Primary Command

Invariably there would be bigwigs from several agencies and their staffers milling around, the bigwigs insisting on having their say, the staffers typing into BlackBerry phones, scratching out notes on yellow legal pads, running in and out, making urgent phone calls. Who were these people?

Luke crossed the threshold, followed closely by Ed. The overhead fluorescents were bright and dazzling.

There was nobody in the room. Well, not nobody, but not many. Five people, to be exact. Luke and Ed make it seven.

“Here are the men we’ve all been waiting for,” Don Morris said. He was not smiling. Don didn’t like to wait. He looked formidable in a dress shirt and slacks. His body language was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp.

A man stepped in front of Luke. He was a tall and thin four-star, in impeccable dress greens. His gray hair was trimmed to the scalp. There wasn’t a stray whisker anywhere on his clean-shaven face—whiskers knew better than to defy him. Luke had never met the man, but he knew him in his bones. He made his bed every morning before doing anything else. You could bounce a quarter off it. He probably did, just to make sure.

“Agent Stone, Agent Newsam, I’m General Richard Stark, Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“General, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Luke shook his hand before the man moved on to Ed.

“We were very proud of what you boys did a month ago. You’re both a credit to the United States Army.”

Another man stood there. He was a balding man, maybe somewhere in his forties. He had a large round gut and pudgy little fingers. His suit did not fit well—too tight at the shoulders, too tight around the center. His face was doughy and his nose was bulbous. He reminded Luke of Karl Malden doing a TV commercial about credit card fraud.

“Luke, I’m Ron Begley of Homeland Security.”

They also shook hands. Ron didn’t mention last month’s operation.

“Ron. Good to meet you.”

No one said a word about Luke’s face. That was a relief. Though he was sure he would hear about it from Don after the meeting was over.

“Boys, won’t you sit down?” the general said, waving a hand at the conference table. It was gracious of him, to invite them to sit at their own table.

Luke and Ed took seats near Don. There were two other men in the room, both wearing suits. One was bald and had an earpiece that disappeared inside his jacket. They looked on impassively. Neither man said a word. No one introduced them. To Luke, that meant enough said.

Ron Begley closed the door.

The major surprise here was there were no other SRT people in the room.

General Stark looked at Don.

“Ready?”

Don opened his big hands as if they were flowers opening their petals.

“Yes. This was all we needed. Do your worst.”

The general looked at Ed and Luke.

“Gentlemen, what I’m about to share with you is classified information.”

* * *

“What are they not telling us?” Luke said.

Don looked up. The desk he sat behind was polished oak, wide and gleaming. There were two pieces of paper on it, an office telephone, and an old, battered Toughbook laptop with a sticker on the back of the screen depicting a red spearhead with a dagger on it—the logo of Army Special Operations Command. Don was a clean desk kind of guy.

On the wall behind him were various framed photographs. Luke spotted the one of four shirtless young Green Berets in Vietnam—Don was on the right.

Don gestured at the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Have a seat. Take a load off.”

Luke did.

“How’s your face?”

“It’s a little sore,” Luke said.

“What did you do, slam the car door on it?”

Luke shrugged and smiled. “I ran into Kevin Murphy at Martinez’s funeral this morning. Remember him?”

Don nodded. “Sure. He was a decent soldier as Delta goes. Bit of a chip on his shoulder, I suppose. How did he look… after you ran into him?”

“Last I saw, he was still on the ground.”

Don nodded again. “Good. What was the issue?”

“He and I are the last men standing from that night in Afghanistan. There are some hard feelings. He thinks I could have done more to abort the mission.”

Don shrugged. “It wasn’t your mission to abort.”

“That’s what I told him. I also gave him my business card. If he calls me, I’d like you to consider hiring him here. He’s Delta trained, combat experienced, three tours that I know of, doesn’t wet his pants when the fur starts to fly.”

“He’s out of the service?”

Luke nodded. “Yeah.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Armed robbery. He’s been taking down drug kingpins in various cities.”

Don shook his head. “Jesus, Luke.”

“All I ask is you give him a chance.”

“We’ll talk about it,” Don said. “When and if he calls.”

Luke nodded. “Fair enough.”

Don pulled one of the pieces of paper on his desk closer to him. He slipped a pair of black reading glasses on the tip of his nose. Luke had seen him do this a few times now, and the effect was jarring. Superhuman Don Morris wore reading glasses.