Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“So no one was hurt?”

“No. Just threw a scare into them is all. Time is of the essence.”

Buchanan made a note. “When they come back to work, I’ll put a confidential ‘Attagirl’ letter into each of their files and have it signed by the director of Homeland Security.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Shafer. “I pulled the Marine personnel jacket on Gunnery Sergeant Swanson and confirmed he has no identifying tattoos.”

“So she called this other guy, who must be a close friend because they are on a first-name basis, and they agree that Swanson escaped the crash.” Buchanan steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he thought out loud. “This Sergeant Dawkins also saw my letter and gave it to his commanding officer, a Colonel Sims.” He hunched his fat shoulders and stared hard at his aide. “That is not good. You told me you destroyed the letter, did you not, Sam?”

“Absolutely, sir. After having Swanson open and read it, I then personally read, burned, and flushed it. Somehow while this big guy Dawkins was pulling me around the carrier on a wild goose chase, Swanson must have gotten to a copying machine. He’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”

“Not good. Not good at all. We must contain this circle of knowledge to only those four people. Where’s Swanson?”

Shafer shook his head. “We don’t know. In Syria somewhere, disobeying your order and apparently on a one-man raid to pull out General Middleton. He has shut down all electronic contact.”

“And Lieutenant Commander Towne. Why do we not have her in custody?”

“Can’t find her. Her apartment was locked, no lights or music on. The cell phone and her beeper were in a garbage can outside Starbucks. The gate log shows she never showed up at Quantico.”

“At least the master sergeant is confined to a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, so I can safely assume that Dawkins is now in the brig?”

Shafer was clearly uncomfortable as Buchanan led him on, pounding with question by question like a criminal prosecutor, knowing the answers before he asked. “No, sir. He’s still on the carrier, we think, but the Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents have not found him yet. Dawkins is another one of those Special Ops types, and if he does not want to be found, we won’t find him. Plus he has a lot of friends on that ship who probably are helping him stay hidden. And it’s a really big boat.”

Buchanan doodled on a white legal pad. “Send an instruction to the Blue Ridge captain to make a shipwide announcement ordering Dawkins to report the bridge. He won’t disobey a direct order.”

“Good idea, sir,” Shafer responded. “But I think he will stay hidden if he considers the order to be illegal. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find him.”

“So that leaves us with Colonel Sims, the one carrying the letter itself.”

“Another blank, sir. We have him arriving at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours ago, but then it’s like he fell off the planet. The aircraft crew dropped him off at the dark end of the runway, didn’t see anything, and assumed it was part of a clandestine operation. No records in the tower of any military or civilian planes taking off from Andrews at that time. The only thing that left was an experimental NASA scramjet headed for California on a test flight. So we can assume Sims is still around Washington trying to contact somebody at the Pentagon. The phone call mentioned that he would deliver the letter to ‘someone higher up.’”

“Very well, Sam. Keep pulling out all the stops, on my authority. All four of them are now to be treated as national security risks. I want that letter back before the circle expands.” Buchanan waved his hand and Shafer took the hint to leave. “Don’t fail me, Sam. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get them.” Shafer left the office feeling small saddlebags of sweat growing in his armpits. A White House assignment was always a prestigious stop on the career path and usually paid off with a lucrative K Street lobbying position, but his job was falling apart. Damn that fucking Marine to hell!

After his aide closed the door, Buchanan went to the wall safe and opened it. A hundred thousand dollars was in a padded envelope along with a valid Canadian passport, birth certificate, international driver’s license, and authenticated work history under a false name, and several one-way airline tickets abroad with the flight dates left open. After making sure all was in order, he put the big envelope into his briefcase to keep it close for the next few days. He had no intention of letting these four small people ruin his lifetime plan to become the most powerful man in the American government, a strong Caesar needed for troubled times. Lock up Shari Towne, Swanson, Dawkins, and Sims in four prison cells, with no charges or trials or lawyers, and it would all be over. At least Gordon’s people still had Middleton and he would be killed and done with. That led him to another idea: Can I have them all executed, or killed while resisting arrest? Something to look into. It was comforting to know that his documents and the cash were at hand.

Back at his desk, he punched a button on a red telephone, an encrypted line, and automatically dialed the private number of Gordon Gates. It was time to get some help.

“Yes, Gerald,” Gates said in a calm voice, personally picking up the receiver after reading the identification number of the caller.

Without preamble and keeping his own voice as smooth as possible, Buchanan reported, “Gordon, it seems that we might have encountered some difficulty.”

SWANSON CONTINUED TO SCANthe dirty room with a careful visual search. Although the space was small enough to be taken in with a single glance, he always assumed the worst in a combat situation. Death could be waiting in a closet or a corner, behind a door or curtain, in a shadow, and he had learned from experience that the little bastard can hide anywhere. Only after he was sure no one else was present did he approach Middleton and said gruffly, “However, as you so often told anybody who would listen, I’m not really a very good Marine. So I’m going to disobey a direct order from the White House and get you out of here.” Then he smiled. “Let’s go home, General Middleton.”

He examined the handcuffs. “One of the Americans put these on you? They’re Smith and Wesson.”

Middleton nodded, still numb from the sudden appearance of Gunny Kyle Swanson, the man he had considered too much of a weak link to be effective in special ops. True, he was good enough as a scout sniper, but he was not a team player at all, and Middleton had on several occasions witnessed the troubling sight of Swanson almost having a nervous breakdown after a battle. Those post-traumatic stress disorders following intense combat came on like thunderstorms, then disappeared just as fast and he would again be normal. Until the next time. The bottom line for Middleton was that he now had to put his life in the hands of an operator he did not really trust.

Kyle handed his pistol to the general, then rummaged through the butt pack on his web gear to get the survival kit, and from among the fishhooks, water purification tablets, bandages, and other items, he picked out a small plastic bag and opened it. “Standard issue. A Smith and Wesson universal key.” He unlocked the handcuff with a single, smooth click. A red, blistered welt had been ground around the general’s wrist.

“That feels good,” Middleton said in a croaking voice, rubbing his sore arm to restore some feeling and blood flow. He handed the pistol back, levered himself into a sitting position on the bunk and groaned. “They busted at least one of my ribs, Gunny, but I can get around. Let’s get out of here.”