Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“Good, Jack.”

Dellinger stood. So did Jack. They shook hands, but Dellinger held his grip with a strong hand. There was just a hint of violence behind the man’s smiling eyes, confirming the idea in Jack’s mind that Dellinger was old-school CIA.

“I want you to know that I’m as committed to finding Ms. Moore’s killers as you are, Jack, and I’m not going to stop until I do. Do you believe me?”

Jack squeezed a little harder, and let the violence in his own soul leach into his gaze.

“I believe you, Dick. And I hope you believe me when I tell you that I’m holding you personally accountable. So for both our sakes, light a fire under somebody’s tail over there, will ya?”

“I’ll do my best, Jack. Trust me on this.”

Jack turned and left the office, heading for the stairs. Something his dad once told him when he was a little boy came to mind.

Never trust the man who tells you to trust him.

26

HOUSTON, TEXAS

The White Mountain Logistics + Security corporate headquarters was located on the twenty-third floor of a downtown high-rise. Buck Logan chose it, in part, for the helipad on the roof. He hated wasting time and there was no bigger time suck on the planet than Houston traffic.

Logan also maintained operational facilities outside of Houston at a compound that included his own private airport, weapons-testing grounds, and even a game preserve. But Logan found over the years it was easier to do business with Houston’s elite in their native habitats inside the concrete bunkers and asphalt jungles of the sweltering Texas metropolis.

Today, Buck sat with his brain trust in his own high-tech version of the White House Situation Room. The conference table was built from the oaken deck planking from the Imperial German Navy battle cruiser SMS Lützow, scuttled at the Battle of Jutland in 1916.

The walls of Buck’s situation room were also adorned with priceless naval artifacts from history, and memorabilia from his midshipman days at the U.S. Naval Academy before his tragic football accident. His father’s beloved Marine Corps had pride of place on its own separate wall, including one colorized picture of the old man in blood-smeared snow camouflage, a cigar stub clenched in his smiling teeth and his face blackened with a five o’clock shadow. He looked like an actor straight out of central casting for a Hollywood war movie. In fact, he’d just spent three sleepless days and nights in a running gun battle with Chinese “volunteers” at the Chosin Reservoir, leading his men in a desperate action that earned him both the Purple Heart and a Navy Cross.

Buck Logan worshipped his father, his employees knew, and it was no secret that of the many priceless weapons in Buck Logan’s personal arsenal, none was more precious to him than the battered, ivory-handled .45 Colt M1911A1 his father carried on his hip in the war. It was also no secret to those in the room that Buck felt as if he never lived up to the image of his larger-than-life father despite overcoming his enormous physical disability and building out a great, multinational business that was unimaginably larger and more profitable than his father could have ever conceived.

Following the meeting with President Ryan the day before, Buck called an emergency meeting of his own “kitchen cabinet,” the five most trusted people in his organization, each the head of White Mountain’s most important divisions. They sat in low-backed leather chairs around the table, Buck at the head, of course. He was so tall in his torso that a visitor could be forgiven for thinking he’d elevated the floor on his end of the table to make him look taller. Each division head had a tablet in front of them.

“Here we are in the situation room, and we’ve got ourselves one hell of a situation, people,” Buck said. “We ain’t gonna sit on our hands and wait for the other shoe to drop but we sure as hell ain’t gonna step on our dicks, neither—”

He glanced over at Diedre Nunn, the head of his IT division. “Do I need to call HR before or after I issue you a formal apology, Dee?”

The retired Navy commander, who’d spent half her service time in the company of randy men at sea, smiled indulgently. “Not necessary, sir. But I wouldn’t object to a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream on my desk by EOB today.”

Logan grinned. “Done. Hell, I might even join you for a tipple or two.” He turned to the rest of the table.

“You all have been briefed on what’s happened. I also need you to know that I’ve made a promise to the President that we would do what we can to tie a knot in the tail of the sumbitches that have screwed us, and, now pose a threat to our great nation.”

Buck scanned the room. Every head nodded in agreement. These were good people, excellent administrators, and, most important of all, patriots to the core. Each of them had served in military uniform except for Phil Werley, his governmental liaison. But he’d done his turn in government service, first in the CIA and later as one of the deputy directors in the ODNI, reporting directly to Director Foley. Logan personally recruited Werley out from underneath her with a salary offer that nearly popped the man’s eyes out of his head.

Logan continued. “We are not the U.S. government, which means we don’t have their resources, but it also means we don’t wear their handcuffs. We’re gonna push the limits of the law—maybe even wiggle our toes over the line every now and then—and find out who these people are, and take both offensive and defensive measures to protect our property and our people.” He pointed at Werley. “And we’re going to turn over every scrap of information we uncover to Ms. Foley and let her run with it, even if it hurts us. Understood?”

Werley nodded. “I’m sure we can find a way to pass along our intel without compromising our methods or sources. We don’t want to hurt the reputation of the company, especially with her. Seventy-five percent of our revenues are government contracts.”

“I don’t give a shit about contracts. This country faces a threat to our vital national interests on the high seas. What’s good for America is good for us. If we have to take it in the shorts, so be it. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

Buck turned to Joe Gannon, a retired rear admiral and former deputy commander of the Military Sealift Command.

“Joe, I want an inventory of every ship we run, and every ship we lease in the future—let’s be damn sure there aren’t just voyage data recorders on board, but I want topside VDRs, you know, the ones mounted on floating buoys? Ship goes down, those things stay on top and belt out a distress signal.”

“We’ll begin the inventory today. I’ll see to it personally.”

“I also want live video on all of my vessels, forward, aft—hell, 360 degrees. Good cameras, too, not the cheap shit. Anybody or anything gets within a thousand yards of our boats, I want a picture. And I want these images displaying here”—Logan pointed up at one of the giant 4k screens—“right up there on the big TV. How many boats do we have now?”

“Thirty-seven that we own and operate. Of those, twenty-two are either in or scheduled to enter the Pacific in the next forty-eight hours. None of those will travel within three hundred nautical miles of the other sinkings.”

Logan turned back to his IT director. “Dee, do we have the means to broadcast images like that globally, twenty-four/seven? Put them up on that screen, that picture-in-picture thing? I’d love to keep an eye on things in real time, if possible.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. If anything, storage of that amount of data will pose the biggest challenge. But it’s the kind of challenge that enough money can handle.”