Brad Thor - State Of The Union

“Why you?” asked Harvath. “Why send your team?”

“Because he knows you trust us and therefore so does he. He knows together we’ll get the job done.”

“And what job is that?”

“When we get back to the hotel, you can ask him yourself.”

“What about security for Gary?” said Harvath. “The people we’re after might not be done with him yet. They could come back. I’ve got a very old and trusted friend watching over him right now, but he won’t be able to pull all the shifts. And if these guys came back in force, as good as this guy is, I can’t guarantee what the outcome would be.”

“Not to worry. We’ve arranged for a few visiting medical students to conduct a rotation here and keep an eye on Gary,” said Morrell, who signaled to Avigliano to open the door to the conference suite’s adjoining room.

Harvath couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing there in surgical scrubs and white lab coats were two of his closest friends from the White House security detail, Secret Service agents Tom Hollenbeck and Chris Longo.

“I’ll be damned,” said Harvath. “If it isn’t Doctors Moe and Larry. There’s just the two of you? You couldn’t get a third to play Curly?”

At that moment, the sound of a toilet flushing came from the suite’s private bathroom and then the door opened revealing a third man in a white lab coat, tying the drawstring on the pants of his scrubs.

“That figures,” said Harvath, as he recognized who it was.

“Surprise, surprise!” crowed Doctor Skip Trawick with a mock Scottish accent. The semi-retired Special Forces medic had been instrumental in helping Harvath rescue the president from Gerhard Miner and his team of Swiss mercenaries two years ago.

“Because Longo and Hollenbeck know absolutely nothing about medicine,” said Morrell, getting things back on track, “Goaltender thought it would be best to have at least one real doctor along for the ride.”

Satisfied that Gary was now going to an appropriate level of security, Harvath marched the trio of “doctors” down to Herman Toffle, where he explained what was happening. While Longo, Trawick, and Hollenbeck worked out how they were going to handle shifts, Morrell and Avigliano followed Scot and Herman down to Herman’s Mercedes, where Harvath transferred his and Gary’s bags to the trunk of Morrell’s rental car.

“Well, I guess this is it,” said Herman, extending his hand, a slight edge of disappointment noticeable in his voice. It felt good getting back in the game, even if it was short lived.

“Actually, Herman,” began Harvath, “I was hoping you might stick around a little bit longer. Those are good guys back up in Gary’s room, but they don’t have near the experience that you do.”

Herman brightened. “And, they speak lousy German.”

“That’s true,” smiled Harvath. “Would you mind hanging in with them for a little longer? I’d feel better knowing you were up there with Gary.”

“How can I say no to a friend in need?”

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” said Harvath. “I want you to keep me up to speed on Gary’s progress and call me the minute he’s out of surgery. He’s the only one that can help us make contact again with Frank Leighton.”If Leighton’s even still alive, thought Harvath.

“Don’t worry,” replied Herman. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

It was raining again as they pulled out of the parking structure and though the fog had dissipated, the evening still felt dense and impenetrable.

As the small sedan became ensnarled in evening Berlin traffic, Harvath leaned his head against the leather headrest and looked out the rain-streaked window. A heavy sense of foreboding weighed on his mind. The surgeons’ lack of confidence in Gary Lawlor’s prognosis was definitely troubling, but more than that, he was concerned about the message Rick Morrell had delivered on behalf of the president.All of our pieces have been knocked off the chessboard.

Rick Morrell pulled their car into the underground parking structure of the distinctive semicircular building known as Berlin’s Kempinski Hotel Bristol. After finding an empty stall, Morrell used his keycard to summon the elevator and the three men rode to the sixth floor.

When the elevator doors opened, Gordon Avigliano led the way down the lavishly carpeted hallway to a rich mahogany door where he rapped out a quick code.

“Housekeeping,” said Avigliano in a high-pitched voice, shouldering his way into the room as DeWolfe opened the door for them. “Fluff your pillow? Chocolate mint?”

“Scot,” said DeWolfe, shaking his hand and ignoring Avigliano. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” said Scot, genuinely glad to see the operative who had helped rescue him from Adara Nidal’s terrorist compound in the Libyan desert last year.

“Hey,” shouted Carlson, who walked over and grabbed Scot Harvath by both shoulders so he could look at him, “why wasn’t I surprised when they told me you were in trouble?”

“Nice to see you too, Steve,” replied Harvath.

“Now that we’re all reacquainted,” interjected Morrell, who had locked the door behind them and was making his way to the center of the room. “Maybe we can get started.”

Morrell turned to DeWolfe, “How are we doing?”

The communications expert was bent over a map of the world, complete with latitude and longitude lines, upon which he had placed a clear plastic slide. “I’m just working out our elevation and azimuth,” he replied.

“What about the electronic countermeasures?”

“I swept the room three times and placed the ECMs in the appropriate positions, so don’t worry. Not only is nobody listening to us, but even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. All of the equipment is working perfectly, and everything is tip-top.”

“Good. This is the first time I have been handpicked by the president for an operation, and I don’t intend to screw it up. In fact, this is our first scrambled communication with him and I expect it to go off without a hitch. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir, boss,” responded DeWolfe. He was aiming for one of the Defense Department’s dedicated satellites and as he computed the best ‘takeoff’ angle for their transmission, Carlson assembled a wire spider-web satellite dish the size of a dinner plate, connected it to their fully digitized and fully encrypted Harris manpack SATCOM radio, and then placed the dish on top of the coffee table.

According to DeWolfe’s calculations, they had twenty more minutes before they would pass into their optimal broadcast window, so Morrell allowed Avigliano to run out to pick up orders of the lamb and salad sandwiches packed in pita bread known as Döner Kebabs. Though Morrell would have preferred Cokes, when Avigliano returned with a beer for each of the men, he let it slide.

Harvath had grabbed a quick shower and shave and after dressing in a black sweater and a new pair of jeans, joined the rest of the team in the living room. He sat down on one of the leather couches, opened up Gary Lawlor’s suitcase on the floor in front of him and began to go through it again.

Carefully, he removed each piece of clothing and after thoroughly examining it, folded it and set it on the couch next to him.

“Where’d you get that?” asked DeWolfe, as Harvath was emptying out the contents of Lawlor’s shaving kit.

“What?” said Harvath, holding up a tube of toothpaste. “This?”

“Not the toothpaste. That other thing you’ve got sitting there next to those clothes.”

“This organizer?” asked Harvath, reaching for the oversized PDA that had been vexing him since he had first found it in Gary’s luggage.