Blaze of Glory (27 page)

After his call, Moyer accepted an offer the president made earlier. Huffington and his wife had retired to the bedroom, leaving the in-flight office open. Helen Brown informed Moyer the room was available.

Stepping into the staff seating area, Moyer nodded to Rich and Zinsser. “You two, you’re with me.”

The men rose from their seats and followed him into the president’s private study. Simulated wood covered the bulkheads. The thick carpet bore the presidential seal. A desk of matching wood was situated near the starboard side of the plane and seemed to merge seamlessly into the fuselage. A sofa ran along one of the walls. All the furnishings had been bolted to the deck.

“Have a seat, gentlemen.” Moyer motioned to the sofa. Zinsser and Rich sat.

Rich glanced at the president’s chair. “You gonna?”

“Not in this life, pal. I know my place.” Moyer took one of the guest chairs that faced the desk and turned it so he could face the two. He fixed his eyes on Zinsser. “First, that was a brave thing you did in the hotel, Zinsser. You probably saved a lot of lives—at very least you saved J. J.’s.”

“Thank you, Boss.”

“Don’t thank me, soldier. You did it against my orders.”

“Yes, Boss, I did, but it wasn’t personal.”

Moyer felt his jaw tighten. “Not personal? This team runs on orders—
my
orders, and in my absence, on Rich’s orders. Is that clear?”

“It is, Boss. Crystal.”

“I could have you up on charges for that bit of rebellion. I could have you bounced out of the service.”

“With all due respect, Boss, you’re going to do that anyway.” He looked at Rich. “I assume—”

“I brought him up to speed about the incident in the field. He’s second in command and as such needs to be appraised of anything that affects this team.”

“Good. Then we can talk freely.”

“You getting smart?” Rich’s tone was menacing.

“No way. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but let’s face it, guys. What I did in that field eclipses my skirting an order to evacuate the scene in the hotel. My career ended a couple of days ago.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, it ended in Kismayo.”

Moyer leaned back, torn between backhanding the man and putting a comforting arm around him. “How bad has it been? The flashbacks, I mean.”

Zinsser shrugged. “They were worse at home. They come and go.”

“What does that mean?” Rich asked.

“Sometimes I lose a grip on where I am. I flashback to Somalia.”

Moyer watched the man’s eyes glaze.

“Other times I just feel irritable and depressed. I can’t control it.”

“Have you seen the Army shrinks?” Rich asked.

“Yeah, but not specifically for this. Before I could return to service, I had to go through a battery of psych tests.”

“And you passed?” Moyer glanced at Rich.

Zinsser shrugged. “I’m a pretty good liar.”

“You’re pretty good at understatement too.”

Moyer eyed his second-in-command. “Ease off, Rich.”

But the comment didn’t seem to faze Zinsser. He raised his head and took a moment to look each man in the eye. “Okay, here’s the deal, Boss. I’m smart. Real smart. I cruised through school, and if I had any discipline as a teenager, I could have made MIT, but I was sick of school. So I joined up and have never regretted it. Not even now that my brain has been branded with images that don’t fade. Fooling the head-docs was easy. I even had you guys fooled for awhile.” He looked at the opposite wall as if he could see the open air and clouds on the other side. “You know how I sleep at night? Want to know how I drive the demons away? I drown them in booze. Sometimes that doesn’t work. Most of the time I’m the Zinsser I remember; other times I don’t know who I am.”

Moyer digested this new information. “Have you been drinking while on this mission?”

“No, Boss, and I would never do that—not that it’s not tempting. The Army is what keeps me going, keeps me grounded. It’s why I worked so hard to heal and get back on a team. The Army is the only medicine that works.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“But it is, Shaq. Sure, I lost my senses in the field, but I’ve been able to keep it together otherwise. I’ve had bouts of confusion and depression, but those are less frequent.”

“The field incident was less than two days ago,” Moyer said.

