Fallen Angel (7 page)

"Yes. And you're welcome."

Moyer did his best to stoke the coals of his outrage, but the fire went cold. "That was pretty cool. By the way, your nose is bleeding."

"A small price to pay to be the hero in your life."

"Get Doc to look at that. I don't want to explain to your wife that I brought you home uglier than you left."

"Will do, Boss."

The mouthy sailor moved past them. "If it's not too much bother, gentlemen, the captain hates to be kept waiting."

"To the bridge?" Moyer asked.

"Not a chance. You're not cleared to see what's up there. He'll meet you in the chow hall."

CHAPTER 6

THE TEAM SAT AROUND
a set of tables in the corner of the ship's enlisted dining area. Men dressed in blue coveralls joked over the evening meal. Moyer and his men wore MultiCams, which made them stand out. They received a few courteous nods and many more stares. Moyer doubted this was the first time the crew saw non-Navy personnel. The Navy often provided transportation for ground forces. Moyer knew several Marines who, although strictly speaking were under the Department of the Navy, often distanced themselves from the sailors whom they considered chauffeurs.

Moyer took a sip of coffee. It was the only thing in front of him and his men. They had not been offered anything but this corner of the room in which to wait for the skipper.

A tall, narrow man slipped from the passageway on the other side of the hatch and entered the mess. Immediately every sailor in the compartment was on his feet. A man built like a barrel followed.

"As you were, gentlemen." The tall man, dressed in blue coveralls, moved toward Moyer and his men. Moyer eyed the eagle image on his collar. In Moyer's world that would mean the man was a colonel; in the Navy it meant he was looking at the ship's captain. Moyer stood and his men followed.

"Who is the team leader?" The man's voice was smooth and loaded with authority.

"That would be me, Captain. I'm Sergeant Major Eric Moyer."

"Moyer, eh?" The captain's eyes shifted to Shaq. "I don't know whether to toss you in the brig or shake your hand, soldier."

Shaq gave a polite nod. "The latter would be the greater honor, sir."

The captain studied Shaq for a moment, then smiled. To Moyer he said, "Is he always this smooth?"

"You have no idea, sir. If I may present Master Sergeant Rich Harbison, assistant team leader." Moyer introduced the other men in his unit.

"I'm Captain Glencoe. With me is Commander James Spencer, my executive officer. Welcome to the USS
Michael A. Monsoor
. Come with me. We'll be able to talk better in officer country." He didn't wait for a reply.

Moyer and the others scrambled to keep up with the captain. Clearly he was a man who didn't like to waste time. A few moments later Glencoe led the line of men into the officer's mess, a wide room occupied by two lines of tables placed end-to-end. Several off-duty officers were playing cards and drinking sodas.

"I need the room, gentlemen. Last man out secure the room." The officers vacated without a word, closing the door to the space. "Pull up a chair, men."

Moyer and his crew did. As they sat, Glencoe moved to the head of the table but didn't sit. Spencer went to a wall-mounted phone and picked up the receiver. He punched one button and uttered one word: "Report." A few moments later he put the handset back in place and turned.

"XO?"

"Sir, bridge reports we are on heading making best possible speed. Weather states the seas will settle in a few hours and we will make time."

"Very well."

"Wait," J. J. said. "We've increased speed? I'd think I would have heard the engines revving up."

Glencoe crossed his arms. "The
Michael A. Monsoor
is one of the pilot ships of the new DDG-1000 class of destroyers. Our propulsion is electric. That means we are fast and quiet. It also gives a few other advantages."

"Like what?" Shaq asked.

"I guess I can give you the Internet version." Glencoe's smile carried a lot of pride.

"Internet version?" Crispin said. "You mean the kind of intel we can get from the Internet."

"That's right, soldier. You may have noticed we don't look like other destroyers."

"You look more like the old
Merrimack
—the ship, I mean," J. J. corrected himself.

"I know what you meant. Those old warships had the right idea. The new Navy emphasizes stealth. We are six hundred feet in length and eighty feet across the beam, but on radar we look like a small fishing vessel. Also, being electric, we can reallocate our energy to fit our needs—like our rail gun."

"What's a rail gun?" Shaq asked.

Crispin answered before the captain could speak. "It's a gun that launches its projectile by magnetism. The projectile is conductive so it rides the rails at great speed."

"I take it you read a book or something," Shaq said.

"I do that from time to time."

"You're right, soldier. That and many things I can't describe come to you for a mere three billion of taxpayers' dollars. It's one reason I was not happy to reduce speed in rough seas."

"With all due respect, sir," Moyer said, "we don't especially like boarding a ship in heavy seas."

"I can respect that. Okay, enough chitchat. I've got you for six hours. After that I'll hand you off to your next ride. Is there anything you need?"

"Some chow would be good, sir." Moyer studied his men for a moment. "And maybe a place to stretch out."

"XO, get them what they need."

"Sir?" J. J. raised a finger. "I have to ask. I've heard a lot of ship names, but not the
Michael Monsoor
. Who was he?"

The captain's face darkened. "Master-at-Arms Second Class Michael A. Monsoor was a Navy SEAL, Delta Platoon, SEAL Team Three. He enlisted in the Navy in 2001. Five years later he was dead. On September 29, 2006, he and his team were engaged against insurgents in Ramadi, Iraq. One of the enemy tossed a grenade onto the roof where he and his comrades were positioned. Monsoor smothered the grenade with his body, saving the others from injury and death. He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. The ship is named after him."

