Dex was already turning back to the house. Even if a bomb had been planted, even if Augie was already dead, Dex knew he had to go in there and try to get him.
And he hated himself at that moment. Hated himself for his sense of duty. But also for not wanting any parts of this hero crap. He knew himself too well. He knew he’d retired out of the Navy because he’d grown tired of the risk, of the demand to be a hero if the job required it. The demand to always be tough, always be hard, always be ready to die.
The day he realized he was no longer ready to do it — that was the day he knew he had to change whatever was left of his life.
But here he was falling right back into it. And it felt good, felt right—like putting your hand in the baseball glove you’ve been using for fifteen years.
You’re a mess is what you are…
The thought wormed through him as he moved quickly through the kitchen to get Augie. With each step, he expected to see a flash from the explosion he’d never hear, but he kept moving anyway. As he turned into the room, he dropped down to scoop up the little old man on the carpet. Still wearing his Orioles hat, Augie felt as light and lifeless as a bag of sticks, and Dex felt a surge of sadness go through. He’d barely known this man, but he’d really liked him.
He ran from the room, and out into the night.
Chapter Forty-Two
Almost two hours had elapsed since the attack on the Bruckner home, and Admiral Parker Whitehurst was up to his elbows in red tape, potential lawsuits, and threats from the Secretary of the Navy to clean up this mess as quickly as possible. Richard and Margaret Bruckner, in addition to their son, Jason, had survived the ordeal and were still being attended at the adjacent Naval Hospital. The son had lost a lot of blood from a 9mm wound to his left thigh, but his prognosis was good. The only casualty had been Augustino Picaccio, who’d suffered cardiac arrest when the intruders roughed him up.
Upon arriving on the scene in a commandeered V-22 Osprey from the D.C. Naval Yard, Parker’s first priority had been to convince Dex McCauley the attack had not originated from within the Navy or any of the other branches of service. When the rescue and backup arrived, McCauley was half nutty with rage and frustration. He wouldn’t talk to anyone other than Parker, and who could blame him? He’d been through a balls-out crazy ordeal and was doing his best to keep his balance.
Parker had seen it many times during a long career of dealing with good men pushed to the brink — sometimes you had to let them vent or spin out of control, and just hope they had enough inner strength to pull it all back together.
If they didn’t, you moved on. If they did, you had a much stronger individual on the team than you did before.
But McCauley would always have a special place in Parker’s heart because, quite simply, he’d been the best man he’d ever had in his unit. The guy had guts, compassion, discipline, and a moral compass that never went wonky. That’s why the Admiral had gone out of his way to present his old Chief with documented proof that black helicopter hadn’t come from inside the barnyard. He even allowed Dex to personally punch up the maintenance logs on the Sea Ranger, which showed all the proper check-marks on the aircraft’s fuel pump and lines.
But that didn’t stop McCauley from stating the obvious — if the Sea Ranger had been sabotaged, then the Navy had a serious problem with internal security.
Parker agreed. If an outside entity possessed routine access to all levels of communication in the United States Navy, the nation was in big trouble. McCauley had called him on an untraceable cell phone, but somebody intercepted the call anyway. The only logical conclusion dictated that all internal Naval command communications were being monitored all the time.
And that was simply unacceptable.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Parker had launched a massive coordinating operation to assemble the most knowledgeable personnel on every aspect of the U-5001 mission.
Time was against them, and every minute that passed without the Navy having a plan was diminishing their odds of success.
Because of logistics, Parker had designated the old Philadelphia Navy Yard as the best place to assemble the initial phase of the mission. Although officially closed back in 1995, the Navy had maintained some of the space, renovated and reconstituted with the formation of the Department of Homeland Security. The confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers remained a strategically important location, and the Navy had been smart to not abandon it just because of budget cuts.
Parker waited n a Briefing Center several levels below ground. The room was replete with the usual hi-tech toys, and LCD displays of various geophysical and geopolitical hotspots. Beyond several smoked glass walls, personnel hunched over keyboards and consoles. To Parker, it remained Spartan and functional, and not very sexy. Fake sets pretending to be like this one — in cheap and expensive movies alike — all looked a hell of a lot better.
Because of its connections to counter-terror missions, the Center enjoyed the latest encryption security technology, and Parker had insisted on private keys for everyone involved in this final pre-launch meeting. If any information became compromised, Parker would have a very small suspect pool.
He was seated at a table with Dexter McCauley, who still carried his backpack with laptop and papers; Commander Chuck Drabek, of SEAL Team 9, who handled Task Units specialized in covert operations with minimal prep time. Also onboard was Harry Olmstead, a regional Director of the Counter Terrorist Group, who had access to the latest actions of all known threats to the nation. That he was a keen mind with a ruthless streak didn’t hurt, either.
They all sat facing a single LCD screen which had elevated out of the table top, located so that everyone could see its display — which for the moment remained blank.
And that was the problem.
Parker was getting pissed off as they waited for the final member of the meeting to join them, albeit electronically onscreen He could feel the tension growing among the assembled personnel as time raced away from them.
He gently nudged McCauley who was seated to his left. “Feeling any better?”
“Physically, a little.” McCauley’s voice was raw and he spoke softly, but in a tone that said he didn’t care who was listening in. “Head-wise, I’m still… fucked up.”
Parker could only nod, saying nothing. McCauley had definitely taken his rage down several notches, but he continued to shoulder all the blame for the civilian’s death, and the abductions of Chipiarelli and Bruckner. He wasn’t listening to anybody else’s tortured logic right now. Parker understood — because he’d been down into that same abyss himself — McCauley needed to feel responsible. Because it gave him the strength to keep going.
The LCD flickered, went black, then totally white, finally resolving into the face of an older man in service khaki. His brush cut hair was graying nicely and he wore wire-rimmed glasses with squared off edges just like his hair and his jaw. Despite his archetypal look of the rough career non-com, he radiated the confidence and intelligence of a university doyen.
“Chief Petty Officer Warren McGrath, checking in…”
“Welcome aboard, Mr. McGrath,” said Parker, quickly introducing the newcomer all around.
“Sorry I’m late, Admiral, but I wanted to get as much archival data as possible and not everything we have is digitally accessible.”
“I understand,” said Parker, looking at the others around the table. “Mr. McGrath has access to all historical classified materials in the Service Archives. He may have some materials that will help us make the quick decisions we need.”