Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“I get that, I really do. But you said your dad was an alcoholic, right?”

Pearce nodded, then lifted the cup to his mouth.

“And he was a combat vet, just like you. And he brought the war home with him, and he took it out on you and your mom and your sister.”

“That’s all water under the bridge.”

“I know you’ve put all of that behind you. But he drank to self-medicate.”

“Is that what you think I was doing?”

“I’m just asking.”

“He had PTSD.”

“I know,” she said, nodding.

Pearce saw something in her eyes. “Are you saying I have PTSD?”

“Did your dad ever admit he had it?”

“That was different. He was old-school.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s your point, Margaret?”

“I think you should see a counselor. Maybe try and sort a few things out.”

“To stop drinking?”

“No. Like I said, the drinking might just be a symptom.”

“It was just a one-off. You know I swore off the booze.”

“I know.”

“I just slipped up.”

“It’s a slippery slope.”

Pearce set his cup down, sat up straighter. “And if I don’t stop drinking?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Then you don’t.”

“And if I get worse?”

She glanced over at the mountain of bottles in the garbage. “I guess I’ll have to buy a bigger garbage can.”

Pearce felt a sudden rush in his eyes, blurring them. I don’t deserve this woman.

He stood up. Paced the floor. “I tried, I swear. I really tried. We could’ve saved them if that bitch from the embassy hadn’t shown up—”

“Then you might be dead.”

“But Tariq is dead. And so are those women. And it’s my goddamn fault.”

“You didn’t kill him or those women. Those bastards did. You tried to help.”

“And how’d that turn out?” He ran his hand through his damp hair, thinking. “Hyssop didn’t do us any favors either.”

“It’s her job. She was trying to protect the interests of the American government as she saw it.”

“So you’re on her side?”

“No, I’m on yours. Always. But I’m trying to help you see hers. She had a job to do and she did it, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m grateful. If she hadn’t been there, the Turks might have decided to kill all of you.”

“You know I had to go.”

She nodded. “Of course I do. You explained it. And you’re a loyal guy. It’s one of the many things I adore about you. But the truth is, you were conducting an illegal operation on foreign soil. It was a risk you were willing to take because you loved Tariq, but a risk is just that — you take a big chance that something might work or it might not. This time, it didn’t. But not because you didn’t try.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Pearce headed for the living room. She followed him.

“I don’t think there was anything else you could do. We talked about Tariq’s situation. President Lane wouldn’t have helped — his ‘no new boots on the ground’ policy would have prevented any action on the part of the U.S. government, even covert action.”

“That was your policy,” Pearce said. It sounded like an accusation.

“But I’m not the president anymore. He is. It’s his administration and it’s the law. When you step outside the law, you can’t expect the government to support you.”

“Do you think I was wrong?” Pearce stood by a large plate-glass window, staring down at the morning rush hour ten floors below. She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist.

“You did what you thought was right, and you did it for the right reasons. But you were on the outside looking in.”

“Meaning?”

“Sometimes it’s easier to get things done when you’re on the inside.”

“You mean, go back into government service? The CIA?” His face soured. He’d left the special operations group because he’d lost too many friends in the War on Terror for the sake of political expediency. It was the whole reason why he started Pearce Systems — to pick and choose battles with a certain moral clarity, and to deploy drone technology to protect his people, and all of it without the intervention of self-serving politicians peering over his shoulder. He’d come to love running his own company and valued his independence after more than a decade of taking orders.

“No. Not that. I just think you should reconsider Lane’s offer to head up Drone Command.” Before Myers and Pearce had been dispatched on a secret diplomatic mission to Asia earlier in the year to try to prevent a war between China and Japan, President Lane had offered Pearce the chance to start a new department within his administration. Pearce hadn’t turned him down but he still hadn’t accepted it, either.

Pearce turned around and faced her. “So you want me to be a suit? Another pencil-pushing bureaucrat?”

“You’d hardly be that. You’re the CEO of the world’s best drone security company. That makes you uniquely suited to help the United States shape its drone acquisition program in the coming decade. That means you’d be changing America’s war-fighting policy more than anything. And policy is where the game is at.”

“I’m used to being in charge now. Kind of hard to put my neck back in someone else’s harness.”

“As I recall, you’d be relatively independent, reporting directly to the president. And you’d be building an entire agency from scratch. You’d be setting all of the rules, not following them. It’s about as independent as you could possibly be in federal service.”

“Except for congressional oversight, media scrutiny—”

“It would be all black budget. Minimal congressional oversight, total media blackout.”

Pearce scratched his chin. Shrugged. “I’m sure Lane has found somebody else by now.”

“As a matter of fact, his chief of staff called me just last night and asked if you were still interested.”

“Why’d Jackie call you?”

“Because she tried calling you for the last three days and you weren’t picking up.” She took him by the hand and led him to the white leather couch. Pearce remembered another white leather couch slathered in blood on a cold winter day in Moscow. They sat together, still holding hands. Pearce was still processing.

“I remember the first time we met,” Myers said. “I think we both had trust issues.”

“Yeah,” he said. He’d come to loathe politics and, by extension, politicians. Only Early could’ve persuaded him to meet with then — President Myers who had a job for him to do — off the books. But the two of them took a chance on each other. And she’d proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that there were at least a few good men and women in elected government service who could be trusted to do the right thing. President Lane was another one.

“So I need you to trust me on this.” She kissed the back of his hand. “You’re one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known, and everything I know about you tells me that your heart’s desire is to serve this country. You’ve sacrificed a lot, and you’ve lost a lot of dear friends for reasons that don’t make a lot of sense.”

“My dad, too.” Long since dead of a brain tumor probably induced by Agent Orange. Or more accurately, the lousy VA treatment he never actually got for it.

“But you said that Mossa helped you find your way back.”

He nodded. It took a long, strange trip through the Sahara with a Tuareg chieftain to remember that he was a warrior and that his ultimate purpose was to fight for his country — even though his country was too often governed by half-wits and hustlers on both sides of the aisle. Fortunately, President Lane was neither.