On Scope

16

Kyle Swanson was famished. He had been fueled only by coffee since the long drive down from Washington, and since his arrival at the huge base, he had done a six-kilometer run to stretch out, then spent hours with the guys in the cramped conference room doing initial planning for the Spanish mission. The other members of the special operations team also were ready to call it a day and pick it up again tomorrow. Some had personal things to do, but three joined him for an early dinner at the Staff Noncommissioned Officers Club in Building 825 just as the sun went down and the residents of Tobacco Road wrapped up another day. Everyone in the state was still arguing about whether the impossible three-pointer that had won the NCAA basketball championship for Duke over North Carolina had really been launched before the buzzer.

“Screw basketball,” said Staff Sergeant Travis Stone when they had been escorted into the dining room, seated, and given menus. They ordered a cold pitcher of draft beer.

“That is traitor talk and can definitely get you lynched in these parts. Anyway, you don’t like basketball because you’re so damned short,” drawled Master Sergeant Sam Smith. “The refs gave that damned game to Duke. No way that shot was in time. ESPN has it in slow-slow motion.”

“You’re still mad because you lost money on the game, Sam. I tried to tell you never to bet against Duke in b-ball.”

“Don’t spat in public,” said the fourth member of the group and the only one who was not a Marine. Rick Suarez was a Navy corpsman who trained with the MARSOC team and, in addition to attending to their combat medical needs, also served as its demolition expert. He poured beer into the cold mugs the waitress had placed before them.

The tension that filled the world outside the SNCO Club melted away as the conversation at their table, and at those around them, fell into quiet and polite tones, highlighted by the clink of silverware and some laughs. The rowdy bar time could come later, if they wanted it, but behavior in the club was mandatory on self-control. Kyle ordered a medium-well steak, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, and veggies, with a house salad sprinkled with vinegar and oil to start. Spain would not be mentioned.

“Hey, look. We got a visiting celebrity over there.” Suarez motioned toward a table against the far wall where three men were finishing their meal. Two were Marines in uniform, and the other was a civilian in a Texas-cut sports coat over pressed jeans. “It’s that TV guy.”

“What are the Panthers going to do with their first pick in the draft?” Kyle asked, to steer the conversation onto a new track. He had recognized Ryan Powell right away — former SEAL, author, movie actor, and now host of the popular military television reality show The Elite. Also an asshole. “You Carolina guys need help everywhere.”

“They ain’t my guys. I’m 49ers,” replied Stone. “The Panthers will probably try to improve the defensive line, but they really need another pass-catcher for Cam Newton. That man can cold play ball.”

The first pitcher of beer was finished, and they got a new one just as the meal was served. As usual, Kyle had praised his New England Patriots and then stopped talking to dig into the feast. Nothing wrong with the world that a juicy steak couldn’t cure.

“Excuse me for a moment, guys.” The pleasant voice came from the civilian visitor. He was still not thirty years old, had cut the mane of shaggy brown hair to a neat semimilitary style since Swanson had last seen him, and retained the muscle tone of his SEAL days. Polished cowboy boots added another inch to his six-foot-plus height, and he had a silver belt buckle that bore the SEAL emblem in gold. “I just wanted to say hello to Gunnery Sergeant Swanson.”

Kyle stared at him coldly, ignoring the fake smile and the extended hand at the end of a thick wrist that carried a heavy black-faced watch that had a timing bezel, a sweep hand, and a lot of small dials. Gear queer, Swanson thought. Out of the military, unable to let it go. “Mr. Powell,” he said in a flat acknowledgement.

“Relax, Gunny. I really want to thank you for helping convince me to leave the Teams and take a new career path. I owe you one.”

So full of shit, Kyle thought. The last time, the only time, they had met, Swanson had intentionally forced Petty Officer First Class Ryan Powell into a series of mistakes during a close-quarters battle shootout in the ultrasecret Ghost House that the SEALs had over on the Virginia coast. Although the young warrior had been rated as a Special Warfare Operator and had a sparkling record with SEAL Team Six, he had not been picked for the Osama bin Laden takedown. His boss knew that Powell had family problems, but when it became clear that the fighter also had succumbed to a gambling addiction and was piling up debt, the SEALs grew worried about his overall effectiveness. A lone-buccaneer attitude had muddled his teamwork requirements. The confrontation with Swanson had demonstrated the final proof that Powell had lost his edge. When the SEALs reassigned him into a training position back at Coronado, he quit.

The smile seemed almost genuine. “How are things with Task Force Trident?” Powell asked.

The Marines at Kyle’s table stiffened at the mention of the top-secret unit that reported only to the president of the United States. Kyle brushed it off. “Oh, them? It was just an experimental thing back in the day. Never got off the ground.”

“So you’re not a shooter anymore?”

“Lost my edge, Mr. Powell, just like you. I push a desk in the puzzle palace these days.”

The civilian absorbed the insult and nodded as if in understanding. “I’m taking up too much of your time, gentlemen. Gunny, perhaps you could meet me in the bar after you’re finished. We can talk about old times. Swap some lies.”

“Thanks for dropping by.”

“Maybe I can even talk you into being on my show. Congressional Medal of Honor winner and all that.”

Kyle turned his attention back to the food and stabbed his knife into the thick steak. “I don’t do publicity.”

Powell laughed, but it was a chilled sound, and he leaned in, placing his nose close to Kyle’s collar and pulling in an exaggerated sniff. “You’re still in the game, Swanson. I can smell it on you.”

“But you’re not. So go away.” Kyle put the chunk of meat in his mouth. Delicious.

The TV host looked at the three other Marines at the table. “You guys want to be careful around this guy Swanson. I trusted him once, and it didn’t work out so well. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“Our food is getting cold, sir,” said Sam Smith, looking up with a face of marble.

