The Threat

He didn’t enjoy being back in battle dress. Just the smell of the cloth reminded him of Iraq. He jerked his mind out of that groove, which spiraled down first into fear, then panic so extreme he’d hyperventilate himself nearly into a blackout. The president was dressed as if he were at his ranch, in jeans and snakeskin boots and a camo flak jacket that looked out of place over a plaid shirt that probably came out of the L.L. Bean catalog. At least he wasn’t wearing his white Stetson.

Dan trailed him into a meet and greet in the command tent with Wood, his staff, and some locals. The general said little, just offered everybody bottled water and went into a map brief on the situation on the border and the composition of the Sudanese and militia forces opposite. The staff officers, though, were glowering and muttering in the back. Standing with them, Dan could hear everything they said.

150915–0930: MEETING WITH TRIBAL ELDERS AND LOCAL MILITARY REPRESENTATIVES

The tribal elders bowed repeatedly when they were introduced, holding cans of Coca-Cola. Their unwashed stench filled the tent. The smell didn’t seem to bother De Bari, though. He was sympathetic and amiable, asking what they needed, how they got their news, how the U.S. could help. Wood stood silently by at parade rest, participating only when De Bari asked him a direct question. A State guy Dan didn’t know translated, conspicuously taking notes every time one of the graybeards mentioned something his tribe wanted.

150930–1000: TOUR OF CAMP KEANEY, INTERACTION WITH ENLISTED

Wood handed De Bari goggles and led him out into the wind again. The rest of the party shuffled after, those who didn’t get protective eyewear shading their eyes against the blowing grit. The press secretary had announced that since the task force was conducting operations, the president would forgo the usual chat with the troops and just do an informal walkaround.

The clatter and whine of the gunships Dan had set up to orbit came — now loud, now distant — from the tan sky. The press staff worked the camera crews, pointing out shots of De Bari joking with the Eritrean liaison, lending a hand sandbagging a position, inspecting a Hummer’s transmission.

Head down, staying ten steps behind the gaggle, Dan meditated on the divergence of aim between the press staff and the media itself, noisy, fractious, and determined to get a story out of one of De Bari’s increasingly rare visits to a military post. When a cornered Ranger submitted to a handshake, the reps dragged the crews over to film it. When on the other hand a working party turned its collective back on the president, the reps waved the media off like cops waving traffic past an accident. POTUS moved on, and the crews fell in again behind him, the plastic wrappings on their videocams flapping in the cold wind.

A large tent, with a line of dusty, tired troops standing outside, took shape from the fog. M-4s were slung muzzle down over their shoulders. Their boots were caked with dirt. De Bari lifted the flap, grabbed a mess tray, and joined them.

Not a bad move from the PR point of view, Dan thought. Unfortunately, the president decided to join on not at the tail of the queue, but at the front. And since his protective detail went with him, the net effect was to push the hungry, tired troops in line back on their heels.

The beefing got loud fast. Dan looked for a noncom, but didn’t see one. He didn’t see Wood either. Finally he raised his voice. The objections dropped in volume, but didn’t stop.

One of Wood’s staff officers, with the railroad tracks of an army captain: “What’s the trouble, Colonel?”

“Commander. These troops are talking in ranks.”

“They aren’t in ranks. They’re in the mess line.” The captain told them, “Keep it down. I don’t like this prick any more than you do, but military courtesy, okay?”

Dan blinked. Validating the troops’ feelings wasn’t the way to handle this situation. But they weren’t his men. His responsibility was security-banded to his wrist. Moreover, they were now the focus of three camera teams.

But when he turned back, the flap was falling closed. The captain had left.

“Son of a bitch just pushes in front,” one trooper said tentatively, and the beefing caught fire again.

“Left us hangin’ in Ker-ker. Now the fucker wants his picture taken with us?”

“Conscientious objector, my ass.”

They kept getting louder. Worse, they began crowding into the tent.