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“Stan, I hardly see what…”
“Just keep your piehole shut for a minute, junior. This job fucks with your head bad enough, you throw something like this on top of everything else and you can become a liability real quick.”
“I’m fine. It was a onetime thing.”
“Then explain to me how you let some worthless suit like Glen Adams get under your skin this morning, because that’s not the Mike Nash I know. The Mike Nash I know would never lose control like that.”
As much as Nash hated to hear it, he knew Hurley was a little too close to the truth. With more attitude than was wise he asked, “So your point is?”
“My point is, numbnuts, that while you are diddling around with your dick, Rome is burning. That’s the problem with this whole country. Fucking vast prosperity. No one has any real problems anymore. Ninety percent of the damn politicians in this town either think there’s no war on terror, or if we’d just be nice to these zealots they’ll leave us alone. Well, that ain’t going to fucking happen. The Huns are circling, and we’re sitting around arguing about gay rights and prayer and guns and global warming and all kinds of bullshit. These idiots will eventually wake up to the threat, but by then it might be too late.” Hurley looked over both shoulders to make sure no one was nearby and then said, “You need to get laid, boy, and then you need to find out who in the hell is leaking your operations to this fucking reporter at the Post, and you need to put a bullet in his head.”
“Come on, Stan. You can’t be serious.”
“About which part?”
“I’ll take care of my love life, all right? Let’s just take that one off the table.”
Hurley ran a hand over his wrinkled face and said, “Kid, if someone at Langley is leaking shit to reporters, they’re a traitor, and traitors in our business get taken out back and shot. At least they used to until all these PC pussies got involved and everyone lost their nerve.”
“You want me to kill a fellow employee of the CIA?” Nash asked in near disbelief.
“You’ve killed plenty of men before. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve.”
“I’ve never killed a fellow American.”
“Well don’t think of them as an American. Think of them as a traitor who is exposing an intelligence operation that has done more to protect this country than anything else we’ve done around here in a good twenty years. And now we’ve got confirmation that a third cell is out there. What the fuck do you want to wait around for? You want a grade school full of kids to be taken hostage and slaughtered? You want to see a damn mushroom cloud over the Capitol?”
“No.” Nash shook his head. These were the nightmares he’d lived with since 9/11.
“Then get your head screwed on, and get out there and get these fuckers before they get us.”
CHAPTER 28
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
LELAND walked through the mess line sliding his tray along as he went. Since he couldn’t use his right arm he chose the pasta Alfredo over the meat, which was difficult to cut even with two good hands and a sharp knife. He skipped the salad bar, grabbed a piece of blueberry pie, and then came the hardest part of all. He turned and looked out across the huge dining hall. This part was never fun, trying to find an open seat, preferably next to someone he actually liked.
The place was barely a third full. Leland looked around for a familiar face but found none. He was usually on duty at this time, but Garrison had given him the night off. Not feeling like making small talk, he picked an empty table, set his tray down, and headed over to the beverage station. He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice and then Diet Coke. Back at the table he sat and took a sip. He thought about his CO and the advice he had given him—to wait forty-eight hours before writing his official report.
Leland was tempted to go over Garrison’s head on that point alone, but he didn’t know whom he could trust. The whole thing was wrong on so many levels, his head ached just thinking about all the compromises he was being asked to make. And then to make matters worse, Garrison had asked to have a word alone with him. Off the record. Academy grad to academy grad. The words stung him more than the brutality he’d suffered at the hands of the fascist from the CIA. Garrison told him that he had a reputation for being difficult. And it wasn’t just his assessment; the previous CO felt the same way. He’d already been passed over once for promotion to major. Garrison explained to him that it came down to the fact that he was not liked by either his superior officers or those he commanded.
Garrison very firmly told him if he ever wanted to live up to his abilities and become a flag officer, he was going to need to stop being such an inflexible prick. The audacity, Leland thought, to turn this into a popularity contest. It flew in the face of everything they’d been taught. This was not high school. Promotions were not based on popularity. They were at war, and during combat it was about results. Talent and results. Who could get things done, and Leland got things done.
There were a couple of ROTC guys who were his same age who had received the bump. Leland took it personally, and wrote it off to the fact that his CO didn’t like him, and here he was again with another CO who didn’t like him.
Leland stabbed his fork into the creamy noodles and found a piece of chicken. He tried to twirl the fork, but couldn’t. He was self-conscious due to his lack of dexterity and looked
around to make sure no one was watching him. Satisfied he was safe, he leaned forward and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He could feel a dab of creamy cheese sauce on his chin and grabbed a napkin. As he wiped his chin, he thought of his previous CO. The man was not an academy grad, so the fact that he didn’t like Leland was understandable. Leland had always felt there was a strong animosity in the officer ranks among those who had learned their skills at lesser institutions. Garrison, however, was an academy grad. Was he one of those officers who bent over backward not to show favoritism? Leland wasn’t sure, but he was thinking that was more than likely the case. Either way, the man was not living up to the standards and ideals of a commanding officer.
The whole situation was so entirely wrong, Leland felt almost disembodied. His wrist throbbed, his eye ached, but worst of all, his honor had been assaulted. Bending the rules was one thing, but this was far worse. These men were snapping, breaking, and trashing the very rules that were the backbone of the United States Air Force. Leland had never felt so isolated, even during the horrible hazing he’d suffered at the academy his freshman year. None of it was fair. He’d done everything by the book. He deserved his promotion to major, but he didn’t want it this way. He wanted his talent and effort to be recognized. He told himself that on a much deeper, selfless level, he wanted justice. The offer of any posting and being fast-tracked for colonel was nothing more than a bribe. Did they really think him so unprincipled?
Leland wasn’t paying close enough attention to his food and he ended up dumping most of a forkful down the front of his uniform. He swore to himself and set the fork down. As he went to wipe his uniform he heard laughter from a nearby table. He looked up to see a major and two nurses laughing at him. He knew the major well enough to dislike him. His name was Cliff Collins. He was a graduate of the University of North Dakota Air Force ROTC program. He was athletic, handsome, witty, and far too full of himself. In fact, he was pretty much the poster child for what was wrong with the promotion boards. In Leland’s opinion, the man was proof that it was more about being popular than having talent.
The stress of the last few days had worn away his patience. He glared at Collins and said, “You find this amusing, Major?”
“Sorry, Captain,” Collins said with an insincere grin.
“You don’t look very sorry, Major.” Leland fixed a laser stare on the man.
