Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (14 page)

There
had been several dozen threats against his assignment going into tonight’s
speech, though most had been dismissed as harmless, yet in today’s day and age
it simply didn’t pay to not be careful. It was a partisan, pre-screened crowd,
but that didn’t mean much.

And this
guy was controversial, to say the least.

Which
might be why he was so wildly popular.

Yet one
threat had made it onto the radar and Delta had been requested to provide a four-man
team to assist with the security, the threat coming out of Russia.

One
country that had shown it was willing to kill to further its agenda.

“We
nearly came to full-scale global nuclear war in 1962 but fortunately a firm
military response by President Kennedy forced the Soviets to back down. And
today we face a similar crisis. Many think it began in the Ukraine, but it
didn’t. Before Ukraine there was Chechnya, Georgia and Moldova. Threats against
Poland, the Czech Republic and now the Baltic States, all NATO allies, could
lead to the very all-out war our children’s generation never thought possible,
it now twenty-five years since the Soviet Union was a threat.”

The man
was right, though Dawson kept his politics to himself, it discouraged among
serving members of the military to be political. Their job was to execute the
orders issued by their elected Commander-in-Chief, whether they agreed with
them or not, as long as they weren’t illegal orders.

Illegal
orders.

It had
been a few years now since the fiasco that had led them from Peru to London,
the death toll disturbingly high.

All
innocent.

Because
the President and his inner circle had fed them false intel, leading him and
his team to believe they were targeting a domestic terrorist cell.

Instead
it was innocent students and their professor.

And an
ancient organization almost two thousand years old.

I’ll
be happy if I never hear of the Triarii again.

His eyes
paused on someone reaching into an inner pocket, Dawson’s finger twitching.

A
handkerchief was produced just in time to smother a sneeze.

His eyes
moved on.

“If I
become President, should I be fortunate enough for the American people to
bestow such an honor upon me, I will fight back against the schoolyard bully in
Moscow rather than kowtow to him. I will strengthen the sanctions, provide
weapons and training to the legitimate government of the Ukraine, and station
more troops in the Baltic Republics to make certain the Russian government
understands that their belligerence, their violation of international law, will
not be tolerated under my administration.”

About
damned time someone told it like it was.

He
exchanged a slight nod with Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung who stood on the
opposite side of the stage, sit reps coming in steadily over his comm.

All
clear.

Niner
was one of the most reliable men in The Unit, though that perhaps was a slight disservice
to the others since they were all incredibly reliable—you didn’t make The Unit
if you weren’t. But Niner was so gung-ho he seemed to infect the men of Bravo
Team with his enthusiasm, it spurring them all on when things looked their
bleakest.

And he
was a funny sonofabitch too.

And that
sense of humor had earned him the right to be the only man in The Unit to have
chosen his own nickname, though Dawson had shortened it over time. They had
been enjoying some brewskies when some rednecks took a dislike to Niner’s
Korean heritage, hurling insults at him. Niner had responded with a string of
his own, much better Asian slurs, including the pièce de résistance, “Nine
Iron”.

His
challenger hadn’t taken too kindly to the bar laughing at him and swung.

At a
Delta Operator.

It
hadn’t been a wise move.

Niner
had insisted his new nickname be “Nine Iron” and the team had agreed, not
really wanting to challenge him when so full of adrenaline. Dawson had kept the
tradition of the nickname being “assigned” by shortening it to “Niner” which he
had readily agreed to, probably more in shock that his request was being
honored.

And
relieved to rid himself of his old nickname.

Beaver.

Dawson
smiled slightly. Niner had been so excited about making The Unit that all it
had taken was someone calling him an “eager beaver” at a barbecue for the name
to stick.

And like
most nicknames given to you by someone else, he didn’t like it.

Especially
when he was forced to watch a Leave it to Beaver marathon one night, duct taped
to a chair while everyone else drank beer and ate pizza around him.

Good
times.