“That’s true.” He sighed. “Look, I know what this is about, and I can’t blame you.”

Moyer’s leaned forward. “If you know so much, then tell me what this is about.”

“We’re going to stop to refuel in England. Then you and the team are going on with the mission. You’ll bounce me, and I’ll be relieved of duty when I return to the states.”

Moyer narrowed his gaze. “Are you suicidal? Is that why you went in to help J. J.?”

“No . . . yes . . . partly. I knew I could help, but if I failed, then the bomb would end it all for me.”

Moyer sprang to his feet and began to pace, his mind racing like an Indy car. No one spoke for several minutes. As a leader he knew exactly what he should do: send Zinsser home, where he could get the help he needed. As a soldier on mission, he knew how valuable Zinsser had been. As a warrior he knew sudden dismissal would wound the man even more. Zinsser had shown himself to be a hero multiple times.

He shook his head. If only he could foist the decision off to a superior, but this was his call to make. “Rich.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” He turned to face his friend and saw confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“About what?”

“Rich, just do it.”

“Okay, Boss, um, you’re wrong.”

“Tell me to change my mind.”

“Boss, I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“Rich!”

“Okay, okay. Boss, I’m telling you you’re wrong, and I advise against this course of action . . . whatever it is.”

“You strongly advise me against it.”

“Um, sure, if you say so. I strongly advise you against . . . Are you trying to keep me off the hook?”

Moyer ignored Rich and stepped to Zinsser. “On your feet, soldier.”

Zinsser shot up and came to attention. “I’m keeping you on the team. You will have no more breaks with reality—”

“Boss, I can’t promise—”

He ground his teeth. “I did not give you permission to speak! You will have no more breaks with reality, and to make certain you don’t, you will be accompanied by either Rich or myself. Is that clear?”

“Boss—”

“I asked you a question. Do you have a problem with my question?”

“No, Boss. I understand.”

“Dismissed.”

Shaq stood. “Boss, I strongly advise against this, and this time I mean it.”

“Dismissed, Rich.”

Rich’s face hardened. On several occasions he had challenged Moyer’s decisions, but he never failed to obey them.

“Yes, Boss.” He pressed the words between clenched teeth.

“I CANNOT KNOW,” EL-SAYYED said into the cell phone. He was in a luxury boat sailing up the Nile. “I was not there.”

“You failed in your mission.” Even over the distance from Mexico to Egypt, El-Sayyed could hear the man’s anger. “My employer is unhappy.”

“As am I.”

“You have our money, but we do not have the results we paid for.”

El-Sayyed spoke in an even tone. “You knew there was a risk of failure. This was not a simple operation, and complexity always increases the danger of a misstep.”

“My employer wants to know what went wrong.”

“Tell him what I have told you: I don’t know. I wasn’t there. You follow the news as I do. You know we created great destruction and death, proving that no security is foolproof.”

“But the primary goal was not achieved, you stinkin’ Arab.”

“Careful, my friend,” El-Sayyed said. “I have a limited capacity for insults. Think about that next time you or your boss start your cars.”

“Are you threatening us?”

“I’m just warning a friend about the unwanted consequences that can come from hasty words.”

The line went silent for a moment, and El-Sayyed let his gaze trace the farmland that bordered the Nile. Peasants worked the fields; sun-weathered men and children drew water from the ancient river and poured it into irrigation channels. Despite its great achievements, his country was still backwards in so many ways.

“My employer wants his money returned.”

“I’m sorry, my friend, but a deal is a deal. We all took risks and knew that things might go wrong. It is the way in modern business. And please don’t threaten me again. It will do you no good.”

El-Sayyed rose from the lounge chair and paced the deck of the thirty-five-foot pleasure craft. In his free hand he held a small cup of strong coffee.
Dahabeeyahs
plied the Nile, the small boats crammed with tourists as they traveled up and down the famous river. Several other pleasure craft and commercial boats worked the waters. The roar of engines skipped along the surface. El-Sayyed saw a power boat racing faster than was wise. It approached quickly. “Stupid rich tourists.”

