The Weapon (3 page)

Just as he'd figured, there they were, deep in the room. Only he guessed they'd guess he'd guess, and instead of taking the ones at the window first he swung and there it was, in the corner behind him. He blasted it down and ducked, swung, and took out the ones at the window. Then in one fluid motion he drew his pistol and scissored up and over the
banister—if they had IEDs they set them at the top of the stairs—and dropped to a knee and took out two more poppers in a side room.

Behind him came rapid blasts as Im pumped extra rounds into the targets he'd already dropped. The little Korean didn't mind shooting a bad guy again, just to make sure. Which Oberg thoroughly approved of. Once on the beach in Kuwait, when he'd gone in with the swimmer scouts to set up the diversion, a Republican Guard had stood up from a pile of bodies and tried to gut him with a bayonet.

“Clear!” he yelled down the stairwell. He heard them repeating it, passing it on till it reached the instructor outside.

He found the camera in the corner and gave it the finger, holding his black leather shooting glove up in a contemptuous salute.

 

Whalen was standing easy when they filed out, hands clamped behind him. Maybe he even looked pleased. Dan wasn't sure, since he'd never seemed satisfied before. But they'd moved fast, done well. And it was the last day. Maybe the guy would let them go on a positive note. “So, seemed to go all right,” Dan said. “Didn't it?”

“Team was pretty hot today,” Whalen said, nodding back. He stepped forward, hand outstretched. Surprised—he'd never offered to shake before—Dan lowered his shotgun and reached out.

From the sandbags behind Whalen, two black-coveralled instructors stood up with AKs. “Bap, bap, bap,” they shouted, imitating the high-pitched bark of 7.62 × 39s.

“You're fucking dead, all of you,” Whalen smirked. “Remember? Whistle to whistle. And I didn't whistle. So your grade . . . let's just say you crapheads aren't as outstanding as you think you are. Always be ready. Never let down your guard. That's when they'll hit you. Believe me.”

Dan felt the guys tense around him. “Get fucking real,” Oberg muttered. “Fucking snakes,” hissed Wenck.

“Hang on to that combat mind-set,” Whalen went on. “Keep asking yourself ‘what if.' You're gonna fuck up, when
the shit goes down. You just gotta keep going. Stay tactical. As long as you're alive, you can fight. Maybe not save yourself, but if you put another bullet in a bad guy, maybe you save your teammate.”

Carpenter took a step forward. Dan grabbed his arm. “Just take it easy, guys. We're done here; we'll be back at TAG tomorrow, and do some real work.” To Whalen's taunting grin he said, “Thanks for the warning, Instructor. I'm sure we'll remember it long after your other lessons have faded.”

 

Their instructor disappeared; maybe he sensed his last prank hadn't made the impact he'd hoped for. Or maybe it had. The rest of the staff slapped them on the back, congratulated them on finishing. “Wolf's Den for beers all around,” one said.

“Gee, really? We weren't allowed in there before,” said Wenck, grinning like a third-grader just allowed up into the treehouse club.

“Well, you are now.”

His guys looked to him. Dan shrugged; they'd earned it, but he'd leave after a token appearance. He didn't drink anymore. A GrayWolf pickup braked in a murk of yellow dust. He was unslinging his gear, tossing it into the bed with that of the others, when a voice called, “Commander Lenson?”

“Yeah?”

“Got a helo coming in for you.”

A high-pitched drone, a fat black speck drawn swiftly against the sky. A small Hughes. He frowned. “I'd rather stay with my team—”

“Special invitation. Don't think you want to turn it down.” The instructor waited until he gave a reluctant nod, then wheeled and hand-signaled the aircraft.

 

Double-timing along its roads before dawn, or being trucked between fields of tall corn, he hadn't grasped how huge Camp Bandit was. Or rather, that Bandit itself was only a puzzle-piece of a far larger entity. The Hughes hurtled over ranges and cornfields, bunkers and barracks. A sports complex with
a baseball diamond, and football and soccer fields. More cornfields, then another entire compound with the same green steel-roofed shooting houses as Bandit. Gray and green smoke roiled up, tracers sparkled as troops in unfamiliar uniforms maneuvered through what looked like an entire village.

