Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) (44 page)

“It’s done, sir,” Thorsson said. “The full breakdown is in the report I emailed. Bookbinder—”

“Rescued Britton’s father, I know, I read the report,” Gatanas cut him off. “I’m giving orders for them to be detained until we can get to the bottom of their involvement.”

“They’re telling the truth, sir,” Thorsson said. “We have to evacuate the FOB. Taylor’s dead, sir. Crucible is running the post now.”

Gatanas’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not your call. Do I need to remind you of your title? ‘Special Advisor.’ That means you advise. You don’t order.”

“I understand that, sir. I am
advising
you to bring Crucible and his people home.”

“And how the hell do you propose we do that, Harlequin? Your ward, Oscar Britton, shot our Portamancer between the eyes on his way out the door.”

“We use him. Oscar Britton. We have to.”

Gatanas was silent.

“Sir, we . . .”

“That’s enough. I’ve been on the horn with Senator Whalen and the Joint Chiefs since Bookbinder pulled his little stunt with the Indians. They’ve got questions for you. Pack up whatever you’re doing at Ubon and get your ass back to the Pentagon.”

“Sir, Crucible’s a friend. We have to . . .”

“I am just about done being told what I have to do, Major,” Gatanas said. “Get on a plane, or fly yourself, I don’t care. But I had better see you back in the Pentagon, or it’s your ass.”

“How soon, sir?”

“Now, Major. Right fucking now.”

Thorsson knew something was wrong as soon as he got out of his car. The Pentagon’s expansive north parking lot was packed with black SUVs and cordoned off around the edges with orange traffic cones topped with yellow police tape. The usual crowds of morning commuters, civilian and military, were absent. He glanced up at the bridge leading past the athletic club and over the highway and counted at least two snipers walking slowly back and forth. A helicopter circled conspicuously overhead.

This was a lot of security, even for Senator Whalen. Had there been a death threat? He took a deep breath and quickened his pace across the parking lot.

He fumed as he went, thinking of all the time he’d wasted flying here from Thailand. And for what? A face–to–face meeting that could just as easily have been held over the Internet?

They were wasting time. With every second that ticked by, FOB

Frontier was at greater and greater risk. To hear Bookbinder tell it, the attacks were coming pretty much nightly now. Who knew how many men and women were dying with each step Thorsson took across the parking lot?

What if one of them was Crucible? Was his friend even now commanding the perimeter defenses, assuring his people that help was on the way?

The main entrance was completely blocked off. Harlequin could make out a small squadron of Pentagon police hunkered down behind bulletproof barriers, geared for war. He tried to slip into the crowd heading for the alternate entrance, being herded along by impatient Pentagon police officers, similarly equipped. As he stepped into the stream of commuters, one of the officers tapped his elbow, glancing down at a photograph on his cell phone. “Major Thorsson?”

“That’s me.”

“This way, sir.” He led Thorsson out of line and over to the main entrance he’d originally avoided. The police there waved him through without checking his ID.

Inside the long foyer, he was led east, past the escalators that would have put him on the path to his office. After a few feet, four hard-looking Secret Service agents took over from the police and resumed their escort. Thorsson smirked at the direction they were taking. “We’re going to the gift shop?” The Secret Service agents were stone-faced, silent.

They stopped outside the fire doors that led to shopping concourse, shut tight. Thorsson had never seen that before. The area, normally the busiest in the building, had been cleared.

“Go ahead, sir,” one of the agents said, motioning him through the doors.

Thorsson straightened his uniform one last time and went through.

The shops were shuttered, steel gates drawn down over their doors and windows. The lights were dimmed, but Thorsson thought he could make out figures in the distant gloom, men standing on overwatch, weapons ready.

A man stood immediately before him, back turned, in a windbreaker, jeans, and docksiders. Thorsson recognized the forced casualness of his stance from hours of television, but the man’s voice confirmed it.

“Major Thorsson. Thank you for coming.”

Thorsson swallowed. “Sir, I was expecting to see Senator Whalen.”

President Walsh turned, giving him a grim look. “The senator is attending to some urgent business for me. I’m taking a personal interest in this matter. It’s a hell of a thing, Major, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, Mr. President.”

