Blue Warrior (11 page)

Judy stood up. “I’m going to grab some more coffee, then I’ll head back over to the plane.”

“If Pearce doesn’t show up, will you still take the mission?”

She shrugged. “Of course. Mike Early is an American, isn’t he?”

Holliday’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “Couple of things. You’re aware that this mission is strictly off the books, right? I know Margaret burned some bridges when she was in office, but now she’s persona non grata all over D.C., like she’s got the plague or something.”

“She told me as much when she called me.”

“That means you’re not legally crossing into Mali airspace.”

“Shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

“Not unless you get into trouble. If you do, the American government won’t be able to help you, because you’re breaking the law.”

“We’ve never counted on anybody to help us. Especially the feds. No offense.”

“The Air Force might also arrest you when you return, since you’re originating your flight from one of their air bases. They’ll track your plane to and from Mali using your IFF transponder.”

“Still not a problem. I can shut it off from the cockpit before we enter Mali airspace.” That was illegal under international air traffic regulations, but Judy believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission when it came to operational security.

“Right, and you’ll need to. But once you do, any military aircraft that encounters you will assume you’re either hostile or criminal and will likely shoot you down.” Worry framed his kindly face.

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Mr. Holliday.” Judy tried to comfort him with a smile.

“You’re a very brave young woman.”

“I’m a pilot for Pearce Systems. It’s what I do.”

“And what is Pearce Systems, if I may ask?”

Judy had to think about that. She’d been away for several months now. Heard through the grapevine it had changed a lot.

“It’s a private security and technology firm. Drones, mostly. Air, sea, and land.”

Holliday frowned, curious. “And here you are on a drone base. That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Gee, it is, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought about that until now.”

He tried to read her guileless face. “Are you a drone pilot, too?”

“Me? No, I’m terrible at it. Even with haptics. I fly by feel, not numbers.”

“But a drone is safer, isn’t it?”

“Sure, at least for the pilot. But I don’t fly to feel safe. I fly because I love it. It’s what I was born to do.”

“Well, I’ll say it again. You’re a very brave young woman. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks. We’re gonna need it.”

16

Glory Box Café
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

7 May

I
t was 3 a.m. when the blond woman with a French-braided ponytail and a Colorado Buffalos ball cap slipped into a padded booth. A few locals lingered in the main lounge. Sleeve tattoos and pierced noses, mostly. Dusty moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies adorned the rough-timbered walls. A performance space in the corner was empty save for a mic stand and an empty stool. She could smell the sweet tang of pot in the air.

A heavy Hispanic kid with a mop of curly hair and a pencil-thin beard ringing his jawline dropped a large plastic tumbler of ice water and a menu in front of her. His black T-shirt was stained. Pink letters read
GLORY BOX
. She asked for coffee and he asked what kind, they had a bunch. “Strong,” was all she said. But he was slurring his words, probably stoned, so she added, “Caffeinated,” and as an afterthought, “two eggs, fried hard.”

She sipped the coffee and waited. It was all she could do. Ian had managed to get her the address safely. She used every trick in the book to get here without being followed—cash only, no cell phone, and the blond wig being the three most important. Now she sat in the all-night café and waited for Ian to contact her again.

Margaret Myers took another sip. She guessed the coffee was
Sumatra, but she wasn’t sure. It was strong, all right, and a little burnt. But she wasn’t here for the coffee.

The Hispanic kid and the cannabis aroma brought back memories. She was glad she had waged war on the drug lords. A lot of bad hombres got planted in the dirt, and drug violence had decreased dramatically on both sides of the border now that President Madero was in charge down there. The irony, of course, was that marijuana had been legalized in several states since then, including her home state of Colorado. There was much further to go in the drug war, but President Greyhill wasn’t the man for the job. Maybe her critics were right. Maybe the nation would never have the wherewithal to fight it like a real war. If that was true, legalization was inevitable, and it wouldn’t end with marijuana.

How would history judge her? She’d asked herself that question a thousand times in recent weeks, then pushed it away before she could answer. It was a vain, stupid question, and the answer would only come long after she was dead, past her caring. But the question kept coming back nonetheless.

So many things hadn’t gone the way she’d planned as president. Drone strikes, a showdown with the Russians, resignation. She had shown resolve, then quit. But that was the deal she had made. The alternative was a shooting war with the Russians and a showdown with Congress. But she couldn’t fight the feeling that she had failed.

No matter how she justified it, she had quit her job, and she had never quit anything in her life. There were still so many things left undone that she might have been able to accomplish had she remained in office. And now she’d put the destiny of her country in the hands of Greyhill and Diele, exactly the kind of career politicians she’d always railed against.

