The benefits of national and regional integration were obvious—especially for the political elites and transnational corporations—but always at the cost of local identity and autonomy.

The subtext to all of this, Jack noted, was the tendency of politicians on both sides of the Catalonian argument to exploit the passions of their people in exchange for their own political power. Separatist politicians weren’t willing to accept Madrid’s previous offers of even broader rights of Catalonian autonomy, even as Spanish nationalists stoked the fears of their followers in Madrid and elsewhere.

Politicians’ tendency to serve themselves at the expense of their communities wasn’t unique to Spain. The United States suffered too many such fools, playing to identity politics at the expense of the national interest. Jack knew his father was the rarest breed of politician—the reluctant servant.

In truth, most people just wanted to live their lives in peace and prosperity. This was particularly true in Barcelona, where life was very good for locals and visitors alike.

Brigada Catalan rose up out of this confusion and frustration. They proclaimed that if democratic elections were no longer respected by Madrid and the will of the majority of Catalonians ignored, then violence was the “only viable alternative to Madrid’s totalitarian, Francoist, and Fascist rule.” Their online manifesto claimed solidarity with other independence movements throughout history, including the American Revolution, but leaned heavily on Latin American revolutionary sloganeering—in part, Jack believed, because so many Latin American immigrants lived and worked in Barcelona and throughout Spain.

Jack entered the small but pristine Kitchen Barcelona on Carrer de la Maquinista, and queued up behind a couple of locals. The air smelled of fresh-baked crusts, gooey cheeses, and ripe, spicy olives. He felt like he was cheating by eating Italian food, but it was owned and operated by local catalanes, which technically made it Spanish food. Besides, it was freaking good.

The place was barely shoulder wide between the glass case and the stand-up bar on the wall. The handsome, flour-dusted pizza chef stood just beyond another doorway, shoveling pies one at a time into the only oven in a kitchen not much bigger than a broom closet. Jack had been here once before—it was fresh, fantastic food, and the cute girl behind the counter had both an awesome sleeve tattoo and an excellent English vocabulary.

Jack didn’t worry about Brigada Catalan attacking this place—it was too small and too out of the way. But the killers who murdered Renée were out there in the city somewhere and he knew they would strike again until Catalonia won its independence or until they died fighting for it.

If Jack had anything to say about it, it would be the latter.

7

MOUNTAIN VIEW, CALIFORNIA

They were both lean and narrow-shouldered, with medium brown hair, brown eyes, and fair complexions, which was why people who first met them assumed they were siblings. But Chris and Cari Fast were married, first meeting, then dating, and eventually falling in love all at the Google AI quantum labs in Mountain View. They even recited their wedding vows standing beneath Stan, the iconic full-size T. rex skeleton on the Googleplex campus, surrounded by friends, family, and pink flamingos.

The childless, forty-two-year-olds loved not owning a car. It wasn’t that the two senior Google scientists couldn’t afford any luxury vehicle they wanted, or the insane insurance rates, or even a full-time driver to avoid the hassles of Bay Area driving.

Riding bikes, ridesharing, and not owning a car was really about keeping a low carbon footprint, and equally important, demonstrating their public commitment to combating climate change. For trips to the city, they always used Uber, including tonight’s benefit gala for their favorite local no-kill animal shelter.

Uber’s convenient phone app was on the front page of both their iPhones (only Nooglers—new Google employees—thought that Android phones were required at the Plex). Despite the fact that they didn’t own a luxury vehicle, they certainly enjoyed the experience of riding in one, which was why they always opted for Uber Lux. Tonight was no different, and in truth, they needed the extra space, since they were bringing their companion dogs, a miniature Maltese named Cookie and a papillon—often mistaken for a long-haired Chihuahua—named Louis (with a silent s in the French manner) after the Dustin Hoffman character in the movie of the same name.

All four stood expectantly on the wide, tree-lined suburban street outside their one-story mid-century rancher as the roomy Cadillac Escalade glided to a halt at the curb. Cari double-checked her Uber app, confirming the make, model, and license plate of the vehicle. The smiling, well-built young Nigerian who opened their doors was the driver listed on the app as well.

Good to go, she thought, as the four of them climbed into the backseat. They were greeted with bottled Fiji waters and organic treats for the dogs. There were bright smiles and wagging tails all around as the big SUV pulled away from the curb.

They had no idea it was going to be the night of their lives.

OCTOBER 25

8

WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

Where do we find such men? he asked himself.

President Ryan stood over the bed of Lieutenant Corporal Brad Shaffer, 3rd Battalion, Marine Raider Regiment.

Men? Kid doesn’t look old enough to shave.

It never ceased to amaze him. The fate of the Republic had always been held in the strong, skilled hands of young war-fighters like Shaffer.

They all seemed to be young these days. Or maybe he was just getting to be that old.

“You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble, sir,” Shaffer said.

“It’s my honor, son. You did a helluva good thing out there.” Ryan nodded at the Navy Cross he’d just pinned to the boy’s hospital gown. “Your folks will get word about that today.”

The chief of naval operations (CNO), Admiral Talbot, stood next to POTUS. “Unfortunately, the citation won’t include any details of your mission, nor will it be released to the press because the mission is still classified.”

“Understood, sir.”

Ryan added, “But I hope you know how grateful the nation is for your sacrifice.”

“My boys woulda done the same for me, sir.”

President Ryan had read Shaffer’s service jacket. “For conspicuous gallantry and unyielding courage in the face of overwhelming enemy forces in defense of his team,” the secretary of the navy had written in Shaffer’s citation.

It had cost the boy dearly.

The after-action report read like a Don Bentley novel. It was an operation in Niger. Two of Shaffer’s team were wounded, and one killed in an ambush by Boko Haram forces, tipped off by a local police captain on their payroll. Shaffer had single-handedly saved his brothers-in-arms by advancing into enemy fire, taking out a KPV 14.5 heavy machine gun and an RPG, then laying down covering fire until the Black Hawks arrived.

As far as Ryan was concerned, the boy deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor, but that wasn’t his call. And in his experience, men like Shaffer didn’t do what they did for medals. They did it because that was the job they were trained to do, and they were determined to do it, no matter the cost.