He leaned to tap the copilot's shoulder. “Is this all GrayWolf?” Dan yelled.

“Oh, yeah. And a lot more.” They climbed, and as the man swept his arm from one corner of the horizon to the other, Dan realized it was all one whole, green expanses of corn and soybeans isolating dozens of camps, compounds, ranges, and what looked like housing developments but probably weren't. Aircraft were practicing touch-and-gos on a grass strip. Graders and 'dozers were cutting roads through the fields, raising dust as they cleared land for new construction. The Hughes swept over acres of concrete prefabs surrounded by sparkling new concertina, cornered by guard towers: a prison.

His skin crawled. GrayWolf wasn't a camp. It was an empire.

Twenty minutes later they squatted in a roiling cloud. He scrambled off to be greeted by a gray-haired Hispanic in the black coveralls and black cap with the wolf's head. The man said nothing, just checked his name tag and motioned for him to follow.

The low building was no different in its bland anonymous no-style from the lounge-and-office back at Bandit. Green prefab walls. Russet steel roofing. You saw buildings like it at U.S. bases overseas, or in industrial parks in small towns. Contractor-built cubic, furnished with heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning in hundred-thousand-square-foot buys. The wolf's head by the door was discreet. Three gray Expeditions were parked to the side. But the name on one of the parking signs focused his attention.

The air inside was cold and dry, as if they were in the Montana mountains instead of the muggy South. They went down a corridor floored with gray industrial-grade carpet.
To either side, men worked at computers in spartan offices. Dan didn't see any women.

“Lenson. Come on in. Coke? Ice-cold Heineken?”

Since Torgild Schrade had been two classes ahead of him, they hadn't had much to do with each other at Annapolis. Dan had read about him now and then over the years, but they'd never met again. After a brief stint in uniform, Schrade had gone into cell phones, where he'd made a lot of money; then into politics, where he hadn't done nearly as well. In person, he wasn't quite as tall as Dan. He wore the same black battle dress as his employees, but the wolves' heads on his shoulders were silver. His thin lips were curved in a mocking smile. His black hair was buzzed short, with a widow's peak. He looked more like a hawk than a wolf, with deep-set eyes, an almost Arabic nose, shining white capped teeth, and a double-handed handshake whose warmth belied the penetrating gaze of those dark eyes. His bare steel desk was not just clean, but waxed to a shine. But the walls of his office were painted concrete block. Without waiting for an answer Schrade rooted two diet Dr Peppers from a fridge, tossed Dan one, waved at a sofa. “I didn't know you were with us until yesterday. Was looking over the pre-grad reports and saw your name.”

Dan cleared his throat. “Uh, Mr. Schrade—”

“Tor, Dan. Just Tor. We played lacrosse together, remember? You're at TAG now, huh?” He didn't wait for answers. “What do you think of the tactical course? Instructors okay? Facilities? Training?”

“It was demanding. Right now I can't think of a thing to change, uh, Tor. It's not really my area of expertise. The instructors seem on top of things.”

“Why's TAG sending us people for tactical training, Dan? I always thought of it as more like the Navy's think tank. Not what we think of as operators.”

“I don't know the answer to that, Tor.” He thought of adding,
and if I did, it'd be classified,
but this seemed petty—Schrade had deep roots in the spec ops community—so he didn't.

“I've been hearing about you now and then. Sounds like a rocky career.”

Dan sat forward on the sofa. “It's had its ups and downs. Like yours, I guess.”

Schrade chuckled. They studied each other. “Ever heard of Skip Froelinghausen? General Froelinghausen?”

Dan tensed. He'd heard the name, from his boss in the West Wing, associated with the shadowy group of advisers who'd turned around the war in Bosnia. “Heard of him. He with GrayWolf now?”

“No, no, but we move in the same circles . . . we're doing well out here. As you probably picked up, flying over. It's a growth industry, private military contracting. The way the administration's been downsizing our regular military. With your wife's help, I might add.”