But “What If?” was a fool’s game and she needed to stop playing it. Now.

Myers’s free-range eggs finally arrived, fried hard, along with four triangles of whole-wheat toast. The menu solemnly promised, “Non-GMO, soy-free, vegan, Kosher” foods. No mention of rubbery and burnt. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

The one good thing she’d taken away from last year was meeting Pearce. She’d lost the ability to trust very many people, especially after entering politics. But Pearce was definitely one of the good guys, good as his word. That was hard to come by in politics or anywhere else these days.

She’d once felt the same way about Vin Tanner, too.

The only people she knew she could trust with her life were Pearce and, by extension, Ian. As soon as she fled her home, she bought a burner phone with cash, called Ian on the road, told him she needed a perfectly secure method of communicating with him. An hour later, he made the arrangements.

Once secure, Myers explained her situation. Told Ian cryptically she needed some alone time, her first use of coded language in this new adventure. He understood. They decided to go old-school. He sent her a package, indirectly, through third and fourth parties. The package directed her here, to the Glory Box.

Now she was waiting for the next link in the chain. She felt like she was in a cheap spy novel. Felt foolish sitting in this hippie dive at three in the morning with a six-hundred-dollar wig on her head and picking at a plate of rubbery free-range eggs. What was she doing?

She was hiding, of course. And running for her life. At one time, she was the most famous woman in the world. She couldn’t exactly walk around in broad daylight without attracting some attention. But the wig and the tortoiseshell glasses and a dark café full of alternative lifestyles allowed her to hide in plain sight. At least long enough to hear from Ian.

A rusted Subaru Outback with dented door panels and a bent roof rack pulled up to the sidewalk. A tall, thin woman with a buzz cut and neck tattoos pushed through the door. She glanced around the room, looking for somebody, her head on a swivel until her eyes locked on Myers. She marched over to Myers’s booth.

“Are you Margo Denver?”

Ian had given Myers a different name on the previous delivery, but the same pattern. The first letter of the first name had been an
M
, too.

“Yes.”

The woman’s long, thin fingers fished a padded envelope out of a fringed paisley shoulder bag. Myers noted the black fingernail polish and the sad, large eyes highlighted with blue eye shadow. She handed the envelope to Myers.

“Thank you. Do I owe you anything?”

“Nah. I’m doing this as a favor for Troy.”

“You know Troy Pearce?” Myers asked. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“Yeah. But I haven’t seen him around in a while. He used to come in here at least once a month. Is he okay?”

“He’s been away. On a business trip.”

“For a whole damn year?”

“Something like that.”

“If you talk to him, tell him Sadie said ‘Thanks.’”

“For what? If I may ask.”

“Paid my rent for the year. He’s been a real good friend to me and my kid.”

Meyers motioned to the booth. “Have a seat. Let me buy you breakfast.”

Sadie shook her shaved head. “Can’t. My boy’s asleep in the car. I just ran over here to give you that. I was told I had to deliver it in person exactly at 3:15 a.m. But thanks anyway.” She looked at Meyers’s plate and the half-eaten eggs. “You should try the veggie empañada next time. It’s real good.” She nodded, turned on her boot heel, and left.

Myers watched her climb back into the Subaru and pull away from the curb before opening the envelope.

It was from Ian. Keys. Codes. Instructions.

Relief flooded over her. She was almost there.

17

Fiero National Campaign Headquarters
Washington, D.C.

7 May

H
arry Fowler wanted her. Always had, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her twenty years before. Fiero knew it, too. Didn’t matter. They could still work together, even be friends, which they were. But she was immune to his charms as few women were. That made her all the more desirable to him, of course. But business was business. He poured them each two fingers of his favorite, Bushmills twenty-one-year-old single malt.

As her national campaign manager, Fowler’s job was to consummate her greatest political desire. The next best thing to bedding her, he supposed. Hated telling her today that she wasn’t going to be the next president of the United States, at least not next year. Ruined all kinds of prospects. He handed her a glass.

“Why not wait for 2020?” he asked. He sat in a chair across from her, getting out from behind his desk. The walls were lined with photos of him and all of the politicians he helped get elected over the years, including Fiero.

“I’m not getting any younger. And Greyhill is weak. He can be taken out.”

“He’s bulletproof, I’m telling you. If the election were held today—”

“—he’d win. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before. Poll after poll. I don’t
believe in polls. Opinions can be changed. Look at Bush 41. He had an approval rating of over ninety percent at one time. He couldn’t be beaten either, until he was.”

“Greyhill’s invulnerable right now. He’s continuing everything Myers initiated. The economy’s picking up, thanks to her energy policy. That means the deficit’s inching down without raising taxes, thanks to her budget freeze. And for the first time in a long while we aren’t gearing up for a new ground war. Just exactly where do you expect to find the key to his chastity belt?”

