Playing Dirty (36 page)

“Good evening, sir,” the grunt said crisply. “Commander Ravelli requests your immediate presence in the conference room.”
 

Ford opened the door and chucked his bag inside. “Thank you, airman,” he said. “Dismissed.” The kid spun sharply on his heel, then left as Ford took off down the corridor to the communication center where the intelligence crews worked twenty-four-seven, disseminating information and providing life-saving data to personnel running ops in various hot spots around the world. He’d been on both sides of the national security coin, relying on up to the minute information from the intelligence team, and now, responsible for interpreting vital intelligence and passing it on to those who needed to know. He’d supervised dozens of ops since being assigned to the intelligence sector, analyzed pages and pages of reports and computer generated data. There’d been more than a few hours spent white-knuckling it because an op could’ve gone south at any given moment, all from the safety of the communications center. While he understood the intelligence personnel were as equally vital in the process as boots on the ground, nothing compared to being in the thick of the action. Watching beacons flashing on a giant screen paled in comparison to actually feeling the blistering heat on his skin, as did the white noise of the control room compared to the heavy thud of his own heart in his ears. Very little was as satisfying as knowing they’d completed the mission they’d been assigned, and still managed to get the hell out of Dodge in one piece.
 

Now he was being given the chance to right a horrible wrong. A chance to save not just one of their own, but one of his own team members. How could Mattie expect him to turn his back on a man who’d essentially been a brother to him?

All of his senses on high alert, he struggled to tamp down the excitement making his pulse race as he walked through the communications center. The largest of the three conference rooms at the far end of the massive com center was the only one with a marine guard standing outside its door. He nodded to Corporal Cruz who stepped aside as he approached.

Ford gave a cursory knock, then opened the door and walked inside the darkened room. The large, flat-screen hanging on the back wall played video of the brutal beheading of two American journalists. Another clip followed, this one of a masked terrorist dressed in black as he poured gasoline into a thick metal cage where three British aid workers were held captive. Before the match was struck, the video stopped.
 

Using the laptop in front of him, one of the men at the table cropped a portion of the image on the screen, then enlarged it. Ford stared hard at the grainy image, searching for any indication that the man was indeed Gus McMillan, the munitions expert of his former SEAL team.
 

A knot formed in his stomach. Could it really be Gus? The more he looked at the screen, the less certain he became. The facial hair made identification even more difficult. He’d been tight with all of the members of his team, but he and Gus had been especially close. When it’d been impossible to come home for the holidays, he and Mattie often spent that time celebrating with Gus, Shannon, and their two sons. Those boys had been five and six when he and Gus had left on their last mission together. His earlier meeting with Paul had revealed that unlike Mattie, Shannon hadn’t remarried. She’d never given up hope that Gus was trapped somewhere in the Middle East, unable to come home to his family.
 

That knot in his gut tightened as he continued to scrutinize the image on the monitor. He and Gus had managed to survive the crash, but once Ford had healed enough to be handed over to the enemy, he’d never seen Gus again, nor had he heard anything about another American serviceman being held captive. In all honesty, he’d just assumed Gus had died as a result of his injuries.
 

The lights came up and all eyes turned to him. Six men he didn’t know sat at the conference table. They were bound together by a military history only a select few shared. Bound by an oath, by the creed of the U.S. Special Forces. They were Navy SEALs and they’d all sworn to never leave one of their own behind.

A different kind of guilt nudged his conscience. He’d come home. Alone.

“As you were,” Paul said to the men when the lower ranks attempted to rise. Aside from Paul, Ford was the only other senior officer in the room. “Gentlemen, Lt. Commander Grayson.”

Ford gave the men a brisk nod once they’d all been introduced. There was a lieutenant, a freshly minted warrant officer, a master chief and three different classifications of petty officers. One look and he could see they’d been a team for some time. The truth was there in the way they looked from one to the other, exchanging some silent communication Ford wasn’t privy to for the simple reason, he didn’t know them well enough.

A SEAL team trains together, works together, lives together.
 

Mattie’s words never rang more true. As he took the vacant chair across from the young lieutenant, he never felt like more of an outsider as he did now.

You don’t throw an outsider into that mix at the last minute, no matter how seasoned
...

Lt. Joel Nettles, the extraction team’s leader slid a folder marked
Classified: Eyes Only
in front of him. Ford opened the file and quickly scanned the reports and charts. “We have confirmation then?” He looked to Paul. “You’re certain it’s him?”
 

“As certain as we can be without a DNA test,” Paul said.

“Sir,” Master Chief Priestly spoke. “We have every reason to believe the man on screen
is
Lieutenant J.G. McMillan.” The weathered master chief further explained the source of the intelligence came from a group of rebel fighters who’d traded information for arms, something the government gladly provided because this particular group had done a stellar job of helping to keep one of our base camps safe.
From there, Ford was bombarded with maps, and more reports. He participated in a discussion on points of contact. He studied the compelling evidence that had led the team to believe that Lieutenant Junior Grade Albert “Gus” McMillan was alive, and possibly fighting for the enemy.

Ford didn’t believe the latter for a minute. Granted, he understood, probably better than any other man in the room, that the conditions in captivity were harsh and incredibly brutal. He’d been subjected to various forms of torture, had been forced to make choices no man should ever have to in order to survive. But not once during all that he’d endured, had he ever considered forsaking his oath to defend his country. Never would he forget he was an American. A U.S. Navy SEAL.

And neither could Gus. He’d stake his life on it.

