Mike Maden - River of Gods

In other words, it was a typical workday. Until the sensor operator shouted, “Shit.”

Pearce Systems Headquarters

Dearborn, Michigan

Ian easily took control of the Reaper. The night Pearce stole the M4 carbine was also spent installing a remote wireless override for the Reapers’ ground control station. Just one of the many useful toys Ian insisted Pearce keep on hand at all times.

He radioed Pearce. “Help is on the way.”

Karem Air Force Base

Niamey, Niger

Lieutenant Colonel Kavanagh examined the latest aerial surveillance photos, which Red One had produced the day before. A thick Cuvana e-cigar was parked in a pristine crystal ashtray on the desk, a gift from his forbearing wife. He loved the big flavor and vapor; she loved the fact that there wasn’t any smoke or stink. A military marriage required many compromises. The e-cigar was an easy one for both of them.

Kavanagh was lean and hard for his age, despite his new career piloting a desk. He’d flown tank-busting A-10 Thunderbolts up until the year before, including Operation Iraqi Freedom, when a rapid decline in his visual acuity pushed him out of the cockpit. It wasn’t too bad, though. Two more years and he could retire, and working with the latest drone technology had been a challenge in the best sense of the word. And as it turned out, he was a damn fine base commander, too. His wife even thought he looked handsome in glasses.

He zoomed in on the Reaper surveillance photo on his big desktop screen and highlighted the image anomalies. He hoped the poindexters back at Langley could make something out of them. If this was, indeed, an AQS border crossing, the terrorists must be wearing first-rate camouflage, because he hadn’t seen anything more than rocks and camels in weeks. He didn’t bother to look up when there was a knock on his door.

“Enter.”

His administrative assistant, a young airman first class, entered. Her ABU name tag read “BEEBY.” Her young face frowned with confusion. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Kavanagh kept zooming and highlighting. “Who?”

“You won’t believe it.”

Kavanagh looked up. “Try me.”

Kavanagh was still in a foul mood after the FUBAR over his credentials back in Germany. How or why anybody had put him on a terrorist watch list was beyond all reasoning. He’d only managed to get back to Karem last night after a long and uncomfortable ride in a rock-hard jump seat in the back of an unheated cargo transport.

The airman smiled. “Okay.” She turned in the doorway and spoke to someone in the cramped waiting room. “The colonel will see you now.”

Beeby stepped aside, and Margaret Myers marched into Kavanagh’s office.

Kavanagh’s jaw dropped. He rose. “Madame President?” He began to raise his hand in a salute, but checked himself.

“Former president. But please, call me Margaret.” She extended her hand. He shook it.

The airman stifled a giggle.

“That’ll be all,” Kavanagh said, dismissing her. She left, closing the door behind her.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, pointing at the only other chair in the tiny room.

“No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough of sitting for a while.”

“Long flight?”

“Is there a short flight to this godforsaken place?”

Kavanagh smiled. “Good point. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need a favor, Colonel.”

“Favors are hard to come by on an Air Force base. We tend to function on the basis of SOPs.”

Myers glanced around the spartan room. The large computer monitor dominated the tiny steel desk. A framed photo of Kavanagh’s wife and children stood next to a picture of him as a younger man in the cockpit of an airplane. She knew it was an A-10 Thunderbolt, the same plane as the model airplane on the shelf behind his head. The Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs was one of her favorite places to visit as governor. She’d tried to convince her son to apply there, but he didn’t have any interest.

“Even for your former commander in chief?”

“Depends on the favor, I suppose.”

“I’d like you to release a young woman in your custody named Judy Hopper.”

“May I ask why?”

“I suppose that’s the second favor I’d ask you. I’d rather you didn’t.”

Kavanagh leaned carefully against his desk, folding his arms across his chest, thinking.

“I’m sorry, but Air Force regulations clearly state: only one favor per ex-president. I can grant you one or the other, but not both.”

“Okay, then release Judy and allow us to proceed on our way.”

“For what purpose? And please, don’t tell me that cockamamie story about a rescue mission.”

“It’s about a cockamamie rescue mission. Can we leave now?”

“Seriously, ma’am. What is this all about?”

“It’s about two American heroes who are stuck on the wrong side of the world that need a lift back home, badly. Right now.”

“I can’t authorize an illegal border crossing, even if it is for a spy mission. That kind of operation needs a much higher clearance than my pay grade allows.”

“I’m not asking you to authorize anything. I’m asking you to let Judy go, release her airplane, and wish us luck. What we do when we lift off the tarmac isn’t any of your concern.”

Kavanagh scratched his silver hair, thinking, as he sat back down in his chair. The springs squeaked.

“If you got hurt or captured or, God forbid, shot down, it puts my ass in a sling and the U.S. government on the hook. I’m sorry.” Kavanagh folded his hands on the desk.

Myers leaned on his desk, her face nearly in his. “If I got hurt or shot down or captured, technically, it would be my ass in the sling, not yours. And since when does an American military officer worry about his ass? Is that how you qualified to fly one of those?” She pointed at the A-10, affectionately known as the Warthog.

“No, ma’am.”

“I know it takes a lot of guts to fly one of those. I know a lot of brave young men and women who graduated from the Academy. Just like you.” She nodded at his Air Force Academy ring. “I’m not asking you to get out of your chair or out from behind your desk. I just need you to sign whatever paper you need to sign and let us go. I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll sign any document you put in front of me to that effect.”

“I can’t believe the CIA or the DoD or whoever has recruited you to run some special op into hostile territory. No offense.”

“None taken. There are better-trained men and women than me for that sort of thing.”

“So, then, you admit this is personal?”

She banged the desk. “You’re damn right it’s personal. These are friends of mine and their lives are at risk, and I’m not going to stand around and do nothing about it.” She picked up the photo of the colonel’s wife and kids. “Would you let some pencil-pushing bureaucrat stand between you and your family if you knew their lives were in danger?”

“Hell no.”

“Then you understand.”

“Who are these people you’re going after?”

“Two of the finest men I’ve ever known. They risked everything for me, and for our country, time and time again. They deserve better than what they’re getting from our government, which is nothing.”

“Why not call the White House? I’m sure the president would listen to you.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? The administration quoted me chapter and verse on the ‘no new boots on the ground’ doctrine. Can you imagine it?”

“But that was your policy, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. My policy was to not start new wars that don’t advance American national interests. But when American lives were at stake? I would’ve unleashed hell to save one American life. That was my job as president. And that’s my reasonable expectation as a citizen. President Greyhill won’t send troops in order to protect his interests.”