Call to Duty (30 page)

Mado ran through his own decision making process and decided to commit. “It was my intention to free all the hostages simultaneously. I was overruled and Operation Dragon Noire was executed prematurely. If my recommendations had been followed, we would have freed all the hostages and I am confident that six members of Delta Force would still be alive.” He fell silent, letting them digest his “revelation.” “Your daughter’s release will have to be negotiated now because another rescue operation is out of the question. By going after Nikki Anderson when we did, we lost the element of surprise and Chiang will be expecting another attempt. He’s ready and waiting for us.”

“I think,” Tina said, “that thanks to the recent activities of the DEA, Chiang is in no mood to negotiate.” She had read the same report that had caught Courtland’s attention earlier.

“So, my daughter’s continued captivity is the price we paid for rescuing Miss Anderson.” The senator was not upset by this latest calculation and saw some new equations forming, creating definite political opportunities. “But surely,” he continued, “we are capable of mounting another rescue. What with the forces available to us…”

“Senator,” Mado said, “I cannot encourage you on that point. We were lucky in getting Miss Anderson out with only six casualties.”

Courtland fixed his gaze on Mado. “General, I would like for my committee to hear what you’ve told me.” He held up his hand. “Before you make that decision, I want you to know that I appreciate your position and understand that your testimony could hurt your career. But I protect those loyal Americans who put duty and honor above career.”

“Thank you for your concern, Senator,” Mado said. “I will answer any questions from your committee with candor and honesty. I won’t pull any punches.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Courtland replied, his face serious and full of concern. The alliance was signed, sealed, and delivered.

Tina escorted Mado out of the senator’s office. “General,”
she said, “perhaps you can tell me the exact questions the senator should be asking during the hearings.”

The White House, Washington, D.C.

“You see what the newspapers are calling us these days?” Bobby Burke, the director of central intelligence, asked Michael Cagliari as they entered the Oval Office.

“It could be worse,” Cagliari replied. “They could have called us the Three Stooges.” They exchanged brief smiles, both accepting the recent spate of publicity that the President’s top three advisers had been getting in the press. One reporter had labeled Burke, Cagliari, and Leo Cox, the President’s chief of staff, as the three most powerful men in the United States. Burke and Cagliari were smiling because the reporter obviously didn’t appreciate just how strong-willed and independent their chief was. The reporter had misread the President’s courtly and gracious manner as a sign of indecision. In reality, no one controlled the President of the United States or set his priorities.

Cox was already there, going over the day’s schedule with Pontowski. “We’re here to do our ‘daily number’ on you,” he told the President, quoting the same reporter.

“Do your damnedest.” Pontowski smiled, waving Burke and Cagliari to seats. “What nefarious schemes are you three trying to perpetuate on this poor old unsuspecting soul today?” He had read the same story in the press. The three men briefly expounded on their favorite schemes before turning to business. For the next forty minutes they covered the most pressing concerns the White House was addressing that spring day. Finally, they turned to the matter of the three hostages and the rescue of Nikki Anderson.

“The Senate Armed Services Committee hearings are turning into a bloodbath,” Cagliari said. “Courtland is treating our people from Defense like hostile witnesses and ripping them apart. He really grilled General Mado.”

“I thought Mado held his own and came out looking pretty good,” Burke said.

“He personally looked good,” Cox interrupted. “He passed the buck up the chain of command. Wait until Courtland starts grilling the NMCC. And you’re next, Mike.”

Cagliari accepted the prediction calmly. “I expected to be called to testify,” he said.

“The trouble,” Cox continued, “is that Courtland is asking all the right questions. It’s as if he has an inside line to our decision cycle.”

“Some one is feeding him,” Burke grumbled. “He’s making the rescue of Miss Anderson look like a complete fiasco. It would help if Anderson presented a better public image. She looks and talks like a freak.”

“That,” Cox interrupted, “is exactly how heavy-metal weirdos want to look. But what happens when Courtland starts probing for the reasons we ordered Delta in when we did? That has me worried. We need a way to muzzle him.”

