No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(5)

“I got a letter saying Grolier Recovery Services has been fired.”

I heard nothing for a moment, then, “You’re kidding me. They pulled the trigger?”

“You knew?”

He heard the anger coming through and said, “No, no. I told you what was happening after that last mission. The Oversight Council was skittish at how you’d gone on the warpath. They were kicking around letting you go. You’re the one who said Kurt vouched for you. You knew more than me six months ago. Last I heard, you were on probation.”

The Oversight Council was our approval authority. Since we were outside the traditional military or intelligence architecture, we had our own unique command structure. Composed of about a dozen men in the upper echelons of the government, including the president, it dictated Taskforce actions. I’d ignored their orders on our last mission, and now I was apparently paying the price—even though the refusal had ended up preventing a weapon of mass destruction from slaughtering thousands.

“How did you not know this was coming?”

“Pike, I’ve been out here for a month, working eighteen-hour days. I don’t track what the brass is thinking. If I had known it was coming, I would have called.”

I said nothing, the ramifications settling in my stomach like spoiled milk. He had been kept in the dark, which meant the letter was real. They’d known he’d fight it, and so they’d just cut him out. Something that was very easy to do in our cellular, top secret world. The letter wasn’t a sick joke, and I was losing the reason I existed. The thing that made me whole.

He said, “You still there?”

“Yeah. . . . Knuckles, what the hell am I going to do?”

Knuckles heard the pain in my voice and understood why. He lived for the missions the same way I did. I’d been his team leader when I was on active duty, and he’d helped pull me through a traumatic event after I’d left. He’d been the first to sign on as our notional “employee” for the experiment of a civilian company of Operators working inside the Taskforce. The first to embrace Jennifer—a female—as an operational member when everyone else in our testosterone-driven organization wanted to give her the boot without even seeing if she was capable. And the first to ask me to kill the men who’d murdered his teammate on our last mission. The actions that had gotten me fired.

He said, “Pike, I won’t let them erase the database. I’ll keep the documents, leases, contracts, and all that other stuff.”

Meaning, I could be fired on paper, but the enormous cover architecture we’d painstakingly built with Grolier Recovery Services would remain on a shelf, ready to be dusted off. If those linkages were deleted, we’d be done forever. He was telling me what I needed to hear: The Oversight Council could say what it wanted, but the men who mattered most understood and would protect me.

It meant a lot, but in the end, I wasn’t sure he had the power. The commander would dictate that.

I said, “I’m calling Kurt. See what’s up.”

Colonel Kurt Hale and I had been through more than one scrape together, and—if he weren’t the commander—I would consider him a friend. Hell, he was a friend. But he also had to make judgments in the best interest of the Taskforce—not for any single Operator—and if the Oversight Council had spoken, there was nothing he could do.

Knuckles said, “Don’t call him today. Let it sit. He’s way too busy right now, and you won’t get a chance to make your case.”

“Why? What’s going on? Why’s this shit sandwich any worse than our usual stew?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen some reports, but I’m not sure what it is beyond the fact that everyone inside the Beltway is starting to spin out of control.”

“A threat? Something against the homeland?”

“No, nothing like that. Apparently, somebody’s kid or nephew got killed. A military guy that was related to someone on the House Armed Services Committee. Then somebody else’s kid came up missing.”

“Afghanistan?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess . . . the reports don’t say. I’m just reading between the lines.”

“Why would that have any Taskforce fingerprints? The Armed Services Committee’s not even read onto the program.”

“He’s not, but the vice president is. The kid that’s missing is his son.”






DAY THREE

The Rollup





4




Navy Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute saw a white Toyota four-door sedan enter the parking lot, causing her to lean forward. The glare broke off the windshield and she saw it wasn’t her brother. She sat back, disgusted. She’d been told to wait outside the main exchange on Kadena Air Base and he’d be by to get her at noon. He’d said he was driving a white Toyota, which would have been fine except it seemed everyone here on Okinawa drove bland white Toyotas.

Just like a jarhead.

Captain McKinley Clute was her twin brother, and together they came from a long line of distinguished naval aviators. Their grandfather had retired as a four-star admiral, pioneering fleet aviation in the modern era. Their father had decided on a different path, retiring as a captain and going into politics, first as a representative, then as a senator, and was now the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.