CHAPTER 35

WASHINGTON, DC,
The White House

The President of the United States did not appear even remotely amused as he sat looking across his desk at Director Shroyer in the Oval Office. “Ultimately, George, both SAD and SOG are your responsibility, are they not?”

Shroyer felt his anus start to pucker. “Yes, Mr. President.”

The president nodded, looking across the room at a painting of George Washington, lost in thought. He was a graying man in his midfifties, very presidential looking with expressive blue eyes and a Florida tan. Having been a businessman during civilian life, he knew very little about the military and was therefore very dependent upon his advisors when it came to dealing with the Armed Forces community. “Well, okay,” he said finally. “Suppose you tell me what you’ve been able to find out… if anything.”

Shroyer felt his face flush, never having been so on the spot in his entire life. “Well, Mr. President, it appears that two elements of the Special Operations Group — specifically SEAL Team Six and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—”

“Wait a second, what about DEVGRU?”

Shroyer smiled somewhat lamely. “I’m sorry, sir. DEVGRU and SEAL Team Six are the same the thing. I’m sorry to confuse you.”

The president cast an annoyed glance at his chief military advisor, Tim Hagen, a bony little man who stood off to the side wearing wire-rimmed glasses. “Why am I only now hearing this?”

Inwardly, Hagen rolled his eyes, but outwardly he put on his most compassionate smile. “Mr. President, we went over this yesterday, but as I’ve mentioned, it takes time to get these military acronyms straight.”

“He’s right,” Shroyer said helpfully. “You can’t be expected to remember them all, Mr. President. That’s our job.”

The president settled into his chair, allowing himself to be mollified. “Go on.”

“Apparently,” Shroyer continued, “the enlisted men taking part in the mission had no idea the operation hadn’t been sanctioned. From what I understand, the plan was hatched by an Army captain and a Navy master chief, both of them working in unison to act on a piece of DNA intelligence that — we think—was passed on to them by a senior CID investigator in Kabul.”

“You think,” the president echoed.

“Yes, sir. I say that because the Army warrant officer who ran the DNA tests reports that she forwarded the results to her supervisor shortly before Operation Bank Heist took place. Her supervisor left Afghanistan the same day to return home to Iowa, where his wife is dying of cancer. He’s not answering the phone, and we haven’t yet had time to send anyone to the house.”

“What was significant about the DNA results?”

“The DNA of a Taliban fighter killed during the Sandra Brux abduction led straight to the village of Waigal in the Hindu Kush. Our most recent intelligence indicates that Sandra was being held there, but our SEALs arrived a number of hours after she had been moved. We now believe she’s being held in the town of Bazarak, which happens to be an HIK stronghold at the moment. We’re already tasking satellites to—”

The president held up his hand to stop him. “We’ll get back to Bazarak in a minute. What you’re telling me is that Operation Bank Heist came very close to making this office look like it didn’t know what the hell it was doing? Is that about right?”

Shroyer shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I suppose in a manner of speaking, Mr. President, but—”

“And I take it this business about Bazarak is recent intel coming from the Taliban prisoner they captured in Waigal?”

“Yes, sir. His name is Naeem Wardak. We don’t know much about his history yet, but he seems to have been a midlevel Taliban enforcer.” Shroyer paused briefly, preparing to kick what he hoped would be a game-saving field goal for his side. “The most significant fact about him is that he’s the man seen to be raping Sandra in the ransom video.”

The president sat back in his chair, exchanging startled glances with Hagen. This was the first either of them were hearing about the Taliban prisoner being Sandra’s rapist. Suddenly, here was a ray of sunlight in the middle of the thunderstorm. Already having the rapist in custody would go a long, long way toward making them all look pretty damned efficient if that god-cursed video showed up on the internet in the near future.

Even if the president was keeping these thoughts to himself, Shroyer could see the relief in his eyes. Thank God for that scatter-brained Pope! He had gotten the call from Pope on his way to the White House only half an hour before, just in time for this meeting with the president.

The president sat forward to rest his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers. “What’s being done about the Army captain and the Navy chief who planned the operation?”

“From what I understand,” Shroyer said carefully, “General Couture has spoken with them, and they’ve taken full responsibility. The captain was seriously wounded during the mission along with a few of the SEALs, but the SAD director, Robert Pope, informs me they’re all expected to make a full recovery.”

“What’s your opinion of that guy?” the president asked suspiciously.

“Of Pope, sir?” Shroyer realized this was his golden opportunity to ask for Pope’s head on a lance. “Well, to be honest with you, Mr. President, the man frustrates the hell out of me… but I think that’s mostly because I don’t understand him.”

“I ask,” the president said, “because the Joint Chiefs aren’t happy with him. They want him out. They think he’s too independent.”

Shroyer had only seconds to make a decision: Save Pope or leave him to his fate? He wished that Webb were there to advise him, but he decided quickly that Webb would probably advise against cutting Pope loose at this time, and he knew that Webb was smarter than he was, so…

“In and of itself,” he replied, “it’s not really a bad thing that the Joint Chiefs don’t like him. When anyone inside the CIA thinks further outside of the box than they do, they always tend to get a little frustrated. I think Pope probably helps to strike a balance.”

“I can see why you might feel that way,” the president said thoughtfully. “So, getting back to the captain and the chief for a moment… exactly whose authority are they under: SAD’s or the Joint Chiefs’?”

Shroyer smiled, seeing the president’s gambit. “Technically, sir, they still belong to the military, but you’re the Commander in Chief. They can fall under any authority you decide to designate.”

“Very good,” the president said, satisfied that he’d found a stopgap solution to his immediate problem. He looked across at Tim Hagen. “Call Bob Pope over at the Special Activities Division. Tell him that in light of this new information about the Taliban prisoner, this office is inclined to leave the disciplinary actions concerning those two renegades in his court… for the time being. Be sure he understands, however, that this office reserves the option to reinvolve itself at any time…. should it become necessary to do so.”

“Yes, sir.” Hagen slipped out of the room.

Shroyer breathed a small sigh, satisfied that he had gained Pope a temporary reprieve, a suspended sentence that would hang over his head and those of his two renegade operatives until the Sandra Brux dilemma had been resolved to the president’s satisfaction — one way or another.

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