“There is a way,” Pontowski said. The men fell silent and waited. From long experience they knew that the President had reached a decision and they were about to get their marching orders. “First, send word to the committee that Bobby is available as a witness only for today. They will jump at the chance to get the head of the CIA on the stand. Once you’re there, Bobby, force the committee into closed-door session so you can discuss classified information. That will muzzle Courtland. Tell the committee everything except our sources. We don’t need Willowbranch compromised. There are some good men on the committee and they can accept the truth.

“Second, have Special Operations Command start working on a rescue mission. I want this to be a major effort and all concerned agencies involved. The State Department will veto any large-scale military action and claim it would totally destabilize the new Burmese government, which it would, and which we do not want. But we will override State’s objections and press ahead with the planning. Another leak will magically appear and the word will be passed to the press, forcing us to cancel the operation.”

“Isn’t it wonderful how decisions are made in our government?” Cagliari complained.

A disgusted look played across Cox’s face. “We’re wasting a lot of time and effort on this when we’ve got more pressing problems.”

“That’s politics, Leo,” Pontowski said. “Rationality and logic have nothing to do with what’s important. While all this
is going on, I want to explore every contact we have to negotiate for the hostages’ release. Get the DEA and the FBI involved. They’ve got contacts inside the drug cartels. Finally, I want to get a second rescue operation on the boards and keep it totally dark.” He pointed at his national security adviser. “Mike, see what you can do.”

“I do have something in mind,” Cagliari said. “But if we opt to use it, it will have to be transferred to the normal chain of command. We can’t afford another Iran-contra affair.”

“That’s what I had in mind,” Pontowski said. “But we do that at the last possible moment.” He brought the meeting to an end. “Do I have time for a walkabout?”

Cox stood up. “Yes, sir. You’re free for the next thirty minutes. Who’s the lucky target for today?”

Pontowski smiled and led them out the door. “Guess.” He headed for the Office of the Budget.

Navarre Sound, near Hurlburt Field, Florida

Gillespie sat at the Pagoda’s bar taking in the sunset. He took a long pull at his beer and drained it, appreciating how peaceful it was; the quiet waters of Navarre Sound, a lone sailboat silhouetted by the setting sun. Will I be doing this again? he thought, pondering the orders that had come that were sending them to train with Delta Force. The Beezer’s curt remark that “we might be doing some Chiang chopping” had sobered the captain and E-Squared hadn’t helped with his observation that “he’ll be expecting us this time.” An F-15C cut across the sky, bringing him back to the moment as the old longing came back. “That’s what I should be doing,” he muttered to himself.

“Doing what?” Mike the bartender said, automatically drawing another beer for him.

“Flying those.” Gillespie nodded toward the F-15. “I’m not cut out to be a rotorhead.”

Another voice interrupted their conversation. “I didn’t know you flew helicopters?” It was Allison, the beautifully stacked volleyball team captain who headed Allison’s Amazons. Both men turned and smiled at her, pleased by her unexpected appearance. As usual, Gillespie’s stomach did a quick two-step and he could feel the makings of an erection.
She gave her hair a well-practiced toss and moved against the bar, deliberately brushing a breast against Gillespie’s arm. “I was married to a fighter pilot once,” she said.

Allison’s closeness left Gillespie gasping for words. “I didn’t know you’d been married,” Mike the bartender said, breaking the silence. What’s the matter with you Gill? he thought. You should be jumping on her like a bear on honey. She’s sending signals. Your tongue got stiff all of a sudden?

“Actually, twice,” Allison told them. “My second husband was also in the Air Force but he flew B-Fifty-twos. They both were first-class dorks.” She gave Gillespie a thoughtful look. “They both claimed that only pree-verts flew helicopters.”

Gillespie managed a smile. “Oh, I hope so,” he finally managed.

Allison gave her heavy mane of hair another toss and bestowed a smile on him. “You seem different lately,” she said.

Mike the bartender found an excuse to leave. “Hey, would you mind watching the bar until I get back?” He headed for the office. I’ll be damned, he thought, the bimbo noticed. A few of the more astute volleyball leaguers had mentioned a subtle change that had come over Gillespie since his return from Thailand and Mike had heard some rumors about the little captain having balls that he needed a wheelbarrow to carry around.

“How come so serious today?” Allison asked.

