Read Online Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller by Sam Powers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sam Powers
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5./
WASHINGTON, D.C. June 17, 2014
The senator poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher that sat just ahead of him on the semi-circular chamber table and flicked through the multi-page list of notes and questions again. His square-framed glasses glinted under the room lights. He took another sip of water. Then he played with his pen, tapping it on the long, smooth desk, which was shared by the committee members. Then he cleared his throat, his aged, wrinkled and baggy face betraying no hint of emotional investment,
The committee desk was elevated, seating for a dozen politicians set in front of the back wall of the chamber, a pair of tables ahead of it for witnesses and their legal representatives, each featuring a pair of microphones and a similar pitcher of water. His colleagues waited patiently for the senator to collect his thoughts.
Walter Lang sat alone facing them at the table to the right; the table to the left was empty. The gallery, too. The hearing was official, but the contents were publicly sealed for what the agency cryptically deemed “reasons of national security.” Lang just wanted them to get on with it; the decrepit specimen ahead of him, the senior Republican senator from Alabama, had taken an hour already and had yet to ask a question Walter felt he could answer openly, without compromising someone’s role.
The senator moistened his lips briefly with the tip of his tongue and tapped his pen again. He leaned towards the microphone as if about to say something… then leaned back again and reconsidered the question. Lang watched him with a sense of loathing. Men like the senator were always interfering, always getting in the way of the agency’s ability to protect national interests; and it was always a matter of self-interest, or political expediency. No one on the select committee on foreign intelligence gathering was sitting there because of their constituents’ demands for more agency oversight, of that he was sure.
After a few more moments and some clearing of throats from his colleagues, the senator leaned in to the microphone once more.
“Mr. Lang, I feel we’ve been talking for a while now, with this the third day of this hearing. And yet I have yet to hear, sir, any sense of contrition on your part for your role in this incident, an international embarrassment in which your agency used in excess of …” he checked his notes, “…. one-hundred-and-seventy thousand dollars’ worth of money and equipment paid for by the U.S. taxpayer. Or, for that matter…”
“Senator Morris,” Lang said, interrupting him, “I’ve indicated already that my superiors are best suited to decide the nature of any penalty I may face with respect to internal agency discipline. I’ve acknowledged the incident.”
“Or, for that matter,” the senator continued, as if Lang hadn’t even spoken, “any explanation of how you managed to marshal the resources that went into your extraction in Colombia. According to your version of events, we are expected to believe that a single agent extracted you without a scratch from a compound full of highly-armed drug cartel members, with no outside support, and of his own initiative. And somehow, your expenses in being there in the first place showed up as a line item in your budget, albeit one without any explanation or context. Can you not see, sir, how my colleagues and I might be somewhat skeptical that such a miraculous mission – two men against several dozen armed criminals – could have taken place?”
Lang knew what they wanted: a confession that the mission had been a black op, official but off the books. After twenty years with the agency, the chance of him giving that up was non-existent, particularly to a political blowhard like Morris. But Morris was a Republican and with the President in his second term, there would be a shit storm if the Colombia op was made public, one that might make the Democrats more vulnerable
5./
WASHINGTON, D.C. June 17, 2014
The senator poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher that sat just ahead of him on the semi-circular chamber table and flicked through the multi-page list of notes and questions again. His square-framed glasses glinted under the room lights. He took another sip of water. Then he played with his pen, tapping it on the long, smooth desk, which was shared by the committee members. Then he cleared his throat, his aged, wrinkled and baggy face betraying no hint of emotional investment,
The committee desk was elevated, seating for a dozen politicians set in front of the back wall of the chamber, a pair of tables ahead of it for witnesses and their legal representatives, each featuring a pair of microphones and a similar pitcher of water. His colleagues waited patiently for the senator to collect his thoughts.
Walter Lang sat alone facing them at the table to the right; the table to the left was empty. The gallery, too. The hearing was official, but the contents were publicly sealed for what the agency cryptically deemed “reasons of national security.” Lang just wanted them to get on with it; the decrepit specimen ahead of him, the senior Republican senator from Alabama, had taken an hour already and had yet to ask a question Walter felt he could answer openly, without compromising someone’s role.
The senator moistened his lips briefly with the tip of his tongue and tapped his pen again. He leaned towards the microphone as if about to say something… then leaned back again and reconsidered the question. Lang watched him with a sense of loathing. Men like the senator were always interfering, always getting in the way of the agency’s ability to protect national interests; and it was always a matter of self-interest, or political expediency. No one on the select committee on foreign intelligence gathering was sitting there because of their constituents’ demands for more agency oversight, of that he was sure.
After a few more moments and some clearing of throats from his colleagues, the senator leaned in to the microphone once more.
“Mr. Lang, I feel we’ve been talking for a while now, with this the third day of this hearing. And yet I have yet to hear, sir, any sense of contrition on your part for your role in this incident, an international embarrassment in which your agency used in excess of …” he checked his notes, “…. one-hundred-and-seventy thousand dollars’ worth of money and equipment paid for by the U.S. taxpayer. Or, for that matter…”
“Senator Morris,” Lang said, interrupting him, “I’ve indicated already that my superiors are best suited to decide the nature of any penalty I may face with respect to internal agency discipline. I’ve acknowledged the incident.”
“Or, for that matter,” the senator continued, as if Lang hadn’t even spoken, “any explanation of how you managed to marshal the resources that went into your extraction in Colombia. According to your version of events, we are expected to believe that a single agent extracted you without a scratch from a compound full of highly-armed drug cartel members, with no outside support, and of his own initiative. And somehow, your expenses in being there in the first place showed up as a line item in your budget, albeit one without any explanation or context. Can you not see, sir, how my colleagues and I might be somewhat skeptical that such a miraculous mission – two men against several dozen armed criminals – could have taken place?”
Lang knew what they wanted: a confession that the mission had been a black op, official but off the books. After twenty years with the agency, the chance of him giving that up was non-existent, particularly to a political blowhard like Morris. But Morris was a Republican and with the President in his second term, there would be a shit storm if the Colombia op was made public, one that might make the Democrats more vulnerable
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