Battleline (2007) (21 page)

"Quite an accomplishment," Bentley said.

As their conversation eased over into a discussion of GNB, Wright turned his thoughts to Wallenger's wife, whom the two FBI men had met when they first arrived at the lavish home. Quite a looker. Latest trendy hairstyle, expensive clothing that emphasized a nice body and large breasts, plenty of jewelry to wear that she displayed even there in the house when they were introduced to her. Her name was Linda, and she had given the two FBI men bold looks, not at all intimidated by the fact that they were federal lawmen. Here was a woman who had a lot of experience with men, and that was more than likely done by her in a search for someone to provide her with a luxurious lifestyle. Wright also noted that she was beginning to get a few wrinkles around the eyes, so she was probably in her late thirties or early forties, just a couple of years short of her first plastic surgery. That also meant that she had decided it was time to latch onto a wealthy husband before it was too late. Who better than a short, plump little man who obviously had not had any deep, meaningful relationships with women. He would be easy to manipulate for fun, money, and gifts, and he was gone from home a lot. Wright figured she had a lover by now, and in a decade or so would turn her attention to much younger men who would appreciate the goodies she would lavish on them. All financed by Dirk Wallenger.

When Wright turned his attention back to Bentley and Wallenger, Wright noted that the conversation had segued to a less friendly tone. The journalist's patience was at an end. "This inane conversation is very entertaining, but let's get down to the real reason why you're here, shall we?"

"If you insist, Mr. Wallenger," Bentley said. "We are curious about how you acquired your knowledge of the incident in which a wounded enemy prisoner of war was allegedly executed."

Wallenger crossed his arms across his chest in a defiant manner. "I will not reveal my sources! Period!"

"I'm not asking about your sources," Bentley said. "I would like to know about your personal knowledge of the
facts
of the case."

"I've nothing to say."

"That sounds pretty final," Bentley said. "I don't wish to waste my time or yours. By the way, we already know your source, Mr. Wallenger. He is a cabdriver called 'Ali.' "

"I don't know any cabdrivers by that name," Wallenger said.

"Of course you do," Bentley said. "He's known to be part of a terrorist cell in the D. C. area. He's actually been under surveillance for quite a long time, and you've been seen getting into his cab on numerous occasions."

"Oh, God!" Wallenger exclaimed. "This is so lame! I don't pay any attention to what cab I get into when I want one."

"You pass up others and go directly to his taxi," Bentley said. "And it's always at one of three cab stands. The last time you went for a ride with him, it was from one located where Second Street, Constitution Avenue, and Maryland Avenue all come together."

"This conversation is terminated," Wallenger said. "If you wish to speak to me again, you'll have to give me time to contact my attorney. Now I am asking you to leave."

The two FBI men stood, and Bentley said, "That's your right, Mr. Wallenger. Thank you for your time."

Wallenger led them out of the den and down the hall to the front door. He opened it and stood aside. Bentley and Wright stepped through to the small front porch, then Bentley turned. "By the way, Mr. Wallenger, Ali's real name is Daleel Guellah. I thought you might be interested in knowing that. He's been talking a lot about you lately--to us. Good afternoon."

Wright nodded to their reluctant host. "Have a nice day."

.

SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

4 AUGUST 0845 HOURS

THE nine SEALs--Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, Ensign Orlando Taylor, the two Hit Men and the five Sneaky Petes--had been unexpectedly ordered from their base camp to fly back to Shelor Field the night before. They carried some melancholy cargo with them on the helicopter flight: Two body bags containing Petty Officers Paul Schreiber and Paulo Garcia lay on the deck between the rows of seats.

The most puzzling aspect of the unexpected summons was that they had been instructed to come looking for a fight. Each had his personal weapon and some bandoliers of ammo in addition to Bruno Puglisi packing a SAW and Joe Miskoski an M-203 grenade launcher.

Now the SEALs were back in their old hangar, lounging around the Headquarters cubicle, wondering what the hell was going on. They had enjoyed a good meal at the base mess hall, and were sharing some thermoses of hot coffee the mess sergeant had furnished them after they had finished off a couple of dozen eggs, piles of hash brown potatoes, biscuits, pancakes, sausages, bacon, and a large cheese Danish that Ensign Taylor had gotten for himself. Puglisi belched and stretched. "I wonder what the poor people had for breakfast this morning."

Matty Matsuno grinned. "I don't think there was anything left over for them."

"Man!" Dave Leibowitz said. "When I'm in the field, I think more about food than I do sex."

"Most guys do," Brannigan said, pouring coffee into his plastic cup. "But as soon as that craving for a fully belly is satiated, we turn our wandering thoughts to the delights offered by the opposite sex."

"Oh, yeah!" Connie Concord said. "Females. Say! Is that what them Air Force personnel with soft, round butts are that we keep seeing around here? The ones that seem to need haircuts."

Mike Assad laughed. "Most of 'em. I'm not so sure about a couple I saw."

Further conversation was interrupted by the roar of a motor as Randy Tooley sped into the hangar in his purloined DPV. When Brannigan noticed the man in the passenger seat, he jumped up. "Tinch-hut!"

Brigadier General Greg Leroux stepped out of the vehicle, turning to the little Air Force guy. "Thanks for the ride, Randy." He took another look at the conveyance. "Where the hell did you get hold of this DPV, anyhow? I didn't think it was on any Air Force TOA."

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Randy said with a grin as he mashed the gearshift into reverse and gunned the engine for a quick exit.