“Did you say something, El-Sayyed?”

“Nothing to concern you, Michael.”

The powerboat slowed as it approached El-Sayyed’s craft. The man who stood behind the wheel held a phone to his ear. He waved. A second man sat at the stern.

“El-Sayyed?”

“Yes.”

“Two can play your game.”

“What does that mean?”

The second man stood and shouldered a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Before El-Sayyed could shout a warning, the grenade struck.

Burning, sharp debris pierced the side of El-Sayyed’s head and torso. He stumbled to the side and started to fall.

A second RPG hit the boat.

The last thing El-Sayyed’s brain registered was the sound of the speedboat’s engine piercing the air.

CHAPTER 30

TESS RAND HAD BARELY hung up from her brief courtesy call with J. J. when a man in uniform appeared at her door.

“I take it you’re not selling cookies.”

“No, ma’am. Colonel MacGregor has requested a few moments of your time.”

“A few moments? Is he here? In Pennsylvania?”

“No, ma’am. He’s at his office.” The man looked to be thirty, had brown hair, and looked as if he hadn’t smiled anytime in the last two years.

“Since his office is in South Carolina, this is going to take more than a few minutes.”

“Arrangements have been made, Dr. Rand. If you’ll follow me.”

“Not until I get a few things I need.”

“The Army will provide anything you need.”

She glanced at the rank insignia on his khaki uniform. There was a pin affixed to a spot directly over his sternum. “Lieutenant, do you really want to go shopping for things a woman needs?”

He paused but showed no emotion. “I suppose five minutes wouldn’t hurt, ma’am.”

Four minutes later Tess was out the door. Ten minutes later she was the lone passenger on a Beechcraft C-12 Huron. The twin-engine prop plane wasted no time climbing to its cruising altitude. Early morning clouds gave way to a bright blue sky. The Pratt & Whitney turboprops made the aircraft vibrate as it climbed.

The army lieutenant who retrieved her from her apartment offered no information. Tess had tested the waters with a few probing questions, but if the man knew anything—which she doubted—he wasn’t talking. All she could do was wait.

The craft touched down fewer than two hours later, and Tess exited to find another army lieutenant waiting by a car. He smiled, opened the door for her, waited until she was seated in the back, then closed the door. A few minutes later she passed through the gates to Fort Jackson and was driven straight to the Concrete Palace, where she’d briefed J. J.’s team.

Colonel Mac waited at the entry door and escorted her through the stages of security as he had done before. This time she was not led to the conference room but to a different space, one that required passing through two levels of biometric security. She stopped two steps into the room. Monitors hung on the walls, and a large table dominated the floor. Smaller desks lined one room. Tess had never been in the Situation Room in the White House, but she imagined it looked much like this.

“Is it unprofessional to say, ‘Wow’?”

Colonel Mac chuckled. “I hope not. I said the same thing—basically.”

“But with more, um, flair?”

“Flair. I like that.”

“Is . . .”

“J. J. and the others are fine. That’s not why you’re here.”

She felt the tension melt away. Someone to her right moved. He had been standing in the back corner of the room. He had a billiard build, and a head to match. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made her think of John Denver.

“Dr. Tess Rand, meet Dr. Smith.”

“Dr. Smith?” She held out her hand.

“It will do for now.”

“Let me guess: The badge you wear at work has a different name.”

He had a pleasant smile. “It might.”

“Billions of dollars of taxpayers’ money are spent each year on foreign intelligence, and the best pseudonym we can come up with is Smith.”

“My wife’s maiden name was Smith,” Mac said.

Tess’s cheeks warmed. “Sorry—not about your wife’s name being Smith, but about . . . I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.” She looked back at Smith. “Which branch of . . . Never mind. Why am I here?”