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“I see,” she said.
“My first reaction was to see that he was disciplined for his breach of security, but, on reflection, I think that an Army service record indicating his relief for cause from a sensitive position and the revocation of his security clearances will be enough punishment.”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, Mr. Director, but I always feel bad when something like this is necessary.”
“I do too,” Powell said.
He thought: Especially when I’m going to have to explain this goddamned mess to the president.
[FOUR]
Special Activities Section, J-5 United States Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 1110 8 June 2005
Master Sergeant Omar Perez, Special Forces, U.S. Army, who was the noncommissioned officer in charge of the Special Activities Section, J-5, looked at the officer standing in front of his desk and rose to his feet as a gesture of respect. Perez—who hated his present behind-desk assignment but had philosophically decided that it was a dirty job that somebody had to do and he had been selected by the fickle finger of fate to do it—didn’t always do this, but this guy was obviously no candy ass.
This guy had two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, and two Purple Hearts to go with his I-Wuz-There ribbons, plus Master Parachutist’s and Senior Aviator’s wings. And, of course, he had a green beret in his hand.
“Good morning, sir,” Perez said. “How may I help you, sir?”
“Oh, Sergeant,” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, smiling, “would that you could, but I think I better see an officer —a light colonel, at least, and more senior if you have one around. My name is Miller.”
“I gather the major does not wish to discuss with me what he wishes to discuss with the most-senior officer I have on tap?”
“The major does not,” Miller said. “Who is the most-senior officer you have on tap?”
“Colonel Peter J. Grasher, sir.”
“And does the sergeant have any idea what sort of a mood ‘Grasher the Gnasher’ is in?”
“I would say, sir, that the colonel is in his usual charming mood.”
“I was afraid of that,” Miller said. “Nevertheless . . .”
“I’ll see if Colonel Grasher is available, sir,” Perez said.
Perez went through a door and closed it. Twenty seconds later, it opened. Colonel Peter J. Grasher, a stocky, nearly bald forty-year-old, was standing in it.
“I knew goddamn well something bad was going to happen today,” he said. “Get your ass in here, Dick.”
“Good morning, sir.”
As Miller walked past Colonel Grasher, Grasher draped an arm around his shoulders.
“I was hoping you’d get et by cannibals,” he said. “What brings you back here?”
“I have been relieved, sir.”
Grasher met his eyes.
Miller is scared, humiliated, or both. What the hell?
“Jesus Christ,” Grasher said. He pointed. “Coffee, chair,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Half a cup, half of one of those envelopes of phony sugar,” Grasher ordered. “Thank you very much.”
Miller poured the coffee, handed a cup to Colonel Grasher, and then sat down.
