Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

The widespread uncertainty among Cumberland’s designated cabinet officers, none of whom had received Senate confirmation, and all of whom were concerned about retaining their own anticipated power base, aided in Trojan’s ability to remain operationally independent. Everyone at an authority level, or presumed to be heading in that direction, was more concerned about their own survival than an assault on a small, non-descript military outfit.

The morning after his return from Ireland, Carlos Castro arrived at the EEOB and contacted Alice Hall, General Connor’s secretary, who now stood in the general’s doorway. “General, Mr. Castro is asking if you have a few moments to see him.”

“Thank you, Alice. Have him come in.”

Carlos was wearing civilian clothes, as was General Connor, a routine procedure for the Homeland Security military personnel working in the central Washington complex. Military officers working at DHS frequently dealt with other civilian government departments and had come to realize that uniforms sometimes put them at a disadvantage. The use of civilian attire had also reduced the military post atmosphere and the rank-induced protocol that existed at the Pentagon. The civilian atmosphere only carried so far, however, and even when a general officer wore a Brooks Brothers or Armani suit and referred to his military staff officers with a degree of informality, it was not intended to be reciprocal.

Carlos stopped in front of the general’s desk. “Good morning, General.”

Pug looked up. “Welcome back, Carlos. How did it go in Ireland?”

“Quite well, actually. I’ve been invited to an asshole convention,” Carlos said.

Pug smiled and shuffled a stack of papers into a pile, shoving them toward the corner of his desk. “Some might say you qualify.”

“Touche,” Carlos acknowledged. “I didn’t see anyone until I received a cryptic note at the embassy, instructing me to be on St. Stephen’s Green at a designated time. Then, after being driven blindfolded out to a secluded location, we switched vehicles. I then had a twenty-minute personal meeting with Kevin Donahue while he drove me to the airport. He knew about our new public relations function and your promotion. He said to give the general his regards.”

Pug nodded. “I told you he was well informed.”

“After I checked in and was waiting for my flight, I got this email at the Dublin airport,” Carlos said, placing a printed version on General Connor’s desk.

Pug scanned the paper quickly. “East Timor’s far too small to hold all the assholes I’ve met,” the general continued, a sharp grin crossing his face as he handed the note back. “Do you believe this information?”

Carlos nodded. “Yes, sir, I do. As you told me, Donahue had no reason to provide any information. He was not the least bit evasive. Why would he lay a false trail? I called Brigadier Colin McIntyre, military attache at the British Embassy here in Washington, early this morning. He’s heard Wolff’s name through his channels. He felt certain this would get instant response from MI6 and suggested we’d be hearing from the Brits within a couple of days, if not immediately.”

“You think they’ll want to crash the convention?” Pug asked.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, General. Sounds like something right up their alley.”

“What about the Indonesians or the Timor government?”

“I doubt the Brits would share this information. They’ll probably just send some SAS guys in as tourists and snatch him.”

“Something a recon marine might like to get involved in while working with a FAST team, I suppose?” Pug said, referring to one of the main components of their available assets, a Fleet Anti-Terrorist Security Team, mostly Force Recon Marines, located aboard each CBG, or Carrier Battle Group, throughout the world. Pug himself had commanded such a team several years before coming to the NSA and then the CIA.

“We could get some worthwhile information, sir. We’ve both been down that path before.”

Pug nodded. “I do miss that part of the game, Sergeant Major, but I’m on the bench now, and in short order, you’ll most likely become indispensible to this office. When that happens, I’ll bench you too. We might have to rely on our new assets to handle the field work. Don’t turn in your web gear just yet, but understand what I’m saying. Operational planning is just as important, maybe more so, than field ops. Speaking of that, we have three SEALS and two ranger candidates to interview tomorrow for our last two slots. I want you to go over their service records today. All good men, by first accounts. I know two of them. You probably do too. Besides, if we’re both benched, Trojan has to learn to rely on these guys. I think that after last week’s KLM drama, we’ll get more authority to go operational. The climate is feverish in the west wing.”

“General, have you met the new president yet?” Carlos asked.

“Not since he’s become president,” Pug replied.

Carlos remained silent, but tilted his head slightly, questioning the meaning.

“I’ll fill you in later, Carlos, but I knew President Snow over twenty years ago. He and my father and two other men were partners in a law firm in Phoenix. He taught me to play golf and my older brother is married to his daughter.”

Carlos whistled softly. “So you’re family.”

Pug bristled at the inference. “I don’t see it that way, Sergeant Major, and that information goes no further than this room until I decide how to address the issue.”

“Yes, sir. About the SAS and the extraction of Wolff?” Carlos said, a quick subject change seeming appropriate. “I’d like to be involved. He’s my first Trojan assignment, and if I’m likely headed for the bench, I’d like a bit more field time.”

“True, you’re not on the bench yet, and I agree that it’s probably necessary for you to accompany whoever is sent to get him. We might decide that it will be just you, with a small team to back you up. And… we might decide that it’s not an extraction.”

“I understand,” Carlos replied.

“But remember this, Carlos: there’s more than one way to fight a war. Especially the type of war we currently face. We both better get used to it. While we’re on the subject of East Timor, what do you make of this Intel?” he asked, handing Carlos a sheet of paper.

More than once, Pug had come to the same conclusion he was suggesting to Carlos-the necessity of stepping out of field operations-but for far different reasons. He had counted it up once when he was reviewing his life and his poor choices along the way. Pug had married Cheryl the week after he graduated from Annapolis in 1992. Within four months, he had gone to sea with a Marine Expeditionary Unit as a platoon commander. Out of eight years of marriage, over four and half of them he had either been at sea, commanding a platoon or company of Marines, or on a special covert assignment where he couldn’t even tell her where he was going, when he would be back, or where he had been. Finally, she’d had enough and told him, essentially, that she needed a husband who worked nine to five, cut the grass, went to bed with her, woke up next to her, and was going to be around to help raise the kids, if he was ever home long enough to participate in making any children. They’d parted ways in 2001, shortly before 9/11, and he’d remained single every since, notwithstanding the opportunities that had come his way. Fortunately they’d made the decision to divorce before children had complicated the process.

Scanning the document the general had handed him, Carlos assumed the role of analyst.

“It’s from Security Intelligence Service, Canberra,” Carlos said, basically to himself. “This confirms what we got last week from the DHS Intel Day Sheet, General. Increased indication that Al Qaida leadership is expanding operations in the Indonesian theatre and the South Pacific. They’ve got a lot of Muslim support there, just as many fanatics, but not much in the way of sophisticated weaponry. And the island Muslims are not happy about Australia’s support of the coalition forces in the war zone. They proved that a few years ago with the bombing in Bali, which targeted mostly Australian tourists, and more recently in Fremantle during the yachting regatta.”