He closed the file in front of him and looked pointedly at Paul. “This isn’t an extraction mission.” He shoved the folder aside in disgust. “It’s a rescue mission. Gus would
never
turn his back on his country. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Gus has been in country for five and a half years,” Paul said. “That’s a lot of time to spend with a group of radicals constantly filling your head with their hatred of the West and radical idealism.”

“You’re damned right it is,” Ford argued. “And I’m telling you, Gus wouldn’t turn. I don’t care what the bastards did to him. The man I know is no traitor. He’d never turn his back on his country.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Lt. Nettles addressed him, “No one is accusing McMillan of intentional disregard or dereliction of his duties. You should know that Stockholm Syndrome is a legitimate mental—”

Ford’s temper shot through the roof. He roughly pushed away from the table. “Are you seriously buying this bullshit theory?” Ford asked Paul heatedly as he stood. “You can’t really believe for a minute that Gus would intentionally join forces with the enemy?”

“Ford.”

The warning in Paul’s voice was unmistakable. He’d stepped out of line and was bordering on insubordination. He didn’t give a flying fuck. They were calling his best friend a traitor. “I’ve heard enough,” he said and headed for the door.
 

Instead of slamming it closed like he wanted to do, he stalked across the com center and pushed through the door which would take him to his office. He caught a quick glimpse of Paul coming out of the conference room after him. He kept going.

He walked into his office, shoved the bag he’d tossed in earlier out of his way, and slammed the door closed. Anger, frustration and overwhelming guilt choked him. Guilt because he’d survived. Because he’d found a way to escape and come home.
 

Guilt because he’d left his best friend in the hands of the enemy.

Guilt for leaving his daughter and a pregnant wife behind. Again.

He dragged his hand down his face. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter. Logically, he understood that circumstances beyond his control were at work. But that didn’t stop the irrational thoughts from driving his emotions into a tailspin.
 

The door to his office opened. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Paul demanded, shoving the door closed. “You do know I can write you up for insubordination of a superior officer, right?”

Ford stood behind his desk, his hands gripping the back of his chair as he glared at Paul. This wouldn’t be the first time the commander had ripped him a new one. He seriously doubted it’d be the last time, too.
 

“You know I’m right.,” he said. “You know Gus would
never
turn.”

“Sit down, Ford,” Paul said as he dropped into one of the guest chairs in front of the desk. He waited, then let out a rough sigh. “To be perfectly honest, we don’t know.”

“You knew Gus almost as well as I did.”

“You’re right.
Knew
,” Paul said. “Past tense.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked. “Because this isn’t right. Gus is one of ours.”
 

Paul tossed another folder marked
Classified
onto the desk. “He might not be,” he admitted. “Open the file.”

Ford glanced down. “I’ve seen this.”

“Not this one,” Paul said. “We’ve known for some time that Gus has been working with the enemy. I’m sorry.”

A buzzing started in his ears as Paul’s admission sank in and settled around him. He wasn’t sure what affected him more, the fact that his friend, the man who’d served by his side had turned traitor, or the fact that he understood first hand how such a thing could happen. The brutality, the inhumane conditions. He’d seen lesser men break. But none of them had been his friend. His brother.

Ford opened the file, sifted through photographs, a top secret report and copies of topographical maps of the region. “How long have you known?”

“Not long,” Paul said. “Only a few weeks.”

Ford nodded slowly. “So, this really isn’t a rescue mission.”
 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said by way of confirmation.
 

Ford closed the file and looked away, his gaze landing on the trio of framed photographs on the corner of his desk, filled with candid shots of Phoebe and Mattie. The most recent one he’d taken himself, which was a shot of his wife and daughter sitting on the steps of the back porch at Thomas’s house, Mattie with her arms around Phoebe, Phoebe with hers around Tom’s Border Collie, Jessie. He loved that shot of them and how happy his wife and daughter looked.

“Your flight leaves at 2330 hours,” Paul said, drawing his attention away from the photo. “You’re to rendezvous with two additional members of the extraction team who are already aboard the Nimitz. From there we’ll chopper the team into the region, but you’ll have to hump your way to the camp. You’re looking at probably a day’s hike to get close enough.”

“More ground can be covered by going in at night,” Ford said, recalling how he and LeCuvier had traveled by foot. They’d covered a hell of a lot of ground under the shroud of darkness, even over such rugged terrain.
 

He glanced at the photos of his family again, then looked back to Paul. “I want to run the op,” he said.

“It’s Nettles’ op,” Paul said. “I know you outrank him, but you haven’t worked with a team since you’ve come home. The only reason we’re pulling you in on this, is because of your relationship with Gus.”

Ford looked back to the photograph, at not just the smile on Mattie’s face, but the love and trust in her eyes as she looked at him. He’d torn them apart once. He refused to intentionally put himself in a situation where it could happen again. She deserved better. They all did.
 

“I’m sure he is, or you wouldn’t have tagged him for the mission” Ford said. He let out a long, slow breath. “I want to run the op. Not in the field, but from right here. At the com center.”

“Are you serious?” Paul looked stunned. “Have you lost your edge?”

“I’m dead serious. And no, I haven’t lost my edge.” Ford looked pointedly at those photographs again. “Just recognizing my priorities.”

“Are you really willing to take a back seat on this?” Paul sat back and regarded him with a good deal of skepticism evident in his eyes. “You sure you can handle that?”

“Yeah,” Ford said with a chuff of laughter. “I can handle it.” For the first time since Paul’s arrival at Mattie’s dad’s place, he was never more certain of anything in his life. “It’s my job now, and I’m damned good at it. I can be just as valuable to Gus from here. Probably more so.”