The Oval Office
The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 22, 9:45 a.m.
President Natalie Cohen paced back and forth, aware that it made her look indecisive, but frankly not giving a shit.
“I will tell you, Marty, that I’m not sure this was the right call,” she said, shooting her DNI a look. The fact that Fleiss had green-lighted the Presidential Agent team to head north out of Khartoum seemed reckless in light of all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. “Castillo and his new boy are on a rampage—first in Cairo and now in Khartoum. It’s bad enough that we may have to smooth this out with our foreign partners, but now it looks like we have to placate our own intelligence community, who are loudly complaining that they don’t know what’s going on in their own sandbox.”
She watched Fleiss, hands clasped behind his back, give her a nod. His face was a mask, but his eyes were smiling.
“You can leave the IC to me, Madam President,” he said. “And I think we can dispel any concern about our interests in Sudan and Egypt. Nothing in the footprints in Cairo or Khartoum suggests involvement of U.S. operatives, at least not publicly. The body count is higher than we would like, obviously, but we have cover and deniability—which I feel is the biggest advantage of using this program, quite frankly. Charley tells me they are on the trail and that they believe they may have located the region where Secretary Malone is being held.”
Cohen let out a long, frustrated sigh, then walked around the Resolute desk and dropped into the chair that now, like those before her, provided more frustration and tension than comfort. She looked up at the DNI, who had barely moved.
“Marty, no bullshit—do you really believe Frank is still alive?”
Now Fleiss took a moment, clearly considering the question carefully and formulating his answer.
“I believe he is, Madam President,” he said finally and firmly. “If he were dead, there would be an announcement and claiming of responsibility—likely to include some graphic photos or videos along with bragging about bringing America to her knees. We also now believe that there may be elements within the Sudanese transitional government involved.” She watched Fleiss hesitate, and he shifted his weight slightly.
There was something he wasn’t telling her.
“Are you telling me the Sudanese government is involved in the kidnapping of the secretary of state?” she demanded, the very thought making her blood boil.
“No, ma’am,” Fleiss answered quickly. “Not at all. In fact, we’re working with representatives at many levels who are involved to assist us—directly and with information otherwise difficult to obtain. It’s possible that a rogue asset may be embedded in the Sudanese government, however. We don’t know whether his involvement is to capitalize on information streams for money—common practice in most North African countries—or if this is someone actually personally and ideologically involved.”
Cohen leaned back in her chair, exhausted now for some reason. She’d not slept well since the secretary had been taken, but the reports of bodies left in Castillo’s wake had kept her from sleeping at all the last two days.
“So,” she said, folding her hands on her desk and leaning forward. “You’ve given Charley permission to move into some vague area north in Sudan to prosecute a lead on Frank Malone’s location. And then what? What assets would need to be involved in the extraction, or does Charley just imagine his Merry Outlaws riding in on white horses and rescuing the secretary single-handedly?”
“No, ma’am,” Fleiss replied, unable to contain a subtle smile. “Charley has high confidence that we’ll have an exact location very soon. I recommend that we spool up a Special Operations element on a short fuse to respond and augment his team for the rescue, should Charley prove right—as he seems to almost always do.”
“What element?”
“We have SEALs operating as part of a Joint Special Operations Task Force out of Djibouti. I’d like to reposition a fire team from that JSOTF to stage aboard the USS America, an LHA-class amphibious assault ship currently in the Red Sea. From there, we could insert them via HALO or air assault using the twelve MV-22 Ospreys the Marines have aboard as part of their MEU. We also have F-35Bs aboard, should it come to that.”
“F-35s?” Cohen said. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “We’re not looking to start a war with Sudan, Marty. Just kill the terrorists holding our secretary of state and get him the hell home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fleiss agreed. “But I’ve never regretted having more assets than I needed, ma’am. If Charley confirms the location of the secretary, we’ll use the SEALs for a covert rescue mission, thanking the Sudanese government for the help it didn’t know it provided so they save face. But you just never know. We certainly don’t want to lose the secretary to these assholes for lack of firepower.”
She saw a fire in Fleiss’s eyes, the army general inside always stepping up in a crisis.
“I agree,” she said, but her gut churned. “Just don’t let Charley put us into some land war in Africa, Marty. Get the secretary back and everyone else home without casualties.”
“Yes, ma’am, Madam President.” He turned to leave, spinning on a heel, military style.
“Marty,” she called. He turned back from the door.
“Yes, Madam President?”
“Keep me in the damn loop. And tell Charley he can’t call Dad because he’s afraid Mom will say no. Mom . . .” she said, leaning in and holding his eyes, “is the President of the United States. Mom is in charge. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fleiss said. “And I’ll make sure Charley gets the message as well.”
“See that you do.”
Then he was gone, closing the door gently behind him.
Cohen leaned back in the chair and pursed her lips. With a long sigh, she couldn’t help but wonder if bringing Castillo back might be the mistake that would bring down her presidency.