Against All Enemies (12 page)

“It’s not a ten-dollar word, Ian. Excuse me, in this context I suppose you prefer Victor. Impressed. I am impressed.”

“At what?”

“Your ability to pull off what so many of us have been considering, but have not had the guts to try.”

Ian continued to stare. This was the kind of topic where an incorrect guess could have devastating consequences.

Brock sighed. He seemed genuinely frustrated that the conversation was not going the way he had planned. “Let’s take a step back,” he said. “We can agree that the Darmond administration is the worst in history, can we not?”

Ian considered that. He felt comfortable saying, “Certainly since the Second World War.”

“Okay, fine. I’d actually go back to the beginning, but we can start with World War Two if that makes you more comfortable. Can we also agree that if he is not stopped—if he is allowed to continue down the current road for another three and a half years—the damage to the republic will likely become permanent?”

These were exactly the points he’d made through the postings of the Uprising. “I can agree with all of that,” Ian said.

Brock clapped his hands lightly. “Very good, then. If we project the logic out to the end of its tether, it becomes clear that as patriots—
not
as the terrorists that the media will portray us to be—our duty is to ensure that Darmond and his agenda are stopped.”

Ian cut his eyes to Little and Clone.

“They’re both on our side,” Brock assured. “It’s safe to speak plainly.”

It was insane to speak openly of such things. And to hear the words coming from the senior-most flag officer in the United States Army made Ian wonder what kind of trap this was. “Sir, I am really not comfortable answering these questions.”

Brock sighed noisily. Famously impatient, he seemed ready to blow. “Fear of being charged with mutiny, no doubt,” he said.

“Fear of being charged with
treason,
sir.”

“For Christ’s sake do you believe what you publish or do you not?” As soon as the question was in the air, he held up a hand to cut off any response. “Of course you do. You’ve already admitted to being the leader of the Uprising, and that alone is enough to get you court-martialed and locked away for the rest of your life. Do you believe for a second that I would be here, this exposed, having this conversation if I did not have the appropriate leverage over you? I was hoping for a cooperative spirit, but if it needs to be strong-arm tactics, I can do that, too. As you might guess, I am a busy man, and this kind of bullshit not only wastes my time, it frankly pisses me off. Are we clear so far?”

The change in demeanor and approach startled Ian. His silence now was less recalcitrance than vocal paralysis. This man was chief of staff for the entire friggin’ United States Army.
Holy shit.

“I’ll take your silence as agreement,” Brock said. He’d settled back into Nice Guy mode with an ease and speed that was every bit as startling as the previous transition. “I apologize for being so blunt, but as you can imagine, these are anxious times, and the clock is ticking. In fact, it’s ticking faster than I had intended, thanks to your efforts.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Ian stammered. The quick transitions were making him dizzy.

“Apology accepted, but I stipulate that you had no way of knowing what you were doing. The good news is that there’s still time to fix it.” He stood from his chair and Ian followed to his feet reflexively. “Spend some time with Little and Biggs here. They’ll spell out what we need from you.” He extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,
Mister Carrington
.”

Ian accepted the hand, even though he was certain that his own was cold and wet.

As Brock headed for the door, he said, “As Benjamin Franklin once said, we must all hang together or most assuredly, we will all hang separately.” Everyone in the room but Ian found that funny.

When the door closed behind the general, and it was just him and the thick-necks, Ian realized that it was time for him to piss on a fire hydrant to establish some measure of control over his future. Figuring both of his new companions to be noncoms, he played their deferential instinct to his own benefit. “Have a seat, both of you,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs while he helped himself to the leading edge of the metal desk. If nothing else, his perch gave him the benefit of height when the two men finally settled themselves into place.

“First things, first,” Ian said, following whatever random thought his brain injected into his consciousness. “Before we get into whatever the plan is, you really couldn’t do better than Little and Biggs for avatars? You should be ashamed.”

Little gave a smile that was ten degrees more menace than mirth. “Tell you what, Victor,” he said. “We can talk all about that as we take our little drive out into the country.”

Chapter Nine

“H
aynes Moncrief wants me to do
what?
” Jonathan asked. He’d returned from Fayetteville to Fisherman’s Cove to prepare for the trip to Panama. The seven-hour drive had left him a bit brain-numbed.

“You heard correctly,” Venice said. They spoke in the armory-slash-vault that resided under the parking lot that separated Jonathan’s home and office from the property belonging to Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church. “He wants you to intercede on his behalf with Wolverine.” Venice had never liked it down here. The fact of her presence told Jonathan that this was important.

“He’s the Senate minority leader, for crying out loud,” Boxers said, never looking up from his task of selecting weapons from his locker and arranging them in their appropriate duffle bags. “I give good odds that she’d take his call.” Wolverine was Jonathan’s code name for Irene Rivers, the director of the FBI, for whom he’d done quite a lot of off-the-record work over the years.

“I dunno,” Jonathan said. “He’s something of a political turd ball now that he shot the guy in the park. Nobody wants him to rub off on them.” He pulled a Heckler & Koch M27 from the rack, cycled the bolt a couple of times and dry fired it. “In fact, I’m kind of in the same boat. Why did he call us?”

“Apparently because he knew you and the director were friends,” Venice said. She spoke from the doorway, half in and half out of the vault.

“You know we’ve got seats, right?” Jonathan said. He indicated the stools that lined the Velostat-covered aluminum workbench.

She crinkled her nose. “I don’t like the smell,” she said.

“Blasphemy,” Boxers said.

“The senator is in a difficult place,” Venice said. “Apparently the guy he shot does not officially exist. Completely off the grid. He wants to know why.”

“Why does he think?”