Walsh gestured with a sheaf of papers. “I’ve looked over your report. Thorough. Precise. I wish I could get my staff to write like this.”

Praise from the commander in chief was never a bad thing, but there was something in Walsh’s sugarcoated tone that put him on edge. “Thank you, sir. I’ve lost a lot of hours over poor communications. I try to secure that wherever I can.”

Walsh smiled. “That’s good. That’s good. It’s quite a kerfuffle he’s stirred up with the Indians. Ambassador Buchar has got his hands full trying to get that put to bed. Not to mention that we’ve got the Russians, Singaporeans, and Chinese all demanding answers. It’s a hell of a headache.”

“He did what he had to, sir. The naga are . . . tough to figure out.” Walsh’s eyes narrowed. Apparently that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“So, you agree with Colonel Bookbinder’s assessment?”

He’s being clear on what he wants to hear.
Too bad. Thorsson was an officer. He owed it to his superiors to be honest with them, whatever the cost.

“I believe him, Mr. President. I was at FOB Frontier. The war season is gearing up now as winter fades, and they’re going to be seriously hard-pressed come spring. If there’s any chance that Britton would be willing to help us, we have to try.”

Walsh’s face narrowed until it looked positively pinched.

“This is Oscar Britton we’re talking about, Major. This is the man who nearly killed you. The man who nearly wiped out that FOB you’re now talking about using him to save.”

“He’s the man who saved my life,” Thorsson said. “He returned our dead to us, laid them respectfully in Arlington Cemetery, sir. I’ve thought a lot about Oscar Britton since the last time I faced him. He’s a loose cannon. He marches to the beat of his own drum. He’s dangerous, no question. But he was a good officer. He put his men first. He took care of them. That’s not affectation, that’s character. Oscar Britton cares about soldiers. If we ask him, I believe he’ll help.”

“That’s one hell of a risk to be taking, Major. Moving a division’s worth of military members, support personnel, and equipment through a gate operated by a convict currently being tried for treason?”

Thorsson held Walsh’s eyes. “Respectfully, sir, that’s better than letting those same military members and support personnel die.”

“We don’t know that they will die,” Walsh answered immediately, looking irritated. “And I’m not sure that you’re right about Britton. Regardless, we can’t put the option before him; it’s way too risky. We’ve got less than a year before the election, and I don’t think the public is ready to handle FOB Frontier, Shadow Coven, and everything else we’ve got going on there.”

“Sir”—Thorsson gritted his teeth—“ the staff understand the OPSEC requirements of being posted to FOB Frontier, they know better than to talk. They know the consequences.”

“Sure, in ones or twos,” Walsh answered. “But a mass evacuation? Treated at a single medical facility? Without proper time to debrief them all? And with Oscar Britton as the principal logistical element? Leaks are hard enough to contain normally. This would be a disaster. We’re already reeling from the press coverage from when he gated you onto the White House lawn.

We can risk an op after the election. The FOB will have to hold until then.”

Thorsson choked on his rising anger.
This is the President of
the United States. Be careful.
“Sir, respectfully—”

“Spare me that, Major. We’re both public servants here. Speak plainly.”

“Mr. President, Colonel Bookbinder assures me they’re not going to last eight more days, let alone eight more months.”

Walsh took a step toward him, his posture giving the lie to his talk about being a public servant. “And I can assure you that this administration is the only one equipped to handle magic in this society. Would you prefer a Fareed administration? His so–called ‘real magic’ legislation?”

I wouldn’t have. Until now.

Thorsson didn’t bother answering. This whole conversation had been an excuse for Walsh to monologue. At least Fareed wouldn’t be willing to sell out a division’s worth of men and women just to win an election. He carefully kept his face neutral.

Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “I can trust you on this, Major? Can’t I?”
He’s doubting my loyalty,
Harlequin thought.
Worse, he’s
worried I’ll blow the lid on this, or do something crazy.

Because he knows he’s wrong.

Walsh put his hand on Thorsson’s elbow, his voice going soft and smooth. “Sometimes being in charge requires you to make hard choices, and sometimes those choices cost lives. If you hesitate to make those calls, you can lose more lives than you save.”