Schrade paused for his reaction, but Dan didn't rise to it. He just took another slug of fizzy black chemicals and waited.

“The Navy's most highly decorated officer. People I know, know what you've done. A warfighter, but a thinker, too. Titanium balls, when the warning lights all go red. But it seems like the ‘sea lords' are not that impressed with you.

“You get the Medal, but only because the Army put you in for it. You get the rank, but you're not fast-tracked for promotion. It's like, you're the go-to when there's some high-stakes off-the-net issue nobody else wants to own up to. But then you get stashed when it's over, and all the knife scars get makeup smeared over them.”

“I'm not sure I'd agree with that,” Dan said. “Several flag officers have shown some confidence.”

“Maybe on a personal level you get a compliment, but how's that translate into your career? Is it going to get you to flag level? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's your goal, isn't it?”

“Not really, Tor.”

“Stars are not your goal?”

“No.”

“Well, I think that's good. Because to the ones who're
wearing them, you come across as the kind of guy they need in war time but would just as soon not have making them look incompetent, otherwise. So why should they ask you into the tent?”

Schrade gave him a chance, went on when he didn't speak. “I'm asking 'cause that's the model we like very much here in the PMC world. You know? The kind of lad who can bring things off even when they don't look particularly promising. One who can handle situations out there at the toasty edge of deniability, the ones the brass hats can't deal with by throwing money at General Dynamics. What makes you happiest about your Navy time, Dan? The people, right?”

“Sure, the people . . . and the sea.”

“What's been your best assignment? What you enjoyed most?”

“Destroyer command.”

“Well, we can't offer that. Though we can get you to sea now and then, with the riverine folks. Might be opportunities there. You've got your twenty years in? So you're effectively working for half pay now, right? Since you'll get the retirement the day you take off the uniform. We can offer you the chance to make some money. No, a
lot
of money. You'd like some of the things we're doing. Programs that'll use your talents.”

One thing you learned in the military was that courtesy paid; the man your boss set you against today might be your boss himself tomorrow. “Well, I appreciate the offer, Tor. But you might want somebody more like one of my men. Teddy Oberg, maybe. Not that he's looking, but—”

“I know Teddy and respect him. He's a real operator. But management skills, that's where we're short-handed. And contacts—we always find those useful.”

Suddenly Dan understood. “My wife.”

Schrade cocked his head; the half-smile sharpened. “Actually I didn't mean Blair, but it's intriguing you bring her up. She's definitely a player. Not a major one right now as far as we're concerned, not where she's at. But she's got the
possibility of becoming one. Not in this administration—for obvious reasons. But I could see Blair filling a big job one day.” He shrugged. “But that's down the road. Right now I'm interested in the people
you
know. And not just in the United States. We're doing a lot of work training foreign militaries. Foreign contractors, too.”

“I'm not really interested in private contracting,” Dan told him. “Don't get me wrong, Tor. But if I want to serve my country, I'll do it in uniform. I'm not comfortable with the idea of doing it for the money.”

“You cash your Navy paycheck?”

“I see your point, but there's more involved. Accountability. Tradition. Just . . . hiring out to the highest bidder, that doesn't feel right to me.”

“Even if the bidder's the same government that pays you now? Every contract we take's approved by State or Defense. When they're not the customer, themselves. You're not making sense, guy.”

He hung fire, trying to figure it out himself. The obvious rejoinder was: But what if the highest bidder wasn't the U.S. government? When did profit trump loyalty? And not only that. He'd seen, inside the Beltway, how cash bought policy. Once it could buy an army, too, what would America look like then?

Schrade spoke into his silence. “The Navy's most decorated officer, but over the years you've stepped on a lot of toes. Your combat record and command experience, the Congressional, your expertise in advanced weapons systems, that's earned you—what? TAG Charlie? Here's your chance to live well doing exactly what you're doing, only without the brass and the politicians second-guessing you.”

“They don't second-guess you?”

“They don't even want to look.” Schrade barked a short laugh. “They really don't. What they don't know, they can't be held responsible for. You know I ran for the Senate.”

“I was at sea, but I read about it. Yeah.”