Undeclared War (31 page)

It was a long four days later that Reaper once again traveled down into Detroit from the farm. Mary hadn't been able to handle what had happened to her and Ricky, and Reaper couldn't blame her. She had decided to move away and take up her maiden name again. That seemed a polite way of telling Reaper that the divorce would go through—and he wouldn't fight it. He had become a danger to Mary and his son, and that wasn't something he could accept.

The divorce might not matter much after the meeting he was headed for. The summons was an official one and he rode his bike to the Federal Building in downtown Detroit. At least they hadn't sent a car full of federal marshals for him.

Moving through downtown on his Harley, Reaper passed the ruins of what had once been a six-story factory and successful nightclub. Construction equipment already worked to clear the mess. The SEAL couldn't see the young black man who had gotten his first real job working with the construc
tion people. A meeting with the devil a week before had changed at least one person's life for the better.

Arriving at the Federal Building, Reaper had a hard time finding a parking space anywhere close to the structure, and an even harder time waited for him as he tried to enter the building. The intense security check included a detailed pass with a magnetometer after going through the normal metal detector. Identification was carefully checked and matched up against the appointments list.

The nation had gone to Orange Alert status only a few days earlier. The heightened state of alert against a terrorist attack was caused by a credible threat to the country. Reaper wondered if he might not have met someone more closely involved with that terrorist threat. If he had, they weren't much of a threat anymore.

The office he finally arrived at had the nondescript look of bureaucracy. The only thing missing was the one-way mirror in the wall. Then the spartan room would have looked just like a police interrogation office—which Reaper suspected it most likely was.

He had no choice in the matter He had fought as part of the system for too long to now fight against it. He hadn't even brought a lawyer to the meeting, over the protests of the rest of the guys at the farm. They had pointed out that they could afford the best defense available for Reaper. But he hadn't wanted to take advantage of the money they had.

Not that Reaper had a fatalistic streak, he simply accepted what he had done. And he would take the blame for everything that had happened on his own shoulders. None of the men who had helped him
would even come into the equation. And he wouldn't cost them any more than what they already had given to save his family.

So Reaper sat in one of the available steel-framed, gray upholstered chairs. He placed his hands on the brown-plastic top of the steel-framed table that dominated the center of the room. When a person finally came through the door, Reaper's eyes went wide with the shock of recognition, his reflexes bringing him immediately to his feet.

“At least you still know how to show respect,” said Admiral Alan Straker gruffly. “Although you exhibit little for the law. Now, sit down, Reaper, I'm retired now.”

Sitting again, Reaper looked over at the man who had once tried to save his career. The admiral, Reaper would always think of him as that, wore a spotless blue suit, snowy white shirt, and a black tie. On his lapel was an American flag pin, and below it a miniature gold SEAL Trident. At least Reaper would be taken down by one of his own.

As Straker sat at the table, he began shuffling through some papers in a file he had brought with him. Long moments stretched out as he read the reports—moments that seemed an eternity for Reaper. Finally, the admiral closed the file and pushed it away.

“It appears that someone thought to ship the feds a box full of illegally obtained intelligence documents,” Straker said. “I'm with the Office of Homeland Security now and those documents quickly ended up in my hands. Whoever came up with them knew their value and where to send them so they could do the most good.

“Just to be plain with you, Reaper, you and your partners have broken enough federal, state, and local laws to be put away for roughly forever. Even the Fish and Game people want a piece of your ass. And, pardon the image, but that ass is squarely in my hands right now, Chief.

“You fought your own undeclared war against terrorism, Reaper. I know what drove you to it. It seems that when a Coast Guard team investigated the explosions they found a cook, someone named Hassan Akrit, had survived what I've been informed had to be a serious firestorm on an island resort up in Lake Michigan. He mentioned someone in black, and evidence we found there suggested that there had been two prisoners held against their will—a female and young male. That this evidence resided in the same house as a headless corpse, the corpse of an officer you have had a serious history with, will go unmentioned.

“Chief, the United States is at war now, a declared war against international terrorism. That war has to follow precise rules, and it has to follow international law. And some of those laws prevent certain actions from being officially taken.

“Reaper, I have a choice for you. You can pick what's outside that door or what I'm going to put on the table right here. And what's outside the door are federal marshals waiting to see if I hand them a prisoner.”

“And what's on the table?” asked Reaper.

“Not quite a free pass,” Straker said, “but as close to one as you're ever going to see. I'll make all of the legal problems go away—but the only way that
can happen is if you admit that you've been working for my office as a special consultant over the last several weeks. And that offer extends to those four who are waiting for you out at that farm north of here. Yes, we know about them. And you will remain as my special consultant for an undetermined length of time, receiving support and assignments as my office issues them…and only as we do.”

Reaper just looked at the man who was one of the leaders he had followed for years. He had been willing to do so then, and he would be willing to do so again. But he had some questions that had to be addressed first.

“All I can do is speak for me, Admiral,” Reaper said, “and I will agree to work for you as you see fit. But I have two conditions first—and they aren't really negotiable.”

“Conditions!” Straker exploded. “I offer you a part of your life back and you want to list conditions? Exactly what are they?”

 

It was only a few days later when Ted Reaper, Keith Deckert, Max Warrick, Ben MacKenzie, and now Enzo Caronti found themselves back in northern Michigan. This time, they had come to pay their final respects to a fallen comrade. They found it fitting that it was Memorial Day, a holiday when America pays homage to its fallen heroes, because it was a hero who the men came to bury that day. Though had someone called him that while he was alive, he probably would have punched that guy's
lights out. There are no heroes in the Teams, only operators.

“How the hell did he get this place opened on a holiday?” Max said as they looked at the closed grave.

“He's an admiral,” Enzo said. “They can do things we mere mortals can't. Besides, he said he really liked this place.”

“I'm just glad they got his body back for us,” Ben said.

“Amen to that,” said Deckert. Looking around he added, “It is a nice place, though.”

Reaper just looked at the ground where they had placed his Teammate. Bear was in his casket in his motorcycle leathers. A Cuban cigar, its aluminum tube never having been opened, resided in his jacket pocket. On the front of that pocket, polished and gleaming now for all eternity, was the gold Trident of Naval Special Warfare. It had been the last Trident that Reaper had worn while on active duty. He wanted his Teammate to have it.

A glass rested in the casket as well, a twin to the glasses in the hands of the men around the grave. The premium Canadian Club whiskey in the coffin remained in a bottle, the bottle that had already filled the glasses that the men now drained to their friend.

As Reaper stood, smoking a really good Cuban cigar, the sound of a screeching cry in the sky caused him to look up.

Max pulled his own cigar from his mouth as he said in astonishment, “Son of a bitch, is that an eagle?”

Soaring overhead was a bald eagle. It had come back with its mate to the nest that they built up every
year. The nest would grow larger, and the eagles would be flying over the area for a long time to come.

“Oh, that's way too corny,” Enzo said with a big smile. “Bear would have loved this. Think he set it up?”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Reaper laughed as he watched the magnificent bird fly overhead.