Rogue Forces

“Yeah, I was told that, too,” Connolly said, his morose tone making it obvious that he wasn’t in the loop any more than the regimental executive officer was. “Listen, Jack, if he seriously violates one of your directives, I’ll back you one hundred percent if you want him off your base and out of your hair. But he is Patrick fucking McLanahan, and he is a retired three-banger. Corps says give him enough rope and he’ll eventually hang himself—he’s done it before, which is why he’s not in uniform anymore.”

“I still don’t like it, sir.”

“Well, handle it any way you want, Jack,” the division commander said, “but my advice is: put up with the guy for now, be nice to him, and don’t piss him off. If you don’t, and it turns out the guy has major juice behind him, we’ll both be out on our ears.

“Just keep focused on the job, Jack,” Connolly went on. “Our job is to transition that theater from a military to a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones hanging their asses on the line. Your job is to bring your troops home safely and honorably—and to make me look good in the process, of course.”

Judging by the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he wasn’t totally joking. “Roger that, sir.”

“Anything else for me?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Very good. Press on. Division out.”

Wilhelm broke the connection, then looked at McLanahan talking on his cellular earset again. If he had the technology to defeat all of their cellular jammers—the ones set up to defeat remote-controlled Improvised Explosive Device detonators—he had to have some first-class engineers and money behind him.

On the console, Wilhelm spoke: “Duty Officer, get the operations staff together right now in the main briefing room to discuss the Scion surveillance plan.”

“Yes, sir.”

McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headset and approached him. “How did you know I was going to get a call from division, McLanahan?”

“Lucky guess.”

Wilhelm scowled at that response. “Sure,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “Whatever. The staff will brief us right away. Follow me.” Wilhelm led Patrick and Jon out of the Tank and upstairs to the main briefing room, a glassed-in soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and center computer screens in the Tank. One by one, staff officers filed in with briefing notes and thumb drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They did not waste time greeting the two officers already in the room.

Wilhelm took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner, then sat down in a chair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. “So, General, tell me about this Scion Aviation International outfit you work for,” he said as they waited for the others to arrive and get ready.

“Not much to tell,” Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for Jon and himself but did not sit down. “Formed a little over a year ago by—”

“About the same time you retired because of the bum ticker?” Wilhelm asked. Patrick did not respond. “How are you doing with that?”

“Fine.”

“There was some scuttlebutt about President Gardner wanting to prosecute you for some of the things that happened in Iran.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Right. You knew I was going to get a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you don’t know if you’re the target of a White House and Justice Department investigation.” Patrick said nothing. “And you wouldn’t know anything about the rumors that you were involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it wasn’t a skiing accident?”

“I’m not here to respond to crazy rumors.”

“Of course not,” Wilhelm said wryly. “So. The money must be pretty good to keep you in the game traveling all over the world with a friggin’ heart condition. Most guys would be sitting by the pool in Florida collecting their pension money and hitting on divorcées.”

“The heart is fine as long as I’m not traveling in space.”

“Right. So, how is the money in this business of yours? I understand the mercenary business is booming.” Wilhelm put on a feigned panicked expression as if he was afraid he had insulted the retired three-star general. “Oh my, I’m sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it ‘private military company’ or ‘security consultant’ or what?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want to call it, Colonel,” Patrick said. A few of the field-grade officers getting ready for their briefing glanced over at their boss—some with humor in their expressions, others with fear.