One of the officials working there in a subdivision of the Office of the President, was George Ramos. He offered a crisp “good morning” as he showed his pass to the female marine guard at the Pennsylvania Street entrance. She smiled warmly in return, and why not: Ramos was forty-two years old, a strikingly handsome man with glossy black hair, arched eye brows, and an athletic build. Added to that, a jutting metallic jaw, sensuous lips, and flashing white teeth that could have honored a Hermès perfume ad.
There was also the way he strode down the entrance hallway as if he owned the place, past the busts and portraits of fifteen presidents and a host of legendary military commanders who once also had their offices here. Indeed, George’s career was definitely on the rise again. He was rubbing shoulders every day with the movers and shakers in the government. Not bad for someone who less than a year earlier thought his professional career was washed up.
He scurried up the marble staircase to the second floor, walked along the stately corridor to a large door with a bronze plaque on which was engraved “Executive Liaison Office.” The door opened to a suite of offices. His was the largest, with a commanding view of Pennsylvania Avenue.
On the wall were various pictures: one of himself in Special Forces battle dress with a group of Afghan soldiers at a fire-base near Kandahar; another of him standing before a tank in Fallujah, with cheering Iraqi soldiers after they’d just retaken the city. Behind his mahogany desk, hung an AK-47 mounted on a plaque. His team had discovered it in a cave in the Tora Bora Mountains where the embers of the abandoned cooking fire were still warm. The weapon had actually belonged to Osama bin Laden; they’d found his prints on it.
The largest photo was of Ramos standing beside a beaming President Stokes in the Oval Office, just after he’d appointed George to one of the top posts in the Executive Liaison Office (ELO). Stokes’s signature was scrawled across the bottom of the photo, along with the dedication: “To George Ramos – with thanks in advance for all the things you’re going to do for me.”
Actually, few people knew the ELO even existed. It was set up two days after Stokes became president. Those who worked for the outfit, or were high enough in the president’s entourage to be informed about it, referred to it as the “S Team” – the “S” standing for Stokes, of course. It was, in effect, the president’s private intelligence force; his own CIA/Special Forces/Delta team. Its existence was rumored, but never officially acknowledged and certainly never challenged by the Republicans in Congress. They were still too cowed to take on the president on such a sensitive issue.
Its budget, hidden in a line item of the Department of Transportation, quickly expanded, as did its staff, now including another forty-five offices in the cavernous basement. There were also independent contractors who were paid under a different black ops budget and worked out of their own offices in Washington and Virginia. The total was more than 500 people, almost all with elite military and intelligence experience. The idea was that, when necessary, they would also have access to more redoubtable weapons systems: drones, helicopters, even fighter jets, surface craft, and submarines
They worked under the direct control of the president, the line of command passing through Cliff Dayton, his “Senior Counselor,” who also secretly headed the ELO. The S Team was split into several groups with different purviews. George was commander of the Operations Division, recommended for the job by one of the retired generals on the transition team. Dayton summoned George to personally interview him for the post.
George had been making $150 a day as a private contractor, essentially a night watchman, for a small Virginia security company. He was told to show up at Dayton’s transition office on K Street the next day. He’d no inkling what the job was about. All he knew was that, at just thirty-five years old, Dayton was supposed to be Stokes’s most influential advisor. He received George in his sprawling office. He had an aquiline nose, jutting jaw and a two day Italian-look beard, dressed like he’d just stepped out of Vanity Fair.
He began scrolling though the file on the screen of his PC. “Ramos, your training, fighting experience, bravery, etc., all excellent.” His voice was keen, precise. “Early promotion to colonel, great efficiency reports, etc., etc. But then in Afghanistan, you were apparently implicated in what was called “mistreatment of detainees” at Bagram Air Base. He turned to look squarely at George with piercing brown eyes. “What was that all about?”
“Sir, we needed to get intelligence in a hurry. We caught these three guys and needed to make them talk.”
With meticulously manicured hands, Dayton continued scrolling. “So,” he said, “you hung them by their wrists from the ceiling for several hours and then water boarded them, among other things.”
“Yes, sir.” I can forget about this job, thought George.
“Did you ever get the information?”
“No, sir. But they were bad dudes, very bad dudes, believe me. What I did was to try to save the lives of my fellow soldiers.” Why the hell did this jerk call me in to be interviewed to begin with?
Dayton’s stern gaze didn’t waiver. “Two months later you were involved in an action near Kandahar that resulted in a very high number of civilian casualties.” He pursed his lips. “Your version?”
There was a trickle of perspiration now running down George’s back. He wondered if he should just get up and leave. “Sir, I was advising a battalion of Afghan soldiers tracking down one of the main Taliban leaders. We got a tip that he was holed up in a house on the outskirts of this village. A major meeting was planned for that night. The intelligence looked solid.”
“Yes?”
“So we surrounded the place, broke down the doors, threw in concussion grenades, and charged in.”
“And,” said Dayton reading from the record before him, “it turned out not to be a Taliban meeting but a wedding reception.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ten civilians killed, including four children. Six others seriously injured. An entire family wiped out.”
“Sir, it was the intelligence. The man who fed us the information had it in for the family we hit.”
“Something you found out afterwards.”
“Yes, sir.” Fuck this noise! I don’t have to stay for this, George thought.
“Actually, according to the investigation, you’d also become infuriated and lost control of yourself after one of your buddies was hit. Turns out that fire came from your own men. But it was seeing your buddy get killed that led you to order your men to seek revenge.”
“I’d had three tours in Afghanistan. I’d been in country for five months. It was pretty brutal.”
Dayton stroked his chin. “You were finally given the choice to face court martial or resign.” George’s face was burning now. He’d had it.
“That’s right. I resigned.” Suddenly he stood up, glaring at Dayton. “Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t have to go through all this shit again. I resigned. I’m out. Those bastards from Human Rights Watch and Amnesty blew what happened out of all proportion. We are fighting bad, evil people who think nothing of using women and children as cover. But back here, civilians who could care less about America, who have never seen battle or a buddy blown apart, those creeps are second-guessing people who are putting their lives on the line each day for our country. That’s bullshit, but that’s what it’s come to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of here.”
“Hold on, soldier,” said Dayton, smiling for the first time. “Sit down.” George hesitated, took a deep breath; then he sat down heavily.
Dayton raised his hands, “Can we get you something to drink: coffee, beer?”