Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

When the Sno-Cat came to a halt, Harvath and Hollenbeck didn’t wait for the driver to get out of his cab and come around back to open their compartment. They were on the ground and on their way to the command center before the man got halfway around the machine.

“Tom, can I get my SIG back?” said Harvath, who figured someone on the team must have secured his sidearm for him when he was brought in unconscious last night.

“As long as you promise not to use it on any FBI agents. It’s in the lockdown cabinet in the command center. I left Longo in charge, so you can sign it out with him.”

Scot made his way to the extra large Winnebago that had been brought in from the Federal garage in Las Vegas to act as the primary communications and command center for the president’s visit. While the house the president was staying in, just fifty feet away, was also loaded with agents and electronics equipment, this was the nerve center of the operation.

Scot found Longo in back bent over a laptop, clicking away at the keys.

“Hollenbeck told me I could grab my SIG back from you.”

“Your what?” said Longo, distracted by the report he was working on. Written reports were the one thing Scot hadn’t ever been able to get used to. The Secret Service loved their paperwork.

“My SIG-Sauer. It’s about this long,” Harvath said, showing him with his hands, “blackish gray, and fires these things we call bullets when you pull on the trigger. If you want to find an apple you think might fit on your head, I’ll give you a little demonstration of how it works.”

“Very funny. Glad to see your accident didn’t damage your sense of humor. I’m sorry, the WHCAs have been crawling all over me about how the radios went down, and I’ve got to document every single thing. The report’s got me hung up.”

“Since when does the White House Communications Agency give the Secret Service orders?”

“Those guys are Department of Defense, just in civilian clothes. Hollenbeck said to cooperate with everyone. He’s really worried about how the Service is going to…hell, who am I kidding? He’s worried about how the Secret Service already looks on this one. We lost the president. I still can’t believe it. Now the FBI’s got their top pit bull coming in, and he’s bringing the Hostage Rescue Team with him. The special agents in charge of both the FBI and Secret Service Salt Lake field offices have been on the warpath around here, and I’m just trying to keep my head low so it doesn’t roll.”

“Listen, Chris, you’re not going to lose your head.”

“You don’t think so? Harvath, I hate to break it to you, but over two dozen agents are dead and/or missing, the president is gone, and we’ve got next to nothing lead-wise. Heads are definitely going to roll. You know I like you, but as head of the advance team on this one, it looks like you might be married to King Henry.” Being “married to King Henry” was an inside joke that referred to the British king who beheaded several of his wives after he had grown tired of them.

Chris hadn’t needed to say it. That thought was one of many flying around Harvath’s head, as well as a sense of crushing responsibility for the deaths of his fellow agents. Scot’s only hope of getting out of this one with his career intact was to be part of some significant breakthrough.

“Here’s your weapon,” said Longo as he turned from the cabinet, setting the pistol on the table and handing Harvath a clipboard. “Sign right there.”

Scot strapped on his holster, handed the signed clipboard back to Longo, and walked toward the door.

“You know where the term severance pay comes from, Scot?” said Longo as he hung the clipboard on a peg inside the cabinet and locked it again.

“No, but you’re going to tell me, right?”

Ignoring Harvath’s sarcasm, Longo continued. “It’s also from England. When prisoners were going to be beheaded, they offered the axman a little extra money to make sure he chopped their heads off with one, clean blow.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to remember that,” said Scot as he held the door to the Winnebago open a little longer than he should have, eliciting moans and shouts from the cold agents inside.

Crossing the compound toward the main house, Scot replayed the conversation with Longo in his mind. He knew that the other agents didn’t blame him. Scot Harvath had been single-handedly responsible for ushering in some of the most significant improvements in Secret Service training and tactical procedure in years. But he also knew that as head of the advance team, he had to bear a tremendous amount of the responsibility for what had happened.

Looking up at the sky and the still falling snow, Harvath felt that the agents not yet recovered by the search-and-rescue teams were a lost cause. The president, though, was a different story. He was probably still alive, and it was only a matter of time before demands for his ransom would be made.

Scot thought about Amanda lying in a hospital bed in Salt Lake, glad she would make a full recovery. He didn’t dare think about what conditions the president might be languishing in at this moment.

There was no question that Scot’s career was probably finished, at least with the Secret Service. He would be transferred to a less “sensitive” posting and would most likely be relegated to protecting third world delegates on visits to the United States…if even. He definitely would never be allowed to head up an advance team again or, for that matter, work another presidential protective detail.

He could return to the SEALs. His teammates had always thought Scot was better suited to offensive operations than defensive anyway, but he was too proud. He couldn’t go crawling back. Everyone would know that he had been responsible for the security arrangements for the president’s ski trip. The SEALs were an honorable operation and not something you ran back to with your tail between your legs when you failed someplace else. Failed-the word tasted bitter in his mouth.

Had he failed? And if so, by whose definition? As a SEAL, failure meant giving up, not acting, throwing in the towel. The Secret Service might begrudgingly accept a sidelined position while the FBI came in to run the investigation, but that didn’t mean he had to. The more Scot considered his options, the less he could see he had to lose.

The Senate inquiry, which was bound to come down eventually, would tie him to a stake and roast him. There would probably be other sacrificial lambs, but he knew that back in Washington they were already engraving his invitation to the party. Even if he resigned from the Secret Service before then, he would still be forced to testify at the hearing and be roasted nonetheless. They would need someone to blame. It was part of the pathological makeup of politicians.

The other thing gnawing at him was the oath he had taken to protect and serve his country and the president. As good as the FBI was, it would take them a hell of a long time to get everything coordinated. By then, evidence would be lost, and the kidnappers would be even farther away. The FBI would have to wait for demands to be made. They would continue to go through the motions of looking for evidence, and if they were lucky, they might turn up a lead, but Scot wasn’t holding out a lot of hope the FBI would catch a break. There was no question in his mind that the president was still alive. If the intent had been to assassinate him, his body would have been found along with those of the rest of his detail.

There was a lot to be said for a collective effort, but when that effort was not quickly coordinated and executed, nine out of ten times it ended in disaster. The FBI and the Secret Service were playing defense. Every cell in Scot’s body had been trained for offense, and offense called for action. Besides, he thought again, what did he have to lose?