Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“The owners of the vessel reportedly called in to the destination port and said the Jade Star wouldn’t be docking there. No explanation given. The weird thing was, they made that call after the explosion. Of course, the port didn’t know that at the time.”

“A cover-up.”

“Apparently. One of the MDA techs got curious. She decided to find out what other AIS signals had vanished over the last several weeks, and had also canceled their port arrivals after the fact. More cross-checking showed that five other vessels had disappeared in that manner.”

“What do the other shipping owners say happened?”

“That’s the weird part. When we contacted them, they refused to respond. A couple of them even denied losing their vessels altogether.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, sir. It doesn’t.”

“So what do you need from me?”

“Turns out, one of the ships that went down was leased by White Mountain Logistics and Security.”

“That’s Buck Logan’s outfit. He’s one of the good guys. Took over from his father several years ago.” Ryan chuckled. “You ever meet Buck’s dad, Scooter?”

“No, sir. But I’ve heard stories.”

“Trust me, they’re all true. He was a six-five, two-hundred-forty-pound lineman for the UT Longhorns, back when they wore leather helmets. Ran an infantry platoon with the Fifth Marines in Korea. He came home and built a trucking company that Buck expanded into a worldwide operation. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. So, what’s the story with Buck?”

“He hasn’t been any more cooperative than the other ship owners. In fact, he hasn’t responded to any of our inquiries. Given his special status, I was hoping you might have a word with him.”

“If you’re asking me to get involved, you must think Buck is hiding something.”

“That’s the suspicion. More to the point, we need to know why he’s hiding it.”

“And you think he’ll tell me.”

“That’s a pretty good bet from where I’m standing, sir.”

Logan had a big GOP fundraiser scheduled next month in Houston, where his company was based. More important, White Mountain Logistics + Security was one of the country’s largest civilian defense contractors, providing nearly a billion dollars’ worth of transportation and operational support to the DoD every year. In effect, Ryan wrote his paycheck.

But if Ryan called Logan and Logan lied, that would put Ryan on the horns of a dilemma. Unless Buck had broken the law, he wasn’t compelled to discuss the situation with anybody, including the President of the United States.

On the other hand, why wouldn’t he want to talk about it? Buck would have to tell the truth to Ryan if he didn’t want to lose his contracts with the federal government—no way he’d spend tax dollars with a known liar. But shutting down White Mountain right now would put a lot of men and women in uniform at risk, and that was something Ryan couldn’t abide, either.

“I’ll call him and see what I can find out,” Ryan said as he climbed into the armored Cadillac.

“I appreciate that, sir. And also, what you did for young Shaffer today.”

“Compared to what he’s sacrificed for us? I haven’t done a damn thing. Keep me posted on this situation.”

“Will do, sir.”

Ryan had been scheduled for a lunch meeting with the secretary of agriculture but he’d bumped it for Shaffer. He’d asked Arnie van Damm, his chief of staff, to apologize to her and to reschedule for tomorrow. He pulled a protein bar out of his briefcase. It would have to do for his midday meal today.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

Ryan cracked open one of the bottles of water that were always sitting in the cupholder in front of him. Time enough to grab a quick workout in the White House gym before his three o’clock with Senator Burns.

“Back to the barn, please. There’s a stack of iron calling my name.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stagecoach pulled out of the shadows and into the dull light of a gray autumn day. Ryan’s heart was heavy with both pride and grief over Shaffer’s sacrifice, knowing the battles the boy was now going to have to endure. Over the next several months he faced a number of corrective surgeries for his face and prosthetic limb fittings, followed by months of painful PT and training.

But the bombshell the CNO just dropped in the President’s lap was what occupied his mind, spinning with the terrible possibilities. Maybe Buck Logan would have the answers he needed.

He pulled out his phone and called Betty Martin, his longtime personal secretary, to place the call to the big Texan.

9

BARCELONA, SPAIN

UNITED STATES CONSULATE

Jack arrived without an appointment when the doors opened at nine o’clock, which was probably a mistake. A number of people were already queued up for business, mostly Spaniards, according to the passports they displayed at the security check-in.

The three-story beige Mediterranean-style building looked more like a producer’s home in Beverly Hills than a federal facility. It felt oddly comforting to know he was standing on a patch of U.S. soil even though it was smaller than the average Walmart parking lot. He suddenly felt a pang of homesickness, which surprised him.

In the lobby, Jack put his name and the purpose of his visit on the waiting list: “To report the death of an American citizen.” He was promptly moved to the front of the line.

After showing his passport to the very pleasant young Spaniard behind the counter, he was given a visitor’s tag to wear. She then escorted him to a waiting room on the second floor.

Moments later, a middle-aged brunette with green eyes, a kind smile, and sensible shoes approached him.

“Mr. Ryan? I’m Debbie Mitchell, the consular officer.”

Jack shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She escorted Jack into her small but tidy office and took a seat behind her desktop computer. “Can I get you a coffee or something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I understand you have some bad news to report.”

“Yes, a friend of mine, an American citizen, was killed yesterday in the bombing over in the El Born district.”

“I saw the bombing on the news last night. I didn’t realize an American had been killed. No names have been released. Were you there?”

“I had just left.”

“Thank God you’re okay. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Mitchell turned to her computer. “Would you mind giving me his or her name?”

“Sure. Renée Moore. Renée Michelle Moore, I believe.”

Mitchell typed in the information. “You wouldn’t happen to know her passport or Social Security number, would you?”

“Sorry.”

“Age?”

He wasn’t exactly sure. Close to his. “Thirty, plus or minus a few, I’d guess.”

“Race?”

“African American.”

Mitchell typed a few more keys, then stopped. She frowned at her screen for a moment, then glanced up at Jack, offering an awkward smile.

“Uh, Mr. Ryan. Would you mind waiting here for just a moment?”

“Sure.”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Mitchell rose from behind her desk and headed out the door, clearly on a mission.

Jack sighed. This was the part he worried about.

He wouldn’t trade his name for anything in the world but being the President’s son carried a few disadvantages in life, including unwanted attention, especially from U.S. government officials. His folks had done a fantastic job of shielding his identity from the public when he was younger, and both the Feds and Hendley Associates had worked miracles, constantly scrubbing the Web and almost every public and private database of any kind of reference to him and his siblings, particularly photographs, or any other information that might link him to his famous parents.