“I don’t understand sir,” Slade replied.
The commander slid a file over to Slade.
“I’m sorry Jeremiah, they want you out. You embarrassed them by doing your job to perfection. Your people got promoted, but you got passed over for major. You’ve got six months. I’m sorry.”
Slade got up with his commendation medal and his walking papers in hand. He saluted smartly. The colonel stood and saluted, but said, “Jeremiah, it’s been an honor serving with you. Let me give you one last piece of advice: take advantage of opportunities when they’re offered. You didn’t do that in the Air Force. If you had, I’d be saluting you instead of the other way around. Even if it’s not what you think you want, take the opportunity and run with it. When a door closes a window always opens — remember that.”
“Yes sir.”
Jeremiah Slade walked out of the operations building a broken man. He’d followed the rules, done his job and done it well. This is what he got for it? “I’m done. Twelve years down the tubes. What the Hell do I do now?” He felt the physical weight of bills piling on his head.
Slade went to the Officer’s Club and took a seat at the bar, wondering just how he was going to deal with this sudden change of events. He had six months to solve the problem, then the money stopped. What could he do? Slade was a pilot, but he loathed the idea of the airlines. It wasn’t an option anyway — the major airlines were all in bankruptcy. With that reminder he got out his wallet.
With a bitter laugh, Slade mocked himself. “Ten days to payday and I haven’t got enough for a beer!”
The bartender came over. Humiliated, Slade held up his hand. “Sorry, I can’t stay.”
A voice from behind him said, “Two of whatever the captain is drinking — on me.”
“Yes sir,” the bartender said, looking expectantly at Slade.
Slade turned around to see a man in a suit with a government haircut holding a briefcase. He shrugged and motioned to the seat next to him, answering, “Michelob.”
The man sat down. “You move fast Captain Slade. I didn’t even have a chance to catch you at the squadron before you bugged out.”
“I didn’t have much incentive to stay.”
“That’s why I’m here,” the man said with a shadow of a smile. He held out a hand. “I’m Joe Wilson. I’m an old friend of Lt. Colonel Wilkins. He called me and told me about your situation — the whole story — I’m sorry. The service hates to lose good men.”
“They have a funny way of showing it,” Slade replied suspiciously, but he shook the man’s hand. Lt. Colonel Wilkins last bit of advice rang in his head.
Wilson shrugged. “The Air Force’s loss is the CIA’s gain. That’s who I work for.”
“The CIA? Why would you be interested in me?” Slade said as the bartender set down two bottles. “I’m a pilot. I don’t have any training in whatever it is you guys do.”
“We always need pilots — good ones — we challenge our people,” Wilson said, tipping back the Michelob. He looked at Slade with a penetrating all-knowing expression. “You’re more than just a pilot though Slade. You’re an expert marksman; you earned your black belt; you earned a Master’s degree and your loyalty factor is off the charts. You’re what we call a suitable candidate.”
He paused and took another swig of his beer. Turning to look at the soon to be ex-Air Force officer, the CIA recruiter put the question to Slade. “What if I were to tell you that your service to your country didn’t have to end here?”
“I’m still coming to grips with my career spiraling down in flames,” Slade said with a sigh. “Do you need an answer right now?”
“Let me put it to you in a practical sense Captain Slade,” Wilson said firmly. “Windows only stay open for so long. We want, no, we demand dedicated individuals. The reasons are obvious. We have needs, but so do you. Your — lifestyle — isn’t cheap Captain Slade. Your salary barely covers expenses. What’s going to happen in a few years? Well, by my reckoning, considering your responsibility oriented character and your special needs, well your expenses are going through the roof.”
“You know a lot about me,” Slade admitted.
“Our file on you is fairly comprehensive.”
“You’re right,” Jeremiah sighed, but then he glanced at Wilson and his eyes narrowed. “Money isn’t much of a reason for loyalty. Wouldn’t that make me even more of a risk?”
“If that were all there is to it we wouldn’t be talking,” Wilson replied dryly. “You’re the kind of guy who takes pride in serving your country. You demand responsibility; hence your money problems. You also need the adrenaline rush.”
“You know about that do you?”
The man nodded. “On one of your missions over Bagdad you flew over an Iraqi helicopter at Mach 1.2. The report said you overflew him by less than twenty feet.”
“Ten — my wake turbulence caused him to depart controlled flight,” Slade smiled thinly. “I got credited with a kill; the only one by a Recce pilot that I know of.”
“You have courage with a splash of nasty thrown in for good measure,” the agent said.
“I was frustrated because I was flying an unarmed Recce bird in the middle of a shooting war,” Slade sighed.
“Yet you still did your job,” the agent smiled, swigging his beer but not taking his eyes off Slade. “We can use men like you.” His expression turned deadly serious. “Understand me Slade, this isn’t James Bond and Specter. We’re in the middle of a war on terror. These people are not as sophisticated as your Hollywood villains, but they are crueler than you can ever imagine. Your job will take you into hostile territory.”
Slade shrugged and said, “As long as I have a good life insurance policy, we’re set.”
“May I take that for a yes?” the agent smiled, holding out his half empty bottle toward Slade.
Slade thought about it. “To windows,” he muttered, and then he reached over and clinked the bottom of his bottle with Wilson. The deal was done.
CHAPTER 1: Sowing the Seeds
A decade later, on the island nation of Malaysia, Abdullereda Hussein was late to the hospital. It wasn’t because he’d landed late. Although he was an A380 captain for Malaysia Airlines he hadn’t been flying; he’d been whoring.
During his latest visit to the brothels outside of Kuala Lumpur, his favorite being a walled estate overlooking the Strait of Malacca, Hussein received an urgent phone call from his son Abdulla. His wife Safrina was in the hospital with severe abdominal pains.
“It cannot be labor yet,” Abdullereda complained. “She’s only six months pregnant. She’s simply got morning sickness that’s all. Why is she in the hospital; that sounds expensive?”
“As expensive as your whores?” the seventeen year boy asked viciously. The sound of the intercom in the hospital made it hard to understand his son’s words, but it wasn’t hard to understand his feelings.
“You will not talk to me that way!” the airline captain said angrily, defensively. “You have no idea how good you have it!”
That was Abdullereda’s excuse for everything; especially his personal failures. He was a rarity in Malaysian society; the upper part of one percent among earners, and he took that seriously. The fact that his wife and children did not understand how successful he was, and that they didn’t allow for it and so ignore his faults, constantly grated on his nerves.