Mike Maden - River of Gods

“And if Greyhill refuses to launch the drone strike?”

“Then it will be one more albatross I’ll hang around his neck come election time. Don’t forget how JFK beat Nixon like a drum by mocking the Republicans for being weak on defense.”

Fiero saw the calculations spinning in Diele’s eyes. Her threat to campaign against Greyhill made the unlikely promise that she wouldn’t blow the whistle on this meeting seem more credible to the old fox. The best lies always contained the most truth.

“One last thing, Barbara. How is it you came by this intel? Thirteen intelligence agencies have tried and failed to find this guy, and you waltz into this office with the goods quicker than a hooker at a Shriners convention.”

“I happen to believe that the private sector is almost always more efficient than the public sector, even when it comes to intelligence gathering. After all, look how heavily dependent the NSA has been on the good graces of Google, Verizon, and all of the other big data corporations.”

“Your source?”

Fiero didn’t dare tell Diele that her source was a Chinese operative who had eyes on Mossa in the desert. Of course, neither had Zhao told her it was actually an AQS operative by the name of Al Rus who was actually conveying the intel.

“My husband does quite a bit of work with a private security company called CIOS. They specialize in searches like this. They’re rather lean and nimble, not some ossified government bureaucracy. They’ve located Mossa with an RFID chip.”

“Who managed to plant that on him?”

“No telling. But the intel is good.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes.” That was only half true. She was certain that Troy Pearce carried a rifle embedded with an RFID chip. She just assumed he’d be standing next to Mossa when a Hellfire missile came crashing down.

“Worse-case scenario? It’s a signature strike. You take out a few bad guys, even if it’s not the right bad guy.”

Fiero was referring to the latest iteration of drone strike policy. Originally, the president or some member of the national security staff targeted specific individuals after some kind of official vetting. President Obama was famous for his regular “Terror Tuesday” meetings where he personally selected individuals for death by drone, weighing carefully the evidence presented to him by various agencies.

But such procedures became ponderous and time-consuming. By the time a target was vetted they often had already disappeared. Also, the “evidence” presented was sometimes of dubious origin anyway. The current policy was far more efficient. Anonymous individuals—no names, no discernible identification—who fit the “signature” of a terrorist—for example, a young man armed with a rifle on the road to a known terrorist village—could be killed under the presumption that he was probably a terrorist anyway. After all, if it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, it must be a duck.

“Easy enough to confirm,” Fiero said. “Dispatch a Reaper out of Niamey. Put him on camera, run it through your database, and if he’s the target, pull the trigger.” She smile-frowned. “Gee, Gary, do you want me to go over there and do it myself?”

Diele laughed, standing. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” Fiero locked eyes with Diele. Saw the bolt of electricity that coursed through him. Better than Viagra for most of these old guys, she’d been told.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“That would be delightful. Bourbon, neat, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t want Diele’s grubby hands touching her ice.

“Lime or lemon?”

“Neither, thank you.”

Diele splashed a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark into a glass.

“Now that we’re being so chummy, let me throw you a couple of bones,” Fiero said. “First of all, Myers is tied up in this somehow.”

Diele twisted a lemon slice and hung it on the rim of the glass. “How?”

“Remember Mike Early? He was one of her special assistants for security.”

“Vaguely.” He refilled his own glass.

“He’s over there with this Mossa character. She also dispatched Troy Pearce over there to be with him.” Fiero was careful to leave out the fact that Pearce was sent to get Early out of there. “You do remember Troy Pearce?”

She knew, of course, that he did. Diele hated Myers’s guts and had learned after the fact the vital role Pearce had played in the drone counterterror operations she had launched against the Mexican drug cartels. That put Pearce on Diele’s shit list, too. But since Greyhill had extended blanket immunities to Myers and anyone she named in exchange for her resignation, Diele was never able to get even with Myers or Pearce.

Diele handed Fiero her drink, his face flushed with anger.

“Thank you, Gary.”

“Pearce, eh?”

“And Myers.”

“How is Myers connected to all of this?”

Fiero was careful with her answer. She’d seen a copy of that morning’s PDB. She knew Diele had seen it, too. Thanks to CIOS, Myers and Pearce had been effectively linked to Mossa and AQS, but not in any concrete manner. It wasn’t conclusive, but it was good enough to raise eyebrows around the room, she was certain.

“Not sure, but does it really matter?” Fiero said. “She clearly wants something over there. For all I know, she’s cooking up some sort of deal with the Chinese. Mossa is key to the whole region. Take him out and likely you’ll be screwing Myers in the process. How’s that for a bonus?”

Fiero had chosen her words carefully. Diele had been a famous cocksman in his day, and his lust knew no bounds. She’d seen the way Diele had leered at the first female president whenever they were in the room together, much the same way he leered at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“Greyhill is still smarting from the ass-whipping she gave him in the primaries,” Diele said, which was true enough, but getting even with that bitch Myers was okay by him, too. “I’m sure he’ll be on board with this.”

“How sure?”

“He’s got his head so far up his ass he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on around here. He’s more interested in playing golf with some ambassador or sitting in on policy briefings than actually running things. I do most of the day-to-day around here. I’ll give the order, and if he ever gets wind of it, I’ll sell it to him.” He took a long sip of scotch. The ice tinkled as he drained the glass. His eyes brightened. “Myers will seal the deal.”

“One more thing, Gary, in the spirit of full disclosure.”

“What?”

“If Pearce and Early are running around with Mossa in the desert, they’re going to be collateral damage in a drone strike.”

“Fuck ’em. If they don’t want to get blistered, they shouldn’t put their dicks in the toaster.”

“They’re American citizens.”

“They’re enemy combatants, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You would’ve made one helluva president, Gary,” Fiero said. She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Or maybe you already are.” She finally took a sip of her drink.

The old man’s ego swelled. He knew she was piling it on, but he didn’t care. She was right. In many respects, he was the acting president.

“One more thing, Barbara, while we’re being so chummy. I need you to promise you’ll back us up on this should it ever come to a committee hearing or, God forbid, a full Senate inquiry.”

“You have my word. And I can keep my people in line. You also have the chair of my committee in your pocket, along with the other neocon Republicans to back you up. You won’t have any trouble from us.”

“Good. One last thing. I want you to back off of Greyhill on this whole ‘soft on terrorism’ angle your campaign is running.”