Gil stood glaring at the younger former Navy SEAL, his jaw muscles flexing beneath his chiseled features. He looked as though he wanted to say something vile but was thinking better of it.
Crosswhite cleared his throat. “Permission to speak, uh, Colonel?”
“Denied,” Gil said, cutting him a menacing glance and refocusing on Tuckerman. “Why are you not at the VA getting treatment for your PTSD?”
Tuckerman seemed to shrink even more, shaking his head. “I got—”
“Look at me when you’re talkin’ to me!”
He looked up. “I got… I just… I dunno. I just couldn’t take it around that place, Gil. All those fucked-up vets and their bullshit problems.” He shook his head again and looked back at the floor. “Hell, half of ’em never even saw any real combat.”
“So you’re sayin’ you were the only real motherfucker in the place, is that right?”
Tuckerman lifted his head. “No, that’s not what—”
“What you’re saying,” Gil went on, “is that this is what real men do after they come home from combat. You’re saying real motherfuckers go out and murder civilians—American civilians.”
Tuckerman lowered his head in shame. “Gil, I… I got lost.”
“You bet your fuckin’ ass you got lost, boy! And you!” Gil said, turning on Crosswhite. “Winner of the Medal of Honor leading a goddamn vigilante hit squad — despicable!”
Crosswhite held his gaze. “We saved a child, Gil.”
“Yeah, and then you executed her captors without a trial!” Gil retorted. “I know all about it. Detroit PD is shaking every fucking tree in that city looking for you two clowns. Now that I see you, I got half a mind to call and tell them right where to look.”
Crosswhite got to his feet and grabbed the bars. “Then do it!” he hissed. “But don’t you forget that I jumped into the Valley of the Shadow to save your ass when nobody else could. So either let us outta this fucking cell or call the Detroit heat. Either way, I’ve listened to all your shit I’m gonna! You wanna hear we did wrong? Fine. We did wrong! We fucked up! We both deserve the goddamn chair! What else you do want? You wanna hear it’s my fault? Okay. It’s my goddamn fault! Anything else—Colonel?”
Gil stared back at him. “I think that about covers it, Captain.”
“Good!” Crosswhite dropped down on the bunk, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands as he stared at the floor. “Fuckin’ Green Beret. Fuckin’ colonel, no less! Shit, Shannon, you don’t make a pimple on a Green Beret’s ass.”
Gil looked at Tuckerman, who dared to crack a smile. “I gotta admit, though, Master Chief… the uniform, the rank — it’s you.”
Gil let some of the hardness out of his face. “You two both better understand something,” he said quietly. “If it wasn’t for that little girl you rescued, Pope would have left you both right here to rot.”
Tuckerman looked over at Crosswhite. “Told you.”
Crosswhite sighed, his anger spent, leaving only tired resignation in its place. “So what now, Gil?”
“We got a goddamn suitcase nuke to find.” Both men perked up. “Pope needs operators he can easily disavow in case the White House needs plausible deniability. Either of you two clowns know anybody I might suggest to him?”
Tuckerman got to his feet. “I’m on board, Chief.”
Crosswhite was only a half instant behind him. “So am I.”
Gil’s face became hard again. “I’m in command. Understood?”
“Roger that,” Crosswhite said. “As a Green Beret or — or what?”
“Are you kidding? This army rag is already givin’ me a fuckin’ rash. Pope thought it the best way to keep this dogface major out front from making waves.” He looked at Tuckerman. “ST6/B has been reactivated, but no active-duty personnel can be part of it.”
“What’s the B stand for?” Crosswhite asked, slightly mystified.
“Black,” Tuckerman said. “Domestic ops.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, right up your fucking alley,” Gil said grimly. “So congratulations, pogey bait. You’re the first man in the history of the United States Navy to be made a SEAL without having to pass BUD/S.” Pogey bait was typically a Marine Corps term dating back to the days of the China Marines, US Marines stationed in Shanghai prior to WWII. It could be used to describe a number of things, one of them being a nongrunt who was afraid of getting his uniform dirty. BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL) was a six-month course at the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado, California.
“I got your fuckin’ pogey bait right here,” Crosswhite said, grabbing his groin.
“Listen,” Gil said. “When we get out front, I don’t want any horseshit. Maintain a strict military bearing until we get on the helo. Got it?”
Crosswhite frowned. “I can’t tell that fuckin’ major to kiss my ass?”
“You can if you don’t mind spending the rest of your life in one of these fucking cages.”
“Well, if you put it like that,” Crosswhite said glumly, “I don’t guess it’ll be necessary.”
“I didn’t think so.” Gil took a big brass Folger Adam cell key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Remember, I do all the talking.”
“Got it,” the other two said in unison, and they followed him down the corridor.
22
It was all Crosswhite could do to keep his eyes to himself as they entered the precinct booking area where Major Byard and seven other 82nd Airborne paratroopers stood waiting for the mysterious trio to emerge from the cellblock. The 82nd had been Crosswhite’s unit before he was transferred to Delta Force, a Special Mission Unit of the US Army under the auspices of the CIA, an SMU not dissimilar from SEAL Team VI. He had heard rumors of a domestic ST6 unit during recent years: rumors, for example, that they’d gone into New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina to neutralize civilian gun squads that were terrorizing the police after all law and order had broken down in that city. He hadn’t given these rumors much credence, of course, because there were always rumors circulating among the Special Ops community. Oddly enough, however, rumor often preceded the truth, and it seemed that tonight was no exception to that inexplicable military paradigm.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Major Byard said, stepping importantly from behind a desk to intercept him with a sheet of paper. He was a ginger with coarse red hair and a face full of freckles. “Sir, I’ve just received orders that seem to conflict with yours. The Pentagon has ordered me to turn these men over to our MPs.”
Pope had warned Gil this could happen if he didn’t get in and out fast enough.
“Let me see,” he said, putting his hand out for the paper. He pretended to read the order as he pondered how best to resolve the dilemma. He glimpsed a sergeant E-5 that he had noticed on the way in: a soldier with a nonmilitary-issue patch Velcroed to his body armor. The patch read, “Want my respect? Earn it.” He had seen similar patches worn by various soldiers during his last year in Afghanistan, and he had not approved of it, though it had not been his place to remark about it, because he was a navy frogman. However, he had made it known that he’d better not ever see such a patch on the uniform of anyone operating within the DEVGRU teams.
Deciding now was a good time to take issue with the patch, he glanced up from the paper. “Sergeant Barbiero, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant came to attention, startled to be singled out.
“Front and center, son.”
Barbiero broke ranks to stand before the Green Beret colonel. “Yes, sir.”
Gil stood eyeing the patch on his body armor long enough for it to become obvious what he was about to take issue with. “Sergeant, are you familiar with the term silent insolence?”