The President shuffled through the paperwork. “Who’s your candidate? Someone from Delta?”
Smith shook his head and handed the President a dossier from his briefcase. “This is the best candidate.”
The President opened the folder, then rocked back in his chair. “Are you out of your mind?”
“He’s an excellent choice, actually. Young, no family, excellent military training, and he knows about complicated operations.”
The President slammed his fist against the table. “He’s a damn terrorist.”
“The public doesn’t know who he is or that you’ve captured him. With help from the Office, I might add,” Smith said gently. “And, you’ve finished interrogating him.”
The President shook his head. “Anybody but him.”
“His combat record was excellent,” Smith countered. “He was an exemplary soldier until his accident. You read the reports.”
“A lot of soldiers had it rough and they didn’t blow up a building, for God’s sake.” The President paused. “So many fine young men and women have made the ultimate sacrifice on my orders.”
“He made his choice. The concussion and PTSD might have twisted his mind. We can fix that. Physically he’s almost perfect. He’s bright, articulate, and driven. Moreover, no one knows you have him. There are very few loose ends to clean up if we fail.” Smith put the papers back in his metal briefcase and sealed the locks. “Mr. President, we need a new type of warrior for a new type of fight.”
The President fingered the papers, then slid them back across the table. “Do it.”
Smith nodded, stood, and keyed open the steel door with his electronic token. He gave the President one last glance.
The President looked old and weary, hunched over the desk, recently emerged streaks of gray frosting his hair, his face starting to sag. Smith had seen the Presidency wear men out, grinding them down, but none so fast as this one. “Mr. President. Sleep well.”
The President nodded silently.
The steel door rumbled shut and sealed the President alone in his underground bunker.
Eric Wise sat on his parent’s couch, an ice-cold beer in one hand and a Colt M1911 in the other. The beer was courtesy of his retirement check, the pistol a gift from his grandfather, a souvenir from World War Two. He did not usually drink until after four, but he was commemorating. It was a warm spring day and he had been officially retired for one month.
The second-hand couch was soft but shabby. The particleboard coffee table appeared new, but the style was twenty years out of date. He vaguely remembered the green and brown shag carpet. It was stained and musty, even though he had shampooed it twice with a carpet cleaner rented from the Home Depot on Glenway.
He was on a mission in a dusty little village in Afghanistan when he got the news of his father’s death, and leave time for his unit was exceptional, given their mission and the nature of their deployment. He returned long enough to bury his father but was forced to stay longer so he could place his mother in a nursing home.
Her mental decline had been sudden. The doctor told him the death of a spouse could trigger a sudden downward spiral in an Alzheimer’s patient. He was lucky to find a place that would take her on short notice. She watched him go, leaving her in her sterile room, no emotion on her face, no sign of recognition.
It was on his way back to Afghanistan that he hit the wall and got sent back to Bragg for reasons never made fully clear. His commanding officer broke the news. His career was over. No further deployments. No further missions.
Instead, he was bounced out of Delta and back to the regular Army. His CO suggested a security job somewhere, maybe a consulting position with Blackwater.
When you’re out, you’re out. That’s the Delta way.
He couldn’t imagine life in the regular Army, not after Delta. Not after being an Operator. He was sure there was something outside the Army for a man with his skills and training, until the other shoe dropped. No consulting jobs. No private security gigs.
Blacklisted.
He considered staying in the Army, but he had his twenty, so he retired.
He had sat around his parent’s house for a month, waiting for his pension. The Colt was the only thing real to him anymore. The checkered grips, the light smell of oil, a familiar friend. He sat with his beer and .45 and wondered if he would finally blow his brains out.
The doorbell chimed. He sat up, the gun moving of its own violation. He took a deep choking breath as it hit him. He was no longer at war. He was not being hunted, nor was he the one doing the hunting. He was a civilian, sitting in his parent’s house, drinking a Miller High-Life at 11:30 on a Tuesday morning.
He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A black Ford Crown Victoria was parked at the curb, a driver at the wheel, military by the haircut and way he watched the house.
An old man stood in front of the door, waiting. His hair was thinned and white and he had a powerful face, though age was taking a toll. He wore a dark navy suit, not stylish but not old and rumpled, a shiny metal briefcase in his hand.
His blue eyes, though.
Eric shivered. The eyes were alive, precise and sharp. The man was motionless, not even the slight swaying that people did without noticing. The old man had discipline, either a soldier or a spook, and access to a car and driver.
“Mister Wise, I know you are home. Probably watching me through the peephole. I would like to talk to you about a job.”
Eric frowned. A direct spook. He wondered what the old spook would think of him, his hair unkempt, salt-an-pepper stubble on his face, beer on his breath.
Fuck it.
He shrugged and unlatched the chain, opening the door. “A job, huh?” He dropped the Colt to his side and beckoned the man in.
The old man entered the house, glanced around, and took a seat at the kitchen table, motioning for Eric to join him. “My name is Fulton Smith, and I’ve come to offer you a job.”
Eric considered his words carefully, then placed the Colt on the table. “Fuck you.”
Smith’s weathered face lit up with satisfaction. “Quite right. Tell me, if you would.”
“You’re the one who canceled my deployment. You burned me. You stuck me here so when you came to offer a job, I’d jump at the chance.”
Smith nodded. “Good, Mr. Wise. What else?”
“You have a lot of pull,” Eric said thoughtfully, “because Delta is usually outside the sphere of influence of anything other than direct orders from the President. To fuck with my deployment must have taken a lot of juice, and to keep it quiet so that I couldn’t find out even more. Influencing Blackwater and every other contractor, though, that takes more than juice. That takes real power. Either you’re really well connected, or you work for an agency who reports directly to the President. Of all the Delta Operators, you had to pick me. Why shouldn’t I blow your brains out right now?”
“A meaningless threat?” Smith snorted. “Come now, you were doing so well. From your point of view, it was probably torture. As far as why you were picked, it’s because of your record, first in the Army, then in the Rangers, and finally in Delta. Even the one-off job you did in Europe a few years ago.”
Eric’s mouth dropped. “That came from you? That thing with the hijackers? You do work for the President.”
“You would be surprised how many secret agencies have the President’s ear,” Smith said. “Mine is small but we perform a valuable service. I’ve sent several jobs Delta’s way over the years, testing the Operators. Until I found you. I was sorry to hear about your father. No matter what you think of me, or will come to think of me, know that I truly am sorry. Your mother also. Mr. Wise, you are still young and strong, and your country needs you.” He leaned forward. “Would you like the job?”