the contestants’ safety—we can’t protect them if their physical location is a secret.
“What do you have for me?”
Schilling handed the president a file. Cannon broke the seal and began scanning its contents. He continuedreading, folding back word-processed pages and pictures ACCO clipped to the brown legal file. When he finished, he looked up.
“Damn, did this really happen?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is he stable?”
“That’s a qualified question. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Most soldiers experiencing the living hell he survived would lose their sanity.”
“I want to meet him.”
“I thought so; he’s here. I’ll ask the agent to bring him in.”
Jack Dain blinked repeatedly, his eyes moving rapidly, scanning his surroundings. His brain processed stimuli, and he remembered he was in Washington, accompanied by CIA agents. The flashbacks were occurring much less frequently now. Therapy and fourteen years had brought closure to the physical and mental scarring—but it lurked just beneath the surface. He wondered if the impending meeting with the president and D/CIA had triggered the nightmare he just relived. Even Dain wasn’t convinced he could ever be combat-ready again. The little voice inside had convinced him he needed to deploy one more time. The scenario Schilling described sounded riveting.
“The president and D/CIA will see you now.”
Dain stood and followed the CIA agent into the Oval Office. He was introduced to the president and was asked to take a seat.
“I’ve reviewed your file, but I want to hear what happened in your own words,” Cannon said.
“Me and two other SAD operatives were taken prisoner by Iraqi militants before the US invasion. Our reconnaissance laid the groundwork to identify Iraqi troop fortifications. Iraqi agents we believed the CIA had turned as allies decided they needed barter to flee the country alive. We were captured and turned over to the Republican Guard.”
“What do you know about House Speaker Bennett?”
“He’s a corrupt politician who aims to take your job, and he’s prepared to kill to get it.”
“Where did your information come from?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. And if I could, you wouldn’t be able to convict him with it. Mr. President, I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your commendations. What I want is your word that if I agree to serve you’ll stand by the team with the full resources of the presidency…that you won’t cut them loose if the shit hits the fan.”
President Cannon looked at Dain. There was no trace of arrogance or indignation in his statement.
“You have my word.”
Dain reached out his hand to President Cannon.
“Let’s shake on it, sir.”
After Dain left the office, President Cannon reflected on Dain’s unjust treatment by the intelligence agency. “CIA’s abandonment was a disservice to him and country…bloody shame when politics destroy the lives of our servicemen and women. We need to make it right,” President Cannon said.
26
C hris Drummond felt inward pain, the umbilical cord to all he knew cut, when the outer door of the jet was secured and locked. The pilot was wearing a navy blue flight suit with no insignia.
“Stow your gear and buckle in, sir; we’ll be airborne in a few minutes.” He disappeared behind the door to the flight deck, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the bulkhead. A “sliding-click” indicated the door had been locked. Drummond scanned the interior of the corporate jet—luxurious. Alone, except for the pilots, the plane felt constricted. It had a lower ceiling, and the window covers had been secured, making it impossible to see outside. The jet’s seating configuration included a fully reclining chair aft and table-seating. In between a galley was stocked with an assortment of snacks, prepackaged meals, liquor cabinet, and refrigerator—juices, soda, and beer.
Drummond secured his leather briefcase containing his
“What do you have for me?”
Schilling handed the president a file. Cannon broke the seal and began scanning its contents. He continuedreading, folding back word-processed pages and pictures ACCO clipped to the brown legal file. When he finished, he looked up.
“Damn, did this really happen?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is he stable?”
“That’s a qualified question. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Most soldiers experiencing the living hell he survived would lose their sanity.”
“I want to meet him.”
“I thought so; he’s here. I’ll ask the agent to bring him in.”
Jack Dain blinked repeatedly, his eyes moving rapidly, scanning his surroundings. His brain processed stimuli, and he remembered he was in Washington, accompanied by CIA agents. The flashbacks were occurring much less frequently now. Therapy and fourteen years had brought closure to the physical and mental scarring—but it lurked just beneath the surface. He wondered if the impending meeting with the president and D/CIA had triggered the nightmare he just relived. Even Dain wasn’t convinced he could ever be combat-ready again. The little voice inside had convinced him he needed to deploy one more time. The scenario Schilling described sounded riveting.
“The president and D/CIA will see you now.”
Dain stood and followed the CIA agent into the Oval Office. He was introduced to the president and was asked to take a seat.
“I’ve reviewed your file, but I want to hear what happened in your own words,” Cannon said.
“Me and two other SAD operatives were taken prisoner by Iraqi militants before the US invasion. Our reconnaissance laid the groundwork to identify Iraqi troop fortifications. Iraqi agents we believed the CIA had turned as allies decided they needed barter to flee the country alive. We were captured and turned over to the Republican Guard.”
“What do you know about House Speaker Bennett?”
“He’s a corrupt politician who aims to take your job, and he’s prepared to kill to get it.”
“Where did your information come from?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. And if I could, you wouldn’t be able to convict him with it. Mr. President, I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your commendations. What I want is your word that if I agree to serve you’ll stand by the team with the full resources of the presidency…that you won’t cut them loose if the shit hits the fan.”
President Cannon looked at Dain. There was no trace of arrogance or indignation in his statement.
“You have my word.”
Dain reached out his hand to President Cannon.
“Let’s shake on it, sir.”
After Dain left the office, President Cannon reflected on Dain’s unjust treatment by the intelligence agency. “CIA’s abandonment was a disservice to him and country…bloody shame when politics destroy the lives of our servicemen and women. We need to make it right,” President Cannon said.
26
C hris Drummond felt inward pain, the umbilical cord to all he knew cut, when the outer door of the jet was secured and locked. The pilot was wearing a navy blue flight suit with no insignia.
“Stow your gear and buckle in, sir; we’ll be airborne in a few minutes.” He disappeared behind the door to the flight deck, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the bulkhead. A “sliding-click” indicated the door had been locked. Drummond scanned the interior of the corporate jet—luxurious. Alone, except for the pilots, the plane felt constricted. It had a lower ceiling, and the window covers had been secured, making it impossible to see outside. The jet’s seating configuration included a fully reclining chair aft and table-seating. In between a galley was stocked with an assortment of snacks, prepackaged meals, liquor cabinet, and refrigerator—juices, soda, and beer.
Drummond secured his leather briefcase containing his
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