The Sniper and the Wolf

68

“What the—!” Couture bit off the rest of what he was going to say, watching Gil climb up through the rocks toward Dragunov’s gear.

The president put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s completing the mission, Bill. I warned you he’d find a way to break it off in Putin before this was over.”

Couture was almost shaking with frustration. He’d thought the worst was behind them when the Killer Egg swept into the valley, but then everyone had shouted in panic when Gil was jumped in the trees. Then when the Puma finally set down, and infrared confirmed there were no more Chechens within two clicks, he had finally dared to believe it was over.

Now Gil was off and running again, with no definite mission profile, no timetable, and no planned extraction.

“What the hell do we tell the Russians?” Couture said, turning around.

“We tell them nothing more than is necessary,” the president said. “We’ll brief them on the status of Major Dragunov, but nothing more. Not a word about how he got out of Russia until I’ve had time to confer with Secretary Sapp.”

Then the president turned to Brooks and smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, Glen.”

Brooks sat back with a glass of water in his hand. “A minute ago, I thought we were clear.” He took a drink and set down the glass with a sigh. “Now I don’t know what to think.”

“At least the helos got in and out of Russian airspace undetected,” offered the air force chief of staff.

“The thinnest of silver linings,” muttered Couture, staring at the table. Then he laughed sardonically. “I don’t know why I’m so stressed. Shannon can’t hurt anyone but himself this time.”

“You’re stressed,” the president said, “because you like him. It’s impossible not to by this point. He’s the kid in class who gets away with anything, and we love him for it.” He stood up from the table. “I have to go. Glen and I have business at the White House. I’ll be drinking much earlier than usual today if you’ll care to join me, General.”

An aide de camp came into the room. “I have a private message for you, Mr. President.”

“Whisper it in my ear, son.”

The aide came forward and spoke softly into the president’s ear.

The president looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s confirmed?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president turned to the Joint Chiefs. “Senator Steve Grieves’s limo exploded near the Capitol Building half an hour ago. He’s dead — along with his secretary and driver.”

Couture looked at the aide. “Car bomb or something else?”

“That hasn’t been confirmed, sir, but it looks like a car bomb.”

“That’s a domestic hit!” blurted the Marine Corps chief of staff. “One of Pope’s people over at CIA must have done it.” It was no secret that he was not a fan of Pope or the CIA.

“I’d better not hear that remark made in public!” the president snapped. “Is that understood, General?”

The general shrank slightly under the president’s ire, aware that he’d spoken out of turn. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“We’ve got enough goddamn trouble,” the president went on, “without wild accusations being thrown around.”

Couture glared at the marine general. “We’ll handle things here, Mr. President. Call me if you need anything.”

The president shook his hand. “Keep me posted, General.”

The second the president and Brooks were out of the room, Couture turned on the Marine Corps chief of staff. “What the hell were you thinking, Fred?”

The big bald marine tugged on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Bill. I know everyone around here seems to think Bob Pope is the best thing since shaved pussy these days, but I don’t trust the son of a bitch. I never have, and I never will. If you want my resignation, all you need to do is ask.”

Couture stared at him. “Your resignation isn’t mine to ask for, but you’re ordered to watch what you say about the CIA from now on. Understood?”

“Aye, General. It’s understood.”