Ryan Powell held up a hand, palm out, apologetic, as he easily slipped back into the smooth TV persona. “You’re right. Sorry for the interruption. I hope to catch you all in the bar later and buy a round in appreciation for your service.” He spun a white Stetson hat on his finger and walked away, his star power drawing admiring looks from guests at other tables.

Kyle and his friends finished their meal in silence, then ordered coffee.

“Well?” asked Travis Stone. “Y’all have a history. Anything we need to know?” What he was really asking was if Powell was going to screw Kyle over, and if that would jeopardize the Spanish job.

“I knew him for about an hour a few years ago when the SEALs brought me in as an evaluator to test him in a CQD. He was a conceited jerk then, too, although he looked like Captain America and had the record to match. Somewhere along the line, he let his personal life get screwed up, and Team Six was concerned about him. Anyway, long story short, he failed the drill and lost his job. After that, he retired. He blames me.”

“Shit, man. Time catches up. It happens to everybody. We can’t play war forever.”

Rick Suarez chewed his steak, then spoke. “He bounced back OK. Big book and a TV show. He should be kissing your boots in appreciation for the soft landing. Must be making about a coupla million these days.”

“What kind of show does he have?” Swanson had never seen it.

“Sort of like Survivor, but ain’t they all? Only he personally ‘leads’ teams from different special ops units in running around doing live-fire exercises and attacking pop-up targets and whispering to the cameras. They even — horrors — have to live off the land for a couple of nights. A bug might bite them.”

“It’s just boom-boom bullshit, but the Pentagon loves the publicity and gives full cooperation. The reality part gives way if you remember that behind the camera are dozens of people who put it all together. Those two uniforms with him tonight are from the public relations shop, probably arranging for some new episode.”

“Well, may God bless them all,” said Master Sergeant Smith. “My concern is how he knows about Task Force Trident.”

Swanson toyed with the coffee spoon. “Don’t really know. I would guess that he asked around about me after the SEALs booted him and somebody mentioned it. Maybe somebody needs to remind him that he is still bound by secrecy oaths before he starts blurting out national security information that could jeopardize operations. I’ll mention that to General Middleton tomorrow.”

“Better yet, say I go beat a reminder into him right now.”

Swanson laughed. “That’s not worth the effort, Master Sergeant. Better if we let a team from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service deliver the message.”

“NCIS has a television show, too. Everybody has a TV show but me.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said Kyle. “Let’s have another pitcher, then go get some sleep.”

Ryan Powell was at a back table in the bar area of the SNCO Club, chatting up anyone who stopped by, especially those wanting him to autograph his book. The base PR people had ordered two boxes of hardback copies from the publisher, but that was nowhere near enough for the demand that followed his book tour address that afternoon, and the copies had all been sold. A camera crew from a local station had done an interview that appeared on the early evening news. Now people were arriving with copies they had bought off base during the previous months, and Powell signed and signed, loving the glow of attention and trading good-natured SEAL-versus-Marine banter and insults with his fans.

Running into that damned Kyle Swanson in the dining room had been a surprise because Powell thought he had flushed the man out of his system.

“Who do you want me to make this out to?” he asked a female Marine noncom who handed forward a book and commented that she had just loved it.

“Mandie, with an ie,” she replied. Their eyes locked. Female Marines were a lot cuter than he remembered. This one was standing right there for the asking, if he wanted it, but Powell avoided groupies and one-nighters, not so much because he loved his wife, which he did, but because if the girl somehow created a YouTube scandal, it could end his celebrity gig. He scrawled the autograph, and she moved on.

Swanson was still black ops. Powell knew that in his bones. The Marine was a living reminder that Ryan Powell, star of The Elite, was not really part of the brotherhood, and that was a cold fact that time would never change. Gunny Swanson had consigned Captain America to the dust heap of hero has-beens, although Powell was able to capitalize on the past glory.

Another copy of the book was put before him, this one by no less than a full bird colonel looking sharp in his uniform, who announced, “I enjoy your show, Powell. Just sign your name, please, no use messing up the pages with personalization. I tell my men, keep it simple! That’s always the best way.”

Ryan signed his name and thanked the colonel, thinking the man was overbearing and pompous, but still a fan. Powell got along with everybody these days. The Swanson thing still rankled, like a burr under a blanket, and was an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Or could it?

Next up was an eager young sergeant who confided in a low voice that he had signed up to test for the SEALs. Powell complimented him, wished him luck, and ordered one of the public relations types to buy that man a beer. Making friends right and left.

How could he take down Swanson? Another face-to-face showdown was unlikely, and realistically, Powell doubted he was good enough to best the Gunny. Back in the day, when he was running two thousand rounds a day downrange in practice, yes, and he had followed the rules that day in the Ghost House, had done everything right, but had failed because Swanson cheated. That was much too long ago in a business where the edge starts to dull in a day. Maybe The Elite could be the answer. Somehow get the Corps to make Swanson go on the show, and embarrass him before a million viewers.

He kept signing and drinking and thinking until the last book was done, and he capped his pen and leaned back while the PR skunks closed it up for him. Pretty Mandie with an ie was near the door, watching, and Ryan thought, what the hell, and made a pistol out of his finger and pointed it at her. She smiled back, and a minute later he walked out after her, waving to some of his newest admirers. He put on his big Stetson as he stepped outside, and the fresh air triggered an idea just as Mandie grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the shadows and stood on her toes to kiss him with a hungry mouth.

Task Force Trident, he thought as they traded tongues. Powell had lots of media pals now, any of whom would love to expose Swanson and his secret team. He would figure out exactly how to do that later, because Mandie was going to demand his full attention.