Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

“The White House is throwing us under the bus,” the Task Force Trident commander declared after being told to be at ease and take a chair. “Bobby Patterson shredded the presidential directive that authorizes Trident and has put the CIA in charge of sorting out the Pakistan mess.”

The other generals traded glances. “Does the president know about this?” asked Admiral Johnson.

“I honestly don’t know. Patterson sets the agenda over there, and he would not answer that question.”

Turner was pacing the room. “What do you think, Admiral?”

“Sounds like Patterson is using the opportunity as another attempt to screw the military.”

“Buck? You’ve got a PhD in international relations. How do you read it?”

“It is moving much too fast for precipitate action of any sort, General,” replied the Marine chief. He had a question, too. “Brad, were there any witnesses to this exchange between the two of you?”

“Yessir. CIA Director Geneen was right there. As usual, he was quiet as a tomb.”

Hank Turner was a thoughtful man, and he walked around his office listening to his subordinates discuss the problem. He occasionally would drop a question. He stopped pacing, and the others turned. “One thing, Brad. What’s this crap about you resigning?”

“I offered to step aside rather than let Trident go down the tubes. Patterson refused. He wants to keep me in the military chain of command, and therefore silent on the situation. As if I would talk to the press.”

“Well, at least he did one thing right. I’m not going to let you resign either.”

Middleton scratched his crew-cut hair. “All right, sir.”

General Turner resumed pacing, ticking off items on his fingers as he spoke. “We know that Jim Hall was killed. FBI confirmation on that. Kyle Swanson is a prisoner. Again, an FBI confirmation. Bobby Patterson has hit the panic button. The CIA is taking control of what started off as a covert military operation, thereby cutting us out of the loop. My final question to you, Brad, is: Did Swanson spark off those explosions?”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

Admiral Johnson stroked his chin as he considered the situation. “How can you say that with any certainty?”

“Sir, we know exactly, repeat exactly, the time that Swanson pulled the trigger. He reported in just after he did it. His job after that was to escape and evade, which he would have done in utmost silence. The man moves like a shadow, Admiral. He may have set a booby trap to delay pursuit and misdirect attention, but nothing that would be guaranteed to bring the entire Pakistani army and police force down on his head. On top of that, the explosions did not begin until almost five minutes after he pulled the trigger on the tango. Our men on the scene said that dozens of uniforms were chasing Swanson by then. This is not the kind of thing he would do, particularly when it would cause so many civilian casualties.”

General Manchester also had been soaking in the unfolding situation, mulling the possibilities. “I agree. Blowing up something that big is not what any Marine sniper would do on a mission.”

“Nor a SEAL Team,” added the admiral. “Just because they can do it does not mean they would do it.”

Hank Turner made up his mind. “We are kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place for right now, until we see what the Pakistanis do with Swanson. I intend to meet personally with the president about Patterson, an unelected bureaucrat, intervening in the chain of command. Meanwhile, General Middleton, you get back to work.”

“Any instructions, sir?”

“Yeah, Brad. Support our man in the field.”

ISLAMABAD

O NCE, OVER A PITCHERof beer at the Stumps, a little tavern outside of 29 Palms, California, Jim Hall had allowed that Albert Einstein had truly been a pretty smart old duck. “Albert was trying to explain his Theory of Relativity to some dumb-ass, probably some Air Force fighter jock,” Hall said, “so he dreams up a comparison. Sit with a nice girl for two hours, and it only seems like a minute. But if your ass hits a hot stove for a minute, you’re going to think it is two hours. Albert was talking relativity, but he nailed the way a sniper has to think about time. No highs, no lows. Just smooth it all out. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Remember that, young Skywalker, and you will do well.”

Kyle Swanson recalled the conversation as he pushed through a set of isometric exercises in his prison cell and tried to figure out the time. The hit on the tango happened just as the sun went down, then all of the other stuff happened, and that had soaked up more hours. He figured the entire night had passed, but with the unknown factor of how long he had slept, he could not be certain.

Another rat ventured onto his thigh, and enough was enough. Games were a good way of passing idle time. Snipers and spotters even played games while on a mission. He picked up the adventuresome rat with his bare hands, wrung the neck, and tossed the worthless carcass to its friends on the far side of the cell.

“Nothing happens eighty-five percent of the time on a mission,” he told the rats quietly. “So you have to amuse yourself to stay awake. That’s why we play games. Layin’ there, just keeping watch on the target for hour after hour, gets pretty damned boring. So I say to the other guy, ‘Let’s spot dogs,’ and then I find a dog and the spotter has to match me. Then we do the goats and the other animals. And women. Always checking out the women. But it’s more than just a game because it keeps you vigilant and tuned in, you understand?”

While he explained what was happening, Kyle tied a sleeve of his discarded uniform shirt into a tight knot at the cuff and began using it occasionally to snap the curious rodents. Sometimes he hit them, sometimes he didn’t, but they sensed the danger and hugged the far wall and the trickling water. “Everybody stake out a place,” Kyle said, “and stay there. I’m the biggest and meanest alpha rat you guys have ever seen, so keep the hell out of my way.”

He was thinking that if worse came to worst, they could be a food source. And there was the dripping water on the wall. He could last for a while in here. Smooth out the time.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

T HIS WAS NOT WHATLauren Carson had expected when she called the secret telephone number that Kyle had slipped to her while they were spiriting the captured soldiers away in Islamabad. When a gruff voice announced that she had reached the 179th MRE Research, Development, and Tasting Brigade, she thought she had the wrong number, but when she mentioned the name of Kyle Swanson, the tone of the voice changed immediately. “Hold while I get his boss.” The crisp voice of a woman came on the telephone next, carrying the slightest hint of urgency. Lauren identified herself as being the CIA agent who was with Swanson in Pakistan.

“Do not say your name on this connection,” stated the strong voice. “Did anything change recently in your personnel file?”

“Yes,” Lauren replied. “It was confidential, and I can’t talk about it.”

“A letter of commendation for the extraction of the two captives.”

Lauren paused. Whoever this was had access to her personal CIA file. “I’m in some trouble, and Kyle said I should call this number if I ever needed help. I need help, and I cannot very well come to any office at the Pentagon. I think someone may be following me.”

“From your shop?”

“Yes. Can we meet somewhere?”

There was a pause. Then the woman said, “Drive out to Tysons Corner in McLean. I will meet you at Burgers and Burgers. Order something and grab a table. Soon as you can make it.”