“It is
time for America to be strong again, to not allow renewed Russian aggression to
set the tone for our future, to not allow an increasingly militaristic China to
increase its sphere of influence unchallenged. It is time for America to stop
agreeing for the sake of agreeing. We have abandoned our traditional allies like
Israel and Canada, and instead are appeasing Russia and Iran. Why? Are we a
nation of cowards?”

Boos
filled the room, fists thrown in the air.

“I
didn’t think so. And under my administration, America will be strong again. We
will stand up to the bully, stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons and the
territorial expansion of Russia and China, and bring the full force of the
American military to bear on Islamic fundamentalism. Under my watch, America
and her allies will be the policeman of the world, the firemen of the world,
the paramedics of the world, because the world needs strong leadership once
again. No longer will America apologize for being the greatest nation on Earth,
no longer will we be made to feel guilty of our accomplishments, no longer will
we feel shame for our success. Remember, come election day, a vote for me is a
vote for a strong, secure and prosperous future! It’s time to take America
back!”

The
crowd, whipped up into a frenzy by now, erupted in cheers, the rallying cry of
the campaign, “Take America Back!” chanted by the hundreds gathered. Camera
bulbs flashed, the effect almost strobe-like, this the time the sunglasses
really paid off. He stepped forward, as did several others of the detail as the
candidate began to glad-hand with the crowd, leaning over the stage to shake
outstretched hands. His aide, Russell Saunders, whispered in his boss’ ear and
the man straightened himself, waving to the crowd, shouting out a goodnight
before exiting stage left, Dawson and Niner leading the way, Sergeants Leon
“Atlas” James and Will “Spock” Lightman covering the rear.

They
made their way with purpose through the cleared path to the rear exit and were
inside the armored limousine within two minutes of leaving the stage. The
motorcade was underway immediately with Dawson in the front passenger seat of
the candidate’s vehicle, the rest of his team in an SUV behind them, a police
motorcycle escort leading the way.

“Done
for the day,” sighed the exhausted man from the back seat, the partition down.
“Thank God.”

“It was
a good day, sir,” replied Saunders. “I think we picked up some votes.”

“Let’s
hope so. My wife?”

Dawson
could hear the concern in the man’s voice, and for the first time in his life
actually understood the concern a partner could have for their spouse. He had
nearly lost the first woman he had ever truly loved in Paris only a few weeks
ago. She was recovering well, yet it would be a tough haul for her.

To
think you were going to break up with her!

When she
had been shot he had decided in a moment of self-pity that it would be safer
for her to be as far away from him as possible, yet in the end he had come
around to realizing it would be selfish to do something so rash.

He had
left the choice up to her.

And she
had made it crystal clear she didn’t blame him and felt closer to him than ever
before.

“I love
you, more than ever.”

Those
words, whispered from his beloved Maggie’s lips after she had woken from her
coma, had forced a lump into his throat that had made him realize how much he
actually loved this woman. It was something he never would have imagined, he
having resigned himself long ago to the bachelor life, not wanting to bring a
woman, let alone children, into the life he led as a special operations soldier.
He was the head of Bravo Team, a group of twelve operators in America’s elite
counter-terrorism unit, 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta,
commonly known to the public as Delta Force. The Unit, as it was called,
consisted of over one thousand personnel, the best of the best, and he would
put any of them up against any enemy, any day.

Including
on American soil. They were the only unit authorized to operate on home soil,
the President authorized to suspend Posse Comitatus should it become necessary.

Today
was just a protection detail and he honestly didn’t expect any action, though
expecting the unexpected was his job, so he never let his guard down, even now,
his eyes scanning sidewalks, windows, pedestrians, even their escort vehicles.

Everything.

“Your
wife is feeling better, sir, and is at the hotel waiting for you. Apparently it
was just a case of exhaustion.”

