Mike Maden - Drone

“I would think the Mexican government would be grateful to us for the elimination of the most powerful drug cartel inside their nation,” Myers said.

“You’d think,” Madrigal said.

“Faye, would you be kind enough to draft the executive order I’ve suggested?”

Lancet nodded. “Of course. I’ll coordinate with Sandy. What about your Office of Legal Counsel?” She was referring to the department within the DOJ that represents the president’s legal interests. That person was always an assistant attorney general.

“I need as few cooks in the kitchen as possible, at least for now. I’d consider it a favor if you could draft the documents in question personally.”

“I’ll also prepare a brief on the legal issues we’ve discussed, as well as a thorough review of all the other pertinent issues. No telling when it might come in handy.”

“Like during an impeachment hearing?” Jeffers chuckled.

Myers added, “Please be sure to write it up as a national security measure. That way it can remain secret and exempt from any FOIA requests, should they arise.”

“You know they will, eventually,” Jeffers said.

“Good, then. I think that concludes our business for today.”

That was Myers’s signal that the meeting was adjourned. The other cabinet members began filing out.

“Mike, do you mind staying behind for a few minutes?”

“Not at all.”

When they were finally alone, Myers said, “I need you to call Pearce.”

“I don’t think that’s an option. He told us one job, one mission only,” Early reminded her. “Besides, you don’t need him. You already have the security apparatus in place and the Predators to do it with.”

“You mean the Committee?” Myers was referring to the national security team responsible for helping draw up the kill list that President Obama used to personally pick the human targets for Predator strikes. She shuddered. Over a hundred people teleconferencing on a weekly basis, debating the merits of each case, like lawyers cross-examining silent defendants and then answering for them. If the answers came out wrong, the defendants were executed, courtesy of a Hellfire missile.

Myers had inherited the system from the previous administration, but after one tortuous session debating the biographies of suspected terrorists, she ceded her role on the Committee to the secretary of defense. She didn’t have any qualms about selecting targets and taking them out. She just hated micromanaging, so, unlike her predecessor, she left the final selection of al-Qaeda targets to the al-Qaeda experts.

“No, Mike. Too many people involved. Too many turf battles. Too many uncoordinated bureaucratic systems trying to mesh together—army, navy, air force, CIA—each with their own SOPs. I still need this thing to be kept under wraps and I can only do that if it’s done quickly, with surgical precision.”

“You really do need Pearce, then.”

“I do. So go get him for me.”

Snake River, Wyoming

Pearce was up to his waist in the slow-moving river, dead drifting with a dry Yellow Sally for spotted brown salmon, when Early moseyed up behind him on shore.

“You’re like a bad penny,” Pearce said. He didn’t bother to turn around. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“You didn’t pick up your damn phone. Twenty times you didn’t pick up.” Early watched Pearce make another cast. “You got an extra rig I can borrow?”

“Reception’s bad around here. And, no, I don’t. Not for amateurs like you, anyway.”

Early glanced around. There were a few other anglers around, all within earshot. He stepped closer to the riverbank. He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.”

“Can’t hear you,” Pearce said.

Early glanced around again. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He waded a few feet into the water. He was wearing hiking boots, not waders.

“I’m serious, Troy. It’s important.”

Pearce sighed and reeled in his line. “Fine.”

Without looking at Early, Pearce marched onto the shore toward his pickup truck parked a quarter mile back.

Early raced after him, his boots squishing with water. “If these boots get ruined, I’m sending you the bill.”

“You do that,” Pearce called over his shoulder, hiding his grin.

The two men stood over a stump. Early had a beer in his hand. Pearce cradled an ax in his two hands and was stripped to the waist. An ice chest squatted in the shade near his grandfather’s cabin.

“So, are you ready to talk?” Early asked.

“Sure, if you’re ready to hear a one-word answer.” Pearce swung the ax, easily splitting the log on the stump. He tossed the two pieces aside and grabbed another log.

“We had some bad news.”

“Yeah, I know. ‘Free meth.’”

Whap! Another log split in half.

“How’d you know?” Early asked.

Pearce threw him a cutting glance.

“Of course. You still have access to the DEA mainframes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As a common courtesy, you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“I figure I’m doing the DEA a favor. Might help motivate them to do a better job with their network security.”

“Myers has another job for you,” Early said. He decided he might as well get the first blow in.

“I told her and I told you, one job, one mission, that’s it.”

Pearce lifted the ax high over his head. His deltoids bunched. Whap! Pearce cleared the pieces away. “It was pretty damn obvious that this thing wouldn’t stay contained. I don’t want any part of it.”

“You don’t even know what the job is.”

“Decapitation. Has to be.”

Early flinched. He should have known Pearce had already figured things out.

“At least she’s bright enough not to continue with the tit-for-tat bullshit. We both know where that winds up,” Early countered. He was referring to the Vietnam War, an endless escalation up a staircase of increasing casualties. Americans never won that kind of conflict. “She made a strong case for it. And I think she’s right. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. You know that.”

“Yeah. I hear she gives good speech.” Pearce pulled a beer out of the ice chest and cracked it open. His torso glistened with sweat.

Early bristled. “A little respect for the boss, okay?”

“That’s your problem right there, Mikey. She’s not my boss. She’s supposed to be a public servant, not God Almighty. I’m the taxpayer. She works for me, not the other way around.”

“I checked your tax records, Troy. You haven’t paid any taxes in five years. You just better damn well hope the IRS doesn’t go all Occupy on your one percent ass.”

Pearce shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve got a good accountant.” He pointed at the ax with his beer bottle. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?” He took a swig.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you,” Early said. He tossed his empty bottle into a bag and stripped off his shirt. There were a few pounds of behind-the-desk flab around his gut, but he was still in fighting shape. He snatched up the ax.

“I’m surprised you know which end to hold,” Pearce chuckled.

Early placed a log on the stump, spit in his hands, and grabbed the ax handle. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’re still in the business of hurting people and breaking things, aren’t you? I mean with your toys?” Early raised the ax high over his head and smashed it down, but he misjudged the distance and hit the log with the ax handle. A stinger jolted through both of his arms.

“Son of a—” Early dropped the ax and shook out the tingling sensation from his arms.

“Don’t break my ax,” Pearce said. “And, yes, I use ‘toys’ because I want my people to stay safe. Haven’t lost a man yet.” He hesitated, then added darkly, “Or a woman.”