Back Blast

58

Matthew Hanley had spent most of the day out of the office, working in a conference room at Andrews Air Force Base. His Air Branch was still working on getting the four de Havilland Twin Otter aircraft upgraded and registered with a CIA shell company. Hanley didn’t have to spend his day at Andrews to help with the minutia of this — it was work beneath his rank and he had administrative people who did this sort of shit all day — but he had just wanted to get away from the campus at Langley for the afternoon, so personally attending to some of the intricacies of turning used turbo-prop puddle jumpers into hi-tech CIA transport aircraft had proved a good excuse to do just that.

Around eight p.m. he piled his large frame into the back of his armored Camry and began the movement west back to his home in Woodley Park. Jenner was at the wheel, as before, but Hanley had given Chris Travers the rest of the week off. Travers had been suspicious, of course, had asked his boss what was up, and Hanley thought about lying to his man. Instead he went the opposite direction: the cold hard facts. Hanley told Travers Carmichael was trying to get him booted from the SAD, probably by ginning up a positive drug result. He promised to fight for Travers but insisted Chris go home and make himself scarce for a few days.

If they couldn’t find Travers they couldn’t take a sample of his piss, Hanley explained, and, without a sample to taint, they sure as hell couldn’t frame him for abusing drugs.

With Travers out a young Ground Branch paramilitary named Paladino rode shotgun in Hanley’s car, but it wasn’t just these two men in the Camry anymore. Now a Chevy Tahoe followed chase on Hanley’s vehicle, with four more armed SAD officers inside, and all six men would stay at Hanley’s house until Gentry was either captured or killed.

Hanley was no longer worried about Gentry killing him, but he’d bumped up his detail anyhow. It was his way of giving the middle finger to Denny Carmichael. Denny had JSOC men following him, so Hanley surrounded himself with Ground Branch boys to keep the army-side goons far enough back to where he wouldn’t have to see them or deal with them.

He recognized how silly he was being, but he didn’t give a shit.

A half mile from his home Hanley asked Jenner to divert to an Italian tratorria on Connecticut. The two-vehicle convoy did as instructed, and Hanley dropped in to the half-empty restaurant and took a small round table in the back. He’d asked Jenner and the boys to sit and eat with him, but even though he was their boss, they declined.

It was their job to keep him safe, they explained, not to pass him the garlic toast and listen to his old war stories about the Grenada invasion.

Matt Hanley ordered raw oysters and a rare fillet, along with an entire bottle of Chianti for himself, and he sipped his wine and slurped his oysters, all the while sitting there and humming along to sad Dean Martin songs playing softly over the restaurant’s speakers. His men stood near the exits, their eyes out the windows and doors.

Shortly after Hanley’s steak arrived, Jenner approached the table, his MP7 obvious under his suit coat.

The director of the SAD said, “Sure you won’t join me for a drink?”

“No thanks. Boss, there’s somebody here that wants to talk to you.”

Hanley just looked up from his plate. “Well, who the hell is it?”

“It’s that asshole TL from the Goon Squad. Forgot his name. The guy who died a few years back.”

“Zack Hightower,” Hanley said. And then, “It’s fucking magic, huh?”

Jenner just shrugged. “It’s the fucking Agency, sir.”

Hanley chuckled, wiped his mouth, and took another sip of the Chianti. “Send him over. Maybe I can get the dead guy to drink with me.”

Hightower appeared at the table and stood across from Hanley. He seemed nervous. “Uh, sorry, boss. I just wanted to apologize in person.”

“Pop a squat,” Hanley said, and Hightower sat down at the table while Hanley signaled the waiter. “Bring my old friend here…” He looked at Zack now. “You didn’t quit drinking, did you?”

“Hell, no, sir. I was just fake dead, I wasn’t really dead.”

“Bring him a Stoli on the rocks.” And then, “A double.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve put on a few pounds since I saw you last.”

“And a few years.”

“Same here on both counts,” Hanley said. He still seemed more interested in his fillet than in his company. “So… what’s the deal? You are Denny’s personal direct action arm now?”

“No, sir. I was brought in to help them locate Violator.”

“And you missed him, but you sure found Lee Babbitt, didn’t you? One round center mass. Three hundred fifty meters.”

Hightower didn’t say anything. In the awkward silence his drink arrived. Hanley’s knife and fork scratched his plate.

Eventually the director of the Special Activities Division looked up. “How did I know you zapped Babbitt, you ask?” He took another bite. “I didn’t. It was a guess. You just confirmed it with your non-denial.” He followed this with a healthy gulp of Chianti.

Zack said, “I was told Babbitt was a clear threat to Agency operational security, and he was unwilling to—”

Hanley interrupted, “Babbitt was a piece of shit. Fuck him. You did good.” Then he pointed his steak knife across the table. “But Gentry… Why are you after Gentry? Back in the day that kid would have died for you, no questions asked.”

“I’m starting to ask myself the same question, sir. I had a little run-in with him last night.”

Hanley smiled while he cut another piece of meat off his fillet. “I’m still trying to get my blood pressure down to normal from his visit to my place. He get the drop on you?”

A pause. An embarrassed “Yes, sir.”

Hanley shrugged. Not surprised. He was halfway through his dinner now. “What did he tell you?”

“He doesn’t believe he did anything wrong on BACK BLAST.”

“That’s it?”

Hightower shook his head. He drank a third of his vodka in one gulp. “Sir, are you aware of any foreigners involved in the ideal hunt for Sierra Six?”

Hanley looked at Hightower with genuine surprise. “Foreigners?”

“Affirmative. Like, Gulf Arabs. Here in town. Part of the same operation.”

“Of course not. I’m not involved in this hunt, but why the hell would there be Arabs in a CONUS agency op?”

“I don’t know, sir. Gentry is alleging the men who killed Ohlhauser were part of some Muj unit.”

For the first time since Hightower sat down, Hanley put his fork on the plate and leaned back from the table. “I know Denny is using a JSOC unit.”

“Gentry would know Delta guys from Gulf Arabs.”

“He would, indeed.” Hanley shrugged. “I don’t have a clue who they could be, but if Gentry says he saw them, then he saw them.”

“I feel the same way, sir. I thought I’d start looking around while I’m out on the streets.”

“I’d be interested to know what you find out.”

“Of course, sir.”

Hanley seemed lost in thought now, so Zack finished his drink quickly and immediately stood up. “I appreciate your time.”

Hanley reached into his pocket and took out a pen. He took the damp beverage napkin from under Zack’s empty glass and he wrote down a phone number. “Any time, day or night. This is me. No one listening. No one recording.” He looked up at Zack and extended his hand with the napkin. “Just me.”

“Understood, sir.”

“You know, Zack… I told Court I couldn’t help him, and I can’t. But I sure as hell am not going to help the other side. When things settle after this, there is going to be a reckoning.” He picked up his steak knife and pointed with it again. “You’d do well to remember that, Sierra One.”

Hanley watched Hightower leave, then he called for the check.