“That’s just it. He isn’t invulnerable. He’s Calvin Coolidge. The do-nothing president.”

“What’s your bumper sticker going to say? ‘Trust Me, Not Your Lying Eyes?’ Everything getting better feels like he’s doing something right to most people.”

Fiero shook her head. “No, that’s not my point. I think I’ve found the issue.”

“Domestic or foreign? You’re perfectly positioned for both.”

“China.”

“Are you kidding? You of all people.” Fowler was referring to a sweetheart deal she helped broker for a Chinese shipping company to lease valuable warehouse space at the Port of Los Angeles last year despite the fact that two of its ships had been seized for smuggling illegal aliens into the country. The Department of Homeland Security had originally blocked the deal, but Fiero had rammed it through with help from across the aisle. Her husband’s offshore business partners were grateful, and showed it. California news media remained characteristically uninterested in these kinds of unpleasant affairs, as far as Fiero was concerned. It was partly due to the fact that she always brought home the bacon. But Fowler suspected there were other reasons, too, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they were.

“Who better to raise the warning flag? I’ve championed trade and commerce with China from the beginning. I’ve headed up three trade junkets to the mainland in the last five years. I’m the most pro-China senator on the Hill, so if I sound the alarm, people will listen.”

“How will Anthony feel about that?” Fiero’s husband did a lot of business with the Chinese.

“He’ll be fine with it. So will the Chinese. They understand the concept of optics. They probably invented it.”

“So what’s the issue with China? Yellow Peril and all of that?”

“Don’t be racist. I was just in a briefing two days ago. China is all over Africa now. All we need to do is provide the public a color-coded map showing African nations falling like dominoes to Chinese influence.”

“Who cares about Africa?”

“Seven of the ten fastest-growing economies of the world are on the African continent. And it has the most arable land in the world—over sixty percent. It’s eventually going to be the world’s food basket. And it’s also a treasure trove of rare minerals. We’re going to lose all of it to the Chinese, thanks to Greyhill. I can beat him over the head with that all day long.”

“And what about your base? I can’t see the Sierra Club getting wet over your plan to exploit Africa’s natural resources.”

“We can gin up the NAACP types, get them focused on China’s miserable human rights record on the continent. Get the Greens ranting about the Chinese record on environmental issues over there, and raise hell with the aid organizations—show China robbing food from starving African children to feed themselves. C’mon, Harry, this is all low-hanging fruit.” She held up her glass, signaling a refill.

He took his time picking up the bottle and bringing it back over to her. Gave him time to think. Could she be right? She had amazing instincts. Or was there something else going on she wasn’t telling him about? He tipped in two more fingers for her, then two for himself.

“Maybe” was all he would give her for now.

“Do you know the real reason why Clinton beat Bush in ’92?”

“You mean besides the dirty tricks, the media bias, and the Bush team’s tone-deaf incompetence?”

“It was because Clinton had the balls to get in the race. Sam Nunn, George Mitchell, even Al Gore were better suited to make a run at it, but they were afraid they couldn’t take down a sitting president with
high approval ratings, so they bailed. I hate that kind of weakness. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but nothing worth having ever is. Fortune is a woman, right?
E con più audacia la comandano.
” Fiero winked and took another sip.

Fowler laughed. Who the hell else in this godforsaken town would have the audacity to quote Machiavelli anymore?

What a woman.

“Maybe we can even get him to invade,” Myers said.

Fowler laughed. “Are you kidding?”

“No.”

Fowler shook his head. “You know Greyhill won’t invade. He’s riding high in the polls on the ‘no new boots on the ground’ stuff.”

“Maybe he won’t invade. But if I call for military intervention, I’ll get the neocons on my side and he’ll look like a weak sister. Besides, they’re still blaming him for the budget freeze and the damage that’s been done to the DoD. He needs their support, and this would be an easy way to get it.”

“And if he does invade?”

She chuckled, then did her best Dana Carvey–does–George Bush impersonation: “Read my lips—no new boots on the ground.”

Fowler smiled at her joke. Back in 1990, the congressional Democrats engineered a budget crisis, then demanded President George H. W. Bush raise taxes to solve it. He foolishly complied, and Bill Clinton’s campaign staff blasted the former war hero president for breaking his “no new taxes” pledge and essentially called him a liar for doing so. No matter that Clinton himself promised to not raise taxes on the middle class and then broke that vow as soon as he took office, it would always be the hapless moderate Republican who was remembered as losing a presidency for breaking his promise.

