King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 54

HE WAS AT THE CEMETERY again staring at the same two graves.

The inscription on the grave on the left said that Franklin Grant had been a wonderful husband, loving father, and true patriot.

“I miss you, Dad,” said Grant. “I miss you more every day. You should be here. You should be a grandfather to my kids.”

He turned to the other grave. Loving Wife and Mother, read the inscription.

He had tried to keep the image such inscriptions inspired in his head. But he had been unable to for a very good reason.

As a thirteen-year-old he had inadvertently seen a picture of his parents dead in their car, their asphyxiated features deadly pale, and their bulging eyes wide open as they sat slumped against each other, their suicide pact complete.

“Miss you too, Mom,” Grant mumbled. And he did.

But his gaze and his thoughts turned back quickly to his father.

He had been a true patriot who had bled for his country. He had risen far. He had worked in the White House. As a boy Grant had gone there with his father, shaken the hand of the president of the United States at the time, seen the center of power of the strongest nation on earth. It had left an indelible impression on him. It had been a compelling reason he had joined the military. But the truth behind his father’s tragic end had left a far deeper mark, like a third-degree burn. He doubted it would ever fully heal.

The one thing that kept Grant going was that he had his plan. It was being executed and it was succeeding, albeit with some bumps along the way. He’d expected that. Plans this complex could not unfold free of problems. He had been ready for such an eventuality. And it was a good thing.

He placed the flowers on his parents’ graves, said a last goodbye, then turned and walked back to his car.

An hour later he was walking into his house and greeting his children. His seven-year-old son was in school, but his five-year-old daughter and two-year-old toddler came hurrying over to him. He scooped up his son in his arms, took his daughter by the hand, and walked into the kitchen, where his wife was making lunch.

Leslie Grant was in her middle thirties and as lovely as the day he had proposed to her. They kissed, then Grant snatched a cucumber from the salad she was preparing and walked into the adjacent living room carrying his son.

Dan Marshall was sitting in front of the large-screen TV dressed in khaki pants and a flannel shirt with tasseled loafers on his feet.

Grant put down his son, who quickly raced off to join his sister in the playroom. Grant turned to Marshall, who was cradling a beer and watching ESPN on the TV.

“How’re the Wizards doing?” asked Grant.

“Better. Nets drilled us last time. Hopefully, we can return the favor tonight.”

Marshall handed Grant a beer. Grant popped it and took a swig before sitting down in the recliner and studying his father-in-law.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Been better,” said Marshall.

“Work?”

Marshall sat back and turned his attention from the ball game to Grant.

“I’ve never stopped missing Maggie,” he said, speaking about his late wife. “But this is the first time I’m also glad she’s not around to see this.”

Grant put the beer down. “When we last spoke I didn’t take away from your comments that it was that bad.”

“Well, we were at the Pentagon. One has to watch what is said there.”

“So it’s worse?”

Marshall sighed, drained his beer, and put the empty bottle down. “It’s bad, Alan. I signed off on this mission. I had my doubts, but the orders from the top were crystal clear. It was going to happen, with my rubber stamp or without.”

“So why would the blame fall to you then?”

“You obviously don’t understand how government, and the DoD in particular, works.”

“I was in the military.”

“But never in the military bureaucracy. It has its own rules, and many of them don’t make sense. But one you can count on is that when the civilian leadership screws up a matter connected to the military, folks in uniform are going to be left holding a big part of the blame.”

“But you’re not technically in uniform.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got the office and the title and the ball weighs about one ton and is heading right for me. Worst case I’m squashed. Best case I’m severely wounded.”

“So what outcome do you really see?”

“I’ll spend my remaining days testifying in front of Congress. If I’m lucky I’m not indicted. If I’m not lucky we might be talking prison.”

“Jesus, Dan, I had no idea.”

Grant of course had every idea, but, still, he felt badly for the man. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Marshall patted his arm. “Look, we all have troubles. Now, you’ve got a great family and you’ve made my little girl very happy. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Things will shake out one way or another.”

I plan to keep on doing what I’m doing, thought Grant.

They had lunch and neither of the men made any mention of Marshall’s dilemma in front of Leslie and the kids.

After the meal was over Marshall said his goodbyes. Grant gave him a handshake and a hug.

“I’m sorry, Dan,” he said. And he actually meant it. But when it came to avenging his father’s death, there was no one Grant was not willing to sacrifice. And that included himself.

He walked out into the backyard, sat in a lawn chair, and stared at the sky. He watched a plane begin its final descent into Dulles Airport.

He, too, felt as though he were in his final descent. The radio station was coming along. His itinerary seemed to be rock-solid and very promising. The satellite he had leased was perfectly situated to do what needed doing. And the fragments left on there would be very helpful in getting him to the necessary outcome.

And that necessary outcome was that someone had to pay for a wrongful act committed twenty-five years ago. That injustice had cost his father his life. His father was the only one who had really paid a price. Now it was time for others to do so. It had become the most compelling force of Grant’s life. It was not a goal of his. It was an obsession. And obsessions tended to blind one to all other things. Grant was aware of this, but he also found he could do nothing about it. That’s what an obsession was, after all.

Thus, he had chosen to risk his father-in-law’s career and perhaps his life to attain this goal. He would even sacrifice his family’s happiness if it came down to it. Because Grant could not be happy unless the wrong was righted. And he knew of only one way to do it. Nothing could get in the way of that. And if something did it would have to be removed, with force if necessary.

Just like he had done with Jean Shepherd and Milo Pratt. Just like he would have to do with Sam Wingo, and perhaps his son. And Sean King and Michelle Maxwell. He was pretty certain they would have to die before this was all over.

He drew his gaze from the plane overhead as it disappeared down past the trees. In a few seconds its wheels would hit the tarmac and the reverse thrusters and brakes would be applied. Another safe landing, just as happened millions of times a year.

His own landing would probably not be so smooth. But Grant had a chance, a real chance to make it all work, achieve his goal of justice, and then slip back into a normal life. That would be the ideal. With the burden gone he could live again.

Others were not to be so fortunate. More people were going to die before this was all over. And Grant knew exactly who most of them were. It would be a historical event in the eyes of the world.

But for him, it would just be avenging the memory of the man he held most dear.