The air in the room grew heavy, then Moyer rose from his chair. The others followed. They stood in silence until Captain Glencoe said, "I wish you better luck in whatever it is you're about to do."

TESS AND COLONEL MAC
moved around a small group of tourists and down the corridor. Ivory walls and a light brown carpet made the hallway seem larger than it was. Overhead lights pushed the darkness of evening away. In front of them walked a woman with the bearing of an Abrams M1 tank. Helen Brown was more than the president's chief of staff; she was the engine that kept the administration running. Her no-nonsense demeanor was legendary. One Washington insider said the COS had the personality of a meat grinder. Tess had no desire to test that assessment.

Tess had been to the White House before. In fact, she was here just a few months earlier. Because of J. J.'s heroics at the G-20 meeting in Italy that saved the life of not only the president but a dozen heads-of-state and their spouses, the president made the Rose Garden available for their wedding. Now her new husband was on another mission and Tess was meeting the president again—this time on official business.

The corridor emptied into a small waiting area just outside the Oval Office. A marble bust of George Washington sat on a short Greek-style column. A similar bust of Thomas Jefferson rested on the opposite side of the alcove, as if scrutinizing all who passed by.

"One moment, please." Helen Brown slipped into the outer office and spoke to the president's personal secretary.

Tess couldn't hear the exchange, but the body language indicated Brown was informing not requesting. A few seconds later she turned and motioned for Tess and Colonel Mac to follow. Butterflies zoomed through Tess's stomach like jet fighters. Colonel Mac looked unfazed.

Brown opened the door between the outer office and the Oval Office, then closed it behind her as they entered.

President Ted Huffington was seated on one of the sofas at the center of the room. A matching sofa framed a wide, sturdy coffee table. On the table rested a pitcher of water and a carafe of what, based on the cups next to it, Tess assumed was coffee. The president looked unchanged since she last saw him. However, his brown hair sported a little more gray. The result of dealing with the unyielding problems of running a troubled and divided country, or was he just tired of hiding his sixty-one years with hair dye? It didn't matter. The man always looked dapper and scholarly.

Seated with him was a thinner, taller, older man who looked as if he had gone without sleep for the last week: puffy, red eyes; hunched shoulders; pallid skin. The vice president's appearance stunned Tess. She glanced at Mac and caught a glimpse of confusion.

"Tess, my dear." Huffington moved from the sofa and embraced her. His arms were firm and powerful, like anacondas circling her small frame. "Married life has made you even more beautiful."

"Thank you, Mr. President. You're looking well."

He shrugged. "I feel pretty good. I'm getting a little arthritis in my back, but nothing a couple of pain relievers can't handle."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

He waved her off. "Nothing to worry about. When you reach sixty, you're required to make some kind of complaint about your health. I think it's hardwired into our genes."

"I had no idea. I'll keep an eye out for that."

The president smiled broadly, then turned to Colonel Mac. "Mac, how are you? You look good for an old man."

"I'm fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking."

Huffington turned back to Tess. "This is the advantage of being president: I can insult powerful men and women and get away with it."

"For now," Mac deadpanned.

Huffington laughed but it lasted only a moment. "I'm sure you know Vice President Andrew Bacliff."

Bacliff moved close and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Rand. I'm sorry I missed your wedding. I was out of country."

"No need to apologize, Mr. Vice President."

"That doesn't mean I don't know about you. Our country owes you a large measure of gratitude." His voice was smooth, that of a well-practiced speaker. If the rumors were correct, Tess was shaking hands with the next man to call the White House home.

"Let's be seated." Huffington motioned to the sofas. Instead of returning to where he was sitting a few moments before, he settled into a dark, thickly padded leather chair. Tess recalled her father calling the style a "cigar chair." She assumed he was taking the position of authority for the meeting, something he didn't have to do while alone with the VP. Helen Brown sat where the president was earlier.

"Mac, my latest intel says the boys are safely aboard the
Michael Monsoor
and they're underway at best possible speed."

"That's the latest report I have as well, Mr. President."

Huffington nodded. "There's something you don't know, Mac." He paused. "Actually, there are three things. I want to bring you in on the loop on two of those items. Depending how the mission unfolds, I will bring you in on the other. Right now, it's need-to-know only. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

Huffington looked at his vice president, then nodded. Bacliff removed an envelope from the inside, front breast pocket and pushed it across the coffee table. Mac took it and started to open it.

"Before you read that, Mac, I want to make this official for you and Dr. Rand: Nothing we discuss here is to be repeated."

"I assumed that, Mr. President."

"I know you did, but I'm making it an order from your commander in chief."

"Yes, sir. Fully understood."

"Carry on."

Mac pulled a letter from the envelope. Tess could see a seal at the top of the letterhead but couldn't tell if it was from the office of the president or vice president. She turned her gaze to the coffee carafe, not from desire but to avoid reading what might not be meant for her eyes. Mac lowered the letter.

"Please share it with Dr. Rand." Huffington slipped forward in his chair, took the carafe, and poured coffee in four china cups on the table. Each cup bore the presidential emblem.

Without comment, Mac handed the letter to Tess. It bore today's date. She read:

To President Ted Huffington.

Dear Mr. President,

Certain family concerns compel me to resign as vice president of these United States of America effective on any day you see fit.

It has been my honor to be of service to you and to our great country.

Respectfully,

Andrew Bacliff