“If I can goad Greyhill into a Mali invasion of any kind, we can beat him with it like a club and ride his broken promise all the way to the White House in 2016.”

Fowler smiled with admiration. “It’s still a great play, even if he doesn’t bite. You have to prove that ‘women are from Mars, too,’ if you
want to be the next commander in chief. If Greyhill doesn’t invade, he’ll just be proving your point that you’re stronger on defense than he is and that you take the Chinese and al-Qaeda threats more seriously than he does.”

She nodded. The pieces fell into place. “Either way, I win. He invades, he breaks his promise and can’t be trusted. He doesn’t invade, he’s weak on defense and can’t be trusted to protect us.”

Karem Air Force Base
Niamey, Niger

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the lights were on inside the hangar.

Judy admired the new paint job on the Aviocar’s tail. The sergeant who’d painted the Red Crescent logo beamed with pride. Red paint stained his long black fingers.

“The Air Force almost didn’t let me enlist because I got busted for tagging when I was a kid. Now look at me.”

“Looks fantastic, Sergeant. You did a great job. The logo is spot-on.”

“You can find anything on the Internet. Just hope it works.”

“I’m sure it will,” Pearce said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. He patted the young man on the back. “Go grab yourself some breakfast. We’ll take it from here.”

“Thank you, sir. Will do. Don’t have to ask me twice when it comes to grub.” The airman snatched up the improvised stencil off the ground and tossed it into the trash can on his way out the door.

“Where’ve you been?” Judy asked. “And what’s that you’re carrying?” She nodded at the duffel slung over one shoulder.

“This? It’s that thing I brought with us from Moz. Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. And by the way, I’ve been here the whole time.”

“But—”

“The
whole
time.” Pearce forced a smile.

“Do I need to know why you’ve been here the whole time?”

“In case you’re ever called to testify.”

Judy shook her head. She can only imagine what Pearce had stolen, or whom he’d stolen it from.

“Sunrise at 6:47 a.m.,” Judy said. “We need to be in the air well before then. You should grab a shower before we leave.”

“I’m fine.”

Judy sniffed, turned up her nose. “Hope you’ve got cologne in that bag, chief, or you’re walking.”

—

S
howered but not shaved, Pearce sat in the copilot’s seat as usual, studying a map. They were at cruising altitude. The steady thrum of the engines filled the cabin, muted by the noise-canceling headsets he and Judy wore.

“You want to talk about what happened back in Maputo?”

Pearce left three men on the floor of the Elephant Bar, broken and bleeding. He was lucky to get the two of them out of there alive with the title to the Aviocar without having to kill anyone. But Judy was the most nonviolent person he knew, and the incident had really upset her. She still hadn’t opened up to him about it. He was worried for her.

“Soon as you tell me why you’ve turned into a drunken sad sack. And what’s with the long hair?”

“I should’ve thanked you earlier.”

“You should’ve done a lot of things earlier. What’s in the bag?”

“Stuff.”

“Booze?”

He shot her a look. “No booze.”

“First you stole from God, and now the federal government. You’re not exactly racking up good karma.”

“I figure the government owes me.”

“What did Myers send?” Judy was referring to the sealed aluminum case with the Red Crescent logos marked
Équipement médical d’urgence
Holliday delivered to the hangar just before they left.

“Plasma, bandages, and antibiotics.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. We could’ve gotten that stuff from the base clinic.”

“And thirty thousand euros. Guess Mikey ran up a helluva medical bill over there.”

“Holliday said something about Myers’s security situation.”

“She might have kicked a hornet’s nest when she reached out earlier on Mikey’s behalf. I think she’s just being careful.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Easy as pie. In and out. Mikey’s supposed to be waiting for us at 0700. Put him on, drop the case, and we’re out of there.”

Their headsets both rang, three short beeps. Judy opened the line. “This is Hotel, over.” They agreed to use the NATO phonetic alphabet for security reasons, even though their line was quite secure.

“Hotel, this is India, over. Is Papa with you? Over.” Ian stressed the second syllable correctly. His Scottish brogue rumbled on the headsets, like a drunken Ewan McGregor whispering in her ears.

“I’m here. What’s shaking?”

“The situation on the ground is changing rapidly. Looks like a convoy is heading your way. ETA 0720 at current speed.”

“What are the particulars?”

“I’ve got eyes on one APC, five trucks. I’d estimate fifty combatants, maybe less.”

“How do you know this?” Judy asked. Pearce Systems didn’t have any drones in the area.

“The International Space Station is passing overhead right now. They’ve an optical camera on board for geological surveys they aren’t using at the moment.” Ian chuckled. “Or think they aren’t using. Unfortunately, it’s passing out of range. I’ll lose my link in two minutes.”