INCIRLIK, TURKEY
Colonel Charles Van Buren tried rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes as he powered up his laptop, waiting to hear from Washington that his people were not needed to grab the team and its prisoner. He’d received unofficial word already—from Ferguson himself—which had allowed him to order most of the men and equipment tagged for the operation to bed. Van Buren sympathized with the complaints as they’d disembarked from their MC-130—to a man his volunteers preferred action to sleep—but nonetheless he’d been sincere when he offered them a job well-done.
The colonel felt strongly that it was the outcome that mattered. If the team had gotten out without needing them, then the mission had been accomplished as surely as if Van Buren’s two planeloads of paratroopers and Special Forces A teams had gone into action. Indeed, the military people on the Team had been drawn from Van Buren’s own force, and he felt nearly as paternal toward them as he did toward his own son, James.
Ferguson was a different story—more brother and friend than son, though he was nearly young enough to be one. Van Buren admired the CIA officer a great deal; though they’d
worked together for only a short time, they were good friends. On a professional level, they were a good match, Van Buren’s caution and ability to plan balancing Ferg’s tendency to work by the seat of his pants.
Still waiting for the official order to stand down—it had to come through the Pentagon—Van Buren pulled out his laptop to compose an e-mail home to his wife and son. Since taking the appointment as the commander of the 777th Special Forces Joint Task Group six months before, Van Buren had communicated with his family almost exclusively through e-mail. It had its advantages—it was certainly quicker than writing a letter, nor did he have to worry about time zone differences. But it surely wasn’t the same as seeing them in person.
Van Buren brought up the most recent e-mail from his son, James. It was typical James, a terse account of his Babe Ruth League baseball game:
Dad—2 hrs., trip.; won 7-2.—james
Two home runs and a triple—Van Buren wondered if his son might have the makings of a pro ballplayer. He’d always thought of James as athletic and brilliant, but now that his boy was fifteen he wondered how brilliant and intelligent and athletic he really was. He had a ninety-five average at school and had started on the varsity football and baseball teams since freshman year. But the school was in a small rural community, and there was no way of knowing how it really compared to the rest of the world.
Van Buren selected the text of the message and hit reply. Then he began to type.
He backed up the cursor, erasing “son.” It sounded too stiff.
Van Buren hunched over the laptop, searching for something else to say. His writer’s block was interrupted by the phone. He grabbed the handset.
“Yo, Van Buren, who the hell do you think you’re fooling, playing with snake eaters?”
The voice caught him off guard, but just for a second.
“Dalton, what the hell are you doing calling Dehrain?”
“Oh is that where I’m calling?”
“How’d you track me down?”
“Friends.”
“Look, it’s 2300 here, and—”
“What, you keep banker’s hours now that I’m not around to kick your butt?”
“Yeah, that’ll be the day.”
“Listen, I can’t really go into much detail on the phone, not this phone anyway, but I have something I want to talk to you about the next time you’re in Washington.”
Van Buren leaned back in his seat. Like Van Buren, Dalton had served as a captain with Army Special Forces, bringing home a Purple Heart from Central America. He’d gone on to hold several important posts with USSOCOM, before retiring a year ago to join the private sector.
Dalton joked about his medal, claiming it was certified proof that he was an asshole, but the fact of the matter was that he had earned it rescuing two civilian DEA agents from a guerrilla ambush, and had humped one of his own men to safety besides. Few officers, even in Special Forces, could make such a claim; in Van Buren’s opinion, the military had lost a good man when he separated from the service.
“So?” asked Dalton.
“I’m going to be in Washington pretty soon,” said Van Buren. Assuming the Team’s assignment wrapped up without a problem, he’d be returning to debrief with Ferguson.
“Good. When?”
“Soon.” Van Buren wouldn’t elaborate even if he knew, not even for an old friend.
“Need to know, huh?” Dalton laughed after a few moments of silence.
“My schedule’s not really my own.”
“When you’re here, I want you to drop by and talk about career opportunities. Give me a call at home. Just leave a message where I can get you. Don’t worry about the time.”
Van Buren laughed. “What, you have an inside track for general?”
“Something better, VB. Much, much better.”
And with that, Dalton hung up.