Leroux laughed aloud. "I never bother a go-getter. The American Armed Forces run on guys like you." He turned to the SEALs. "At ease, men! Sit down and finish your coffee. I need to have a little chat with you."

"Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "Guys, this is General Leroux from the SFOB aboard the
Combs.
He's pretty much running our operation."

"Well, I get some shitty input from Station Bravo from time to time that I have to pass on," Leroux allowed. "But if you're pissed off about anything, I'm pretty much the guy to put the blame on."

"In that case, sir," Brannigan said, "we need some fifties to replace the M-sixties we have in the OA. Those seven-point-six-twos just don't have the punch we need."

"I've already seen to it, Brannigan," Leroux said. "I read the AAR about that little fiasco with them suicidal ragheads. It seemed to me your support folks could have traded a little more fire with the bad guys if they'd been using M-twos." He walked over, grabbed an unused cup, and filled it with coffee. "Okay, let's get down to business. I got to get back to that fucking sardine can of a boat they stuck me on. I called you guys back here for a HALO insertion."

"Christ!" Brannigan said. "Where?"

"Behind that mountain where the bad guys are holing up," Leroux said. "I've already worked out the OPORD so we won't have a briefback on this thing. The gist of the operation is to land on their LZ in the dark, then sneak around and make an attack on their south end and roll up that flank. Shoot the hell out of the place and make great big fucking nuisances out of yourselves."

"That's kind of risky, ain't it, sir?" Puglisi said.

"You'll have the advantage because you'll be firing down their line of defense," Leroux explained. "They'll be caught flat-footed with a very narrow front of resistance to throw up at you. That means the bastards won't be able to mount a counterattack for a while. You're gonna have to judge when they're ready to hit back, then pull out and make a run back to the LZ for exfiltration. You'll be using AFSOC for that. There's nobody better'n the Air Force for that kind of a hairy to-do."

The ever outspoken Bruno Puglisi was still not about to be quiet and withdrawn. "What the hell's this all about, sir?"

"Those Zaheya bastards think they shook you up with that suicide bomber attack," Leroux said. "It seems to me their morale is a bit higher than it should be, since they're feeling smug. Something like this will put the fear of God into 'em."

"The fear of God, hell!" Garth Redhawk said. "It'll be the fear of the United States Navy SEALs."

"I can't argue with you, son," Leroux said. "Now, if one of you would be kind enough to fetch that packet I put in the lower desk drawer there, we'll get into this briefing."

Garth and Matty walked over and secured the documents, handing them to the general. Leroux ripped the sealed envelope open. "We have some detailed maps here made from the latest satellite photos of the OA. These will be real handy as we discuss the ways and means of our operation." He tossed the charts over to Joe Miskoski. "Pass these around, son."

"Aye, sir!"

"God!" Leroux moaned. "I
hate
that Navy talk!"

.

WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM

WASHINGTON, D. C.

AUGUST 1400 HOURS

WHEN Owen Peckham stepped into the press room, he exhibited a very obvious bounce in his step. He grinned as he stepped up to the podium and sat his notes down. "Good afternoon, everybody! How are we doing this bright summer day?"

"Well!" Joyce Bennington of the
Boston World Journal
said. "You're in a chipper mood, Owen."

"Why, Joyce, I'm always in a chipper mood," Peckham said. He beamed at his audience. "As usual I will open things up with announcements, or as is the case today, a
single
announcement." He looked around. "Where is Dirk Wallenger? I don't see him here anyplace. Is there anyone else from Global News Broadcasting present? No? Oh, gee, I'll have to go on without them." He paused and cleared his throat. "Ahem! In regard to the information about a wounded enemy prisoner being executed in Afghanistan, we have received an update on that. It seems that the prisoner in question lost his life during an escape attempt."

"Oh, sure!" Brian Mackenzie of the
Ontario People's Advocate
crowed. "Now there's an old story, hey? Shot while attempting to escape. Good God! It's almost a cliche."

"The Pentagon clearly admits the man lost his life during an escape try," Peckham said gleefully. He had received permission to reveal a newer version of the story only an hour before, when the President decided it was best to tell about the snake bite, albeit in a special way. "However, he was not shot." He waited a couple of beats for effect, then announced, "He was bitten by a poisonous snake. A cobra, to be exact. The deadly serpent was in a stand of rocks into which the unfortunate terrorist entered to conceal himself. Cobras are among the deadliest of snakes, and the man died quickly before he could be evacuated to proper medical treatment."

The Canadian Mackenzie wasn't going to give up his argument. "Why didn't the Americans troops treat him for the bite and stabilize him until transportation could arrive?"

"Our troops are not issued any antivenom serum in their medical kits," Peckham explained. "And even if they had any, it would take a doctor to administer it properly. A cobra's bite is fatal in an exceedingly short period of time."

Mackenzie snuffed a bit and scribbled in his notebook.

Peckham gazed fondly at the other journalists. "Well! Let's get down to business. Are there any questions out there?"

A dozen hands were raised.

.

EXECUTIVE OFFICES,

GLOBAL NEWS BROADCASTING

WASHINGTON, D. C.

6 AUGUST 0830 HOURS

DON Allen, the CEO of GNB, sat at the conference table in his office, sharing the large piece of furniture with only one other person: Frank Brice, attorney-at-law, who was on retainer by the broadcasting service. Brice, who styled his hair in a ponytail and sported an earring, was more conventional in the rest of his attire. He wore a skillfully tailored business suit, complete with shirt and tie, and he was shod in an expensive pair of Italian shoes.

When the lawyer spoke, his voice was deep and authoritative. "We do
not
want to go on trial regarding this issue."