“The Air Force…. You know…the usual thing,” he answered, trying to make light of it. He sensed that a serious conversation was not the best way to keep Allison engaged. It was out of the question, he reasoned, to tell her about the orders that detailed him to train with Delta Force and how he was worried. She wouldn’t understand, he decided. He was wrong.

“Yes, I do know,” she said, suddenly wanting to cuddle and stroke him. “Dinner?” she offered. “My place?” He nodded, and as soon as Mike returned, they left.

Donna Bertino was driving off the bridge that spanned Navarre Sound when she saw Allison’s flashy Mustang convertible pull away from the Pagoda with Gillespie in the passenger seat. Her pretty mouth pulled into a thoughtful pout. She decided she wasn’t in any hurry to get home and pulled
into the parking lot. Maybe Mike the bartender could tell her what was going on.

“Sock time,” Allison murmured as she rolled over Gillespie and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Sock time?” he asked and stroked her bare back. Allison turned and glanced over her shoulder as she fumbled for her high-heeled slippers. Then she leaned into his touch, pressing the smooth warmth of her body into the palm of his hand. She pulled back and walked away as his eyes followed her across the room, taking in every detail of her naked body. The high heels made her legs look even longer, more delicious, and he could feel the start of a fresh erection.

She paused and looked at him. A slight smile played across her mouth when she saw the renewed interest in the lower regions of his body. “Keep that thought coming,” she said. She rummaged through a drawer, finding what she wanted.

Gillespie half-faked a groan. “Have mercy. I don’t think I’m up for four times in one night.” He was a little sore.

She held up a pair of the long white tube socks she wore with her running shoes and studied his crotch. “You’re up to it.” She ambled back to the bed, casually swinging a sock in each hand. She stepped out of her shoes with a fluid motion and rolled over him into the bed, rubbing her breasts against his chest and drawing a leg over his crotch. “I think,” she nipped at his right ear with her teeth, “that you’re part goat. Are you rotorheads really pree-verts?”

Allison dropped the socks across his chest and lay on her back, bent the knee closest to him, and drew her left leg up, her foot brushing against his thigh. She reached down with her left hand and drew her fingernails over his stomach before she stroked his erection. Then she grabbed her foot. “Tie me up,” she whispered, her voice suddenly low and very husky. He fumbled with a sock and tied a loose knot, binding her ankle and wrist together. He was excited by her rapid breathing and trembling breasts. “Tighter,” she urged. “Now the other.” He lay across her and tied her right ankle to her wrist. Allison gave a little twist and wiggled under him, clamping him with her inner thighs, holding him tight. “Now!” she urged, thrusting her hips against his, making him enter her. “Yes!” she shouted, threshing about under him, not
letting him go. She pressed her mouth against his neck and her thighs beat at him. “HELP ME!” She sank her teeth into his neck, drawing blood.

“What is the matter with you,” Donna Bertino mumbled. Normally, she had no trouble falling asleep but an inner need was tormenting her, not letting her escape images of Allison and Gillespie making love. Out of frustration, she threw herself out of the bed and walked out onto the balcony of her condominium. The cool night breeze moving in off the Gulf of Mexico washed over her. “Quit being a silly cow,” she scolded herself. “He’s just another man out chasing poontang.” But Donna was too honest with herself to let it go. She was more than passingly interested in one Captain S. Gerald Gillespie and she did not like Allison infringing on her territory. But what could she do? Allison had the stuff
Playboy
centerfolds were made of and the disposition of a porn star. “And men are so damn stupid,” she announced to herself. She gazed up into the clear night and plotted her strategy, hoping that they were at least practicing safe sex. With her mind made up, she went to bed and immediately went to sleep.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

The doubting ate at Mackay, consuming his self-confidence, making him question even the reason he was sitting in Delta Force’s conference room. He willed himself to stop obsessing and concentrate on what Colonel Robert Trimler was saying. The words were right, but Trimler’s southern accent had stirred deep-seated feelings and old fears. Listen to the man! he reprimanded himself. Everything the colonel was saying indicated that he had bought into the operation. So why the doubts? Why couldn’t he accept the man for what he was? A competent and professional officer in command of Delta Force. Come on, Mackay told himself, old prejudices die hard, so spike this one in the heart.