“He says he doesn’t know,” Venice said. “And on the heels of Congressman Blaine’s assassination a few weeks ago, the lack of a known identity is particularly troubling.”

“The Fibbies aren’t idiots,” Boxers said. He cycled an HK417, and apparently liked what he saw and felt. “I’m sure they’re troubled by that, too.”

“He thinks that the administration will either drag their feet or withhold information that would exonerate him,” Jonathan guessed.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Boxers said.

“You make Darmond sound like the most corrupt president ever,” Venice said. She’d campaigned hard for him in his first term, and twisted herself six ways from Sunday to ignore the obvious during Darmond’s campaign for a second term. She needed evidence north of fingerprints and photographs to believe the man could do any wrong. Venice held steadfast to her belief that the president was an innocent victim of the bad people around him.

Jonathan let it go.

“But you’re right,” Venice confirmed. “That is what he thinks.”

“If he doesn’t trust the FBI, what does he want Wolfie to do?” Jonathan asked.

“I think he figures that she can counter any neglect he might suffer at the hands of the attorney general.”

At face value, Jonathan thought Moncrief had a point. They had served together a thousand years ago, back when the now-senator had been a then-Ranger, and they’d kept in touch. Haynes was a hothead and he loved to hear himself talk, but he was a good man at his center, and Jonathan thought he had every reason to dread some form of lynching from the Darmond regime.

“Tell you what,” Jonathan said. “I’ll see if Father Dom can set up a meeting before it’s time for us to take off for Panama. If we can, we’ll meet, if we can’t, then Haynes Moncrief will have to fend for himself for a while.”

“How, exactly, did you land on Panama as a meeting place?” Venice asked.

“I’ve been a little curious about that myself,” Boxers said.

Jonathan reached into the locker for his MP7, the wicked little machine pistol from Heckler & Koch that had become his favorite left-thigh sidearm for hot operations. “I was shooting from the hip, pardon the pun.” He worked the action to verify that it was unloaded, and then he laid it into the duffle next to the M27. “Operation Acid Gambit is the stuff of history in the Unit. It was one of our first and most successful ops—one that people who’d never participated would know the details of. I figured the meet needed to be in neutral territory—I sure as hell have no desire to go to Venezuela—and Panama is more or less in Boomer’s backyard.”

“Assuming he’s in Venezuela,” Boxers said. “Mrs. Boomer never confirmed that.”

“She never denied it, either. I think it’s worth the risk.”

“And how are you going to get there?” Venice asked.

“We’ve got time left on our access to Mannix’s Lear.”

“Too much time,” Boxers said. “It’s like flying a tuna fish can.” Free access to the Lear had been part of Jonathan’s fee when repatriating Mannix’s daughter from a religious cult a few years ago. It replaced a much more spacious Gulf Stream from a previous mission, and Boxers had a hard time getting comfortable in the tight environs of the flight deck.

“A first world problem,” Jonathan said.

“But you’re going to a third world country,” Venice added. “How are you going to pull that off?”

Jonathan said, “We’ve contacted friends on both sides of the border.” It was tough going for a while after the United States surrendered the Canal Zone to Panama in 2000 in accordance with the deal engineered by Jimmy Carter twenty-odd years before, but now the country was finally rebounding, and Jonathan maintained personal relationships with a number of Panamanians who retained good feelings about their distant northern neighbor. Truth be told, as Darmond’s America drifted away from its traditional philosophical underpinnings, it was more difficult for Jonathan to find allies in Washington than it was to find them abroad.

“Did you obtain clearance for your weapons, too?” Venice asked.

“The weapons, too,” Jonathan confirmed.

“We are what TSA agents have heart attacks over,” Boxers said with a laugh.

“Do you have a plan?” Venice asked. “I mean a meeting place is different than a plan. How are you going to make contact?”

“I’m going to stand there and wait for him to come to me,” Jonathan said.

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s the only way I can think of,” Jonathan explained. “He knows that the Community is looking to hurt him. If I arranged a dead drop or something else that’s spooky, he’d never sniff the bait. He’d assume that we’d be watching the site because that’s exactly what we would be doing. Nothing shows vulnerability quite like standing out in the open.”

“Even you admit that he probably killed those CIA agents, Dig,” Venice said. “Are you really comfortable making yourself another target?”

“He won’t be alone,” Boxers said. “I’ll be watching.”

“You can’t shoot a bullet out of the air,” Venice said.

“Boomer won’t snipe at me,” Jonathan said.

“You’re assuming,” Venice said. “And betting your life in the process.”

“There’s no reason for him to,” Jonathan said. “He’s got no beef with me. I’m hoping Christyne will make it clear that we come in peace. If he doesn’t trust us, then he just won’t show up. He’s got no reason to kill me.”

Venice looked to Boxers. “Then why will you be ready to snipe Dylan Nasbe?”

“I’m just there to finish any fight that Boomer starts,” Boxers said. “I agree with the boss, though. There’s no reason for him to come at Digger. There’s certainly no reason to piss me off. He knows that I would make a very bad enemy.”

“So he’s afraid of you,” Venice said.

“He
respects
me,” Big Guy corrected. “I’m confident that he’s scared shitless of what I can become with the proper motivation.”

Jonathan smiled at his partner’s words. Boxers was one of a small handful of people on Earth who could say stuff like that and make it sound like a casual part of doing business.

“So, your plan is just to fly into Panama City International Airport—or whatever it’s called—and drive off?” Sometimes, Venice underestimated Jonathan’s abilities to plan things without her assistance.

“That’s where those friends come in again,” Boxers said. “There are some old Spec Ops sites that still have life in them.”

“But you’re still going to get picked up on radar, right?” Venice pressed. “I mean, you can’t just invade a sovereign nation and not be detected.”

Jonathan and Big Guy shared a smile.