Like some grand watchmaker, creating the watch, winding it up, and letting it tick into oblivion.
Alena saw his troubled look. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, he almost told her. Then, pulling back, he decided to leave it alone. Sooner or later, they might have to take a run at this subject. Right now, she seemed to find peace in this belief of hers. It might be better to allow her to continue in her own way of coming to grips with this violent world.
Gerrit would rather have a gun in his hand. Something concrete he could touch and feel. He could choose when to pull that trigger. There might not be inner peace about the way he chose to face life, but at least he felt in control over what could be controlled. The rest—he’d leave to fate.
He just shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to figure where we go from here.”
Chapter 11
February 23
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
W ashington, D.C.—a city of awesome power and backstabbing compromises—had become a shell of what the founding fathers hoped might happen here. Jack Thompson still dreamed the Constitution might survive. He always came to this city with a round-trip ticket in hand. The moment he arrived, he began making plans to leave.
Today would be no different.
A car and driver waited for Jack when he disembarked from the Boeing C-17 and made his way across the tarmac. He glanced across the airfield at Air Force One, the most famous part of the USAF’s 89th Airlift Wing, sitting under guard. The president must be in town.
As he approached the unmarked military car, the young driver saluted. Jack gave him a friendly nod as the driver started to open the rear door. “Don’t need to salute, son. I’m in civvies.”
Jack waved the door closed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride shotgun with you. Hate riding in the backseat.”
The young man seemed to hesitate for a second and then smiled. “Yes, sir.” After taking care of Jack’s luggage, the driver jumped behind the steering wheel and began the drive south. Crossing the George Mason Memorial Bridge, Jack looked upriver along the Potomac and wondered what kind of trouble lay ahead. Trying to keep his overt military responsibilities separate from his cover operations raised all kinds of problems, like the one he was about to face.
Gerrit O’Rourke and that group existed in the gray, nebulous world of covert ops—where right and wrong could be a matter of perspective—without government sanction. To some, that might mean they could be labeled criminals or terrorists. But not to Jack or Beck Malloy. Gerrit, Alena, Willy, and Joe were thrust into a situation beyond their control and forced to exist in a world in which their very actions—computer hacking, even the use of force—was a matter of survival.
Survival for themselves and for their country.
If the other side snagged them, God forbid, and they survived, they could easily wind up in federal prison or worst—executed for treason.
“Sir, we are almost there.” The driver nodded at the security gate ahead. Heavily armed guards with automatic weapons, bomb-sniffing dogs, and reflective mirrors to examine the undercarriage of vehicles did more to advertise that this was the CIA’s headquarters than any sign posted along the roadway.
He pulled out his identification, and he and the driver submitted to a security search before they were allowed to drive forward. After they parked, Jack climbed out of the vehicle, telling the driver to stay with the car. He walked toward the main entrance of the CIA’s newest building. Even before he reached the main lobby, he saw a woman walking briskly in his direction.
Shakeela Vaziri. This woman was so pretty she could start a riot in a church.
“Colonel Thompson. We meet again.”
“SECNAV didn’t give me a choice.” Jack ignored the hand she held out.
“I’m sorry. This is not how I wanted to get the message to you. Once you’re briefed, I’m sure you’ll see why my boss went through
Alena saw his troubled look. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, he almost told her. Then, pulling back, he decided to leave it alone. Sooner or later, they might have to take a run at this subject. Right now, she seemed to find peace in this belief of hers. It might be better to allow her to continue in her own way of coming to grips with this violent world.
Gerrit would rather have a gun in his hand. Something concrete he could touch and feel. He could choose when to pull that trigger. There might not be inner peace about the way he chose to face life, but at least he felt in control over what could be controlled. The rest—he’d leave to fate.
He just shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to figure where we go from here.”
Chapter 11
February 23
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
W ashington, D.C.—a city of awesome power and backstabbing compromises—had become a shell of what the founding fathers hoped might happen here. Jack Thompson still dreamed the Constitution might survive. He always came to this city with a round-trip ticket in hand. The moment he arrived, he began making plans to leave.
Today would be no different.
A car and driver waited for Jack when he disembarked from the Boeing C-17 and made his way across the tarmac. He glanced across the airfield at Air Force One, the most famous part of the USAF’s 89th Airlift Wing, sitting under guard. The president must be in town.
As he approached the unmarked military car, the young driver saluted. Jack gave him a friendly nod as the driver started to open the rear door. “Don’t need to salute, son. I’m in civvies.”
Jack waved the door closed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride shotgun with you. Hate riding in the backseat.”
The young man seemed to hesitate for a second and then smiled. “Yes, sir.” After taking care of Jack’s luggage, the driver jumped behind the steering wheel and began the drive south. Crossing the George Mason Memorial Bridge, Jack looked upriver along the Potomac and wondered what kind of trouble lay ahead. Trying to keep his overt military responsibilities separate from his cover operations raised all kinds of problems, like the one he was about to face.
Gerrit O’Rourke and that group existed in the gray, nebulous world of covert ops—where right and wrong could be a matter of perspective—without government sanction. To some, that might mean they could be labeled criminals or terrorists. But not to Jack or Beck Malloy. Gerrit, Alena, Willy, and Joe were thrust into a situation beyond their control and forced to exist in a world in which their very actions—computer hacking, even the use of force—was a matter of survival.
Survival for themselves and for their country.
If the other side snagged them, God forbid, and they survived, they could easily wind up in federal prison or worst—executed for treason.
“Sir, we are almost there.” The driver nodded at the security gate ahead. Heavily armed guards with automatic weapons, bomb-sniffing dogs, and reflective mirrors to examine the undercarriage of vehicles did more to advertise that this was the CIA’s headquarters than any sign posted along the roadway.
He pulled out his identification, and he and the driver submitted to a security search before they were allowed to drive forward. After they parked, Jack climbed out of the vehicle, telling the driver to stay with the car. He walked toward the main entrance of the CIA’s newest building. Even before he reached the main lobby, he saw a woman walking briskly in his direction.
Shakeela Vaziri. This woman was so pretty she could start a riot in a church.
“Colonel Thompson. We meet again.”
“SECNAV didn’t give me a choice.” Jack ignored the hand she held out.
“I’m sorry. This is not how I wanted to get the message to you. Once you’re briefed, I’m sure you’ll see why my boss went through
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