“Sir, you asked me to speak plainly. We’re talking about a division here.”

“I know precisely what we’re talking about, Major. We’ll lose a lot more than a division if we don’t keep a lid on what the Reawakening has unleashed on the world. You’re not seeing the forest for the trees. I’m going to have to be able to rely on you here. Can I do that?”

Thorsson inclined his head. This man wanted obedience. “Of course, sir.” Inside, he seethed.

“Good.” Walsh didn’t look like he trusted him at all. “Tell me about the refugees. I’ve got two SF operators and an air force Terramancer, is that right? My staff tells me they’re cooperative, signed their nondisclosure agreements, and passed polygraphs. They’re confident they can be trusted. What’s your take on them?”

Thorsson’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, his stomach sick with anger. He had sworn to obey this man who was effectively condemning an entire division to death. What did the rule book say about this?
You know what it says. It says you do what you’re
told.

“I’d concur, sir. They’re company people.”

“Good.” Walsh nodded. “What about this administrative colonel, the one who took command when Taylor was killed? I hear that Britton’s father is here as well. Can you deal with them? We can’t have them stirring up the media. The last thing we need are any father-son reunion sob stories. You’ve got them on lockdown at Quantico still? That was quick thinking.”

“Leave them to me,” Thorsson heard himself saying, his voice coming as if from far away. “I can handle them.”

Walsh nodded. “You do what you feel is necessary. I would prefer to have them cooperative and released back to their families if you can make that happen.”

The rest of the order was left silent, hanging in the air.
And
now you want me to commit murder?

“Leave it to me, sir,” was all he said.

“I intend to. You’ll have a full report ready for Senator Whalen by the weekend?”

“Absolutely.”

Walsh touched Thorsson’s elbow again. “I appreciate being able to rely on you, Major. It’s important for me to have a presence in the ranks that I can trust. The Joint Chiefs are political animals. I need a real soldier I can reach out to get things done, especially in the SOC. Gatanas is far too much of a public figure to be getting his hands dirty. But I served twenty years in the army, and I know that dirty hands are precisely what war requires. That’s rough sometimes, but this nation doesn’t stay safe because men like us shied away from roughness.”

“Roughness.” That’s what he calls condemning people to
die.
Thorsson felt filthy. “Of course, sir.”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Major. I see bright things in your future.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Thorsson executed a perfect about-face and pushed his way back through the fire doors, falling into step with his Secret Service escort. He was completely numb, transiting the Pentagon’s foyer and the parking lot in a fog, barely remembering the trip.

The rule book says I should obey my commander in chief. But
it also says something about illegal orders.

And a lot of soldiering wasn’t found in any manual. No chapter laid out how to be valorous, or honorable. No text told ever told him that on the battlefield, saving lives was every bit as important as taking them.

But he’d learned it just the same.

Thorsson stared for a long moment at his car, then put his keys in his pocket and radioed his intention to fly to the tower at Reagan National Airport. The SOC controller there approved him instantly, filing the flight plan on his behalf, and he was airborne in a matter of minutes, wrapping himself in an envelope of heated air as a buffer against the cold. His dress uniform fluttered in the wind, wrinkling, catching bugs, likely ruined.

As he blasted over the Potomac Mills Mall, he noticed a plain blue air force helicopter dispatched to escort him, keeping pace to his left. The pilot shot him a thumbs–up and he waved back, managing to force a smile. They hung in formation over the gridlocked traffic on Interstate 95 until Quantico’s training range came into view, dotted with FBI recruits, probably doing push-ups, far below. The helo peeled off as Harlequin descended to land before a low, gray concrete building ringed with plain chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. The sign at the front read, marine corps brig, quantico. secbn quantico—criminal investigative division—provost marshal.

The guards on duty saluted and waved Thorsson in without checking his ID again, for the second time in his military career.

Having friends in high places helps,
Thorsson thought as he made his way to the elevator and waited through the long descent to the holding facility. A Suppressor stood just outside the thick, windowless steel door at the far end of the passage. The Marine sergeant outside the door glanced up from his laptop and frowned. “You look like hell, sir.”