A
relieved sigh of a husband who truly did seem to love his wife. Dawson had
watched him dote on her the entire two days they had been here, he and his team
only assigned yesterday morning after a fiery speech the night before where the
presidential candidate had targeted Russia for the first time, deciding foreign
policy was an area his rivals were weak.

It had
lit up the Russian nationalists almost instantly, Homeland Security concerned
enough to assign a Secret Service protection detail far earlier than the normal
120 day period leading up to the election. They had also asked for Delta
assistance, the country still on edge after the Black Stone incident only weeks
ago.

Dawson
was only too happy to have been assigned, he and his team out of the rotation
the past few weeks as they were fully debriefed on the events in Paris, Yemen
and Saudi Arabia. Their Commanding Officer, Colonel Thomas Clancy, had
reactivated them only two days ago. He had to admit he had felt a little guilty
leaving Maggie, but she was in good hands. She was back at her apartment now
and several of the wives in The Unit were taking shifts being with her, Maggie
well known to them not only through her recent relationship with Dawson, but
also the fact she had been the kinder, gentler face of Clancy, serving as his
personal assistant for several years now.

Personal
Assistant.

It had
taken him over a year to figure out her job title, and he had managed to learn
it through a Clancy tirade rather than having to sheepishly ask her after all
this time. He had known what she
did
, he just hadn’t known what the hell
it was called. His mother had been a secretary for years and seemed to do the
same work, yet he knew enough to know calling someone a secretary was somehow
insulting now, though he wasn’t sure why.

Mom
was always proud of her job.

Clancy’s
tirade had been expected, and understood, the man not actually mad at Dawson,
just concerned about a woman he thought of as a daughter, and the fact a team
he had assigned to Yemen had been disavowed. Dawson had simply been the first
person involved that he had been able to vent at.

He
didn’t take it personally.

The
Colonel was the best CO he had ever had. A man who always had their back, as he
had proven with the recent incident. A soldier’s soldier, he passionately
believed in the principal of ‘no man left behind’, no matter what the brass
might say. Officially the team had been disavowed, but Clancy hadn’t let that
stop him from working the back channels and calling in favors.

It had
saved them all.

“She’s
been trying to keep up as best she can, but she shouldn’t be. I told her the
American people would understand if she wasn’t by my side at every event. She’s
recovering from chemo for Pete’s sake.”

“She’s a
good woman,” said Saunders, softly.

“Too
good for me.”

There
was a break in the conversation and Dawson turned to look at those seated in
the back. “Sir, any changes to tonight’s itinerary?”

“No,
I’ll be in for the night with my wife. We’ll dine in the hotel room so your men
should be able to take it easy. Any plans? Getting into some trouble?”

Dawson
grinned. “We’re not Secret Service, sir.”

There
was a grunt from the Secret Service driver.

A roar
of laughter responded as Saunders’ iPhone rang. A whispered conversation ensued
then he ended the call. “Mr. Quaid wants
to meet with you tonight, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

“Fine,
no rest for the wicked.”

Dawson’s
eyes narrowed. “Quaid? He’s not on my list. I’ll have him vetted by my people.”

Saunders
shook his head. “No need. He’s one of our biggest donors.”

Dawson
nodded as they pulled up to the hotel, the security detail swarming out of
their cars, a team already in place, along with hotel staff, forming a cordon
from the limousine to the main entrance. “Okay. My team will hand over to the
Secret Service team as soon as you’re in your room. We’ll take over again in
the morning.”

He
climbed out and looked around, the usual press contingent held back behind a
barricade, curious onlookers, mostly hotel guests, gawking.

He
opened the door and Saunders then his boss exited, the politician waving to the
crowd, pausing a moment for photographs, ignoring the screamed questions from
the press corps.

Dawson
and his team led them inside, the din of the crowd cut off the moment the doors
closed. They climbed aboard an elevator being held for them and a staff member twisted
the key to turn it into an express, the car shooting up to the tenth floor
where they were greeted by two Secret Service agents. Within moments they were
inside the hotel room.