Crusader One Page 6

  “To Baldwin and his twins, Chip and Dale,” Grimes said, laughing, “who are manning the TOC back home so we can eat oysters and drink beer.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “And to our newest team member,” Dempsey said, fixing his gaze on Munn. “Welcome aboard, Doc.”

  “To Doc!” came the cheer.

  Munn’s cheeks flushed with pride, just enough for Dempsey to notice. The draining of their beer glasses drew their waiter’s attention like a bee to nectar. A beat later, the server was tableside, eyeing fluid levels and empty plates. “Getcha another round? How ’bout some more appetizers?”

  “Keep those oysters coming, and bring another round of Smithwick’s for me and all my friends,” Smith said, setting his empty glass down hard on the table with a broad, tipsy smile.

  “Oysters and another round, coming right up,” the young man said.

  From the corner of his eye, Dempsey saw Munn discreetly wave off the server. Dempsey had been logging mental observations of Munn’s behavior and sobriety all evening. Since his indoctrination into Ember, this was Doc’s first night out drinking with the team. When it came to Ember, drinking in public was a rarity. Inebriation was generally reserved for only one of two scenarios: a quiet celebration of a victory, or a somber toasting of the dead—both of which were best suited to a private venue.

  When Dempsey found Munn in Key West, he’d been worried that his friend had surrendered to the bottle. Given the demands of serving in Special Warfare, and especially the covert Tier One unit, Dempsey well understood alcohol’s siren song. “Novocain for the soul,” Aaron Thiel, his now dead best friend, had once called it. Dempsey had witnessed alcoholism in his unit. He was relieved to think that in Munn’s case, the bottle had simply been a surrogate for the thing in his life he had lost—the one thing that mattered above all others. Purpose. Give a man like Dan Munn his purpose back, and suddenly drunkenness becomes an unsatisfactory state of being. In that way, he and Munn were kindred spirits. Which is why even on a night like tonight—a night when it was okay to cut loose and party—both of them were still nursing their second beers.

  Dempsey realized he was a bit envious of his inebriated teammates. The thought of surrendering to a state of complete well-being—no matter how artificial—was tempting. But he had learned long ago that once there, he found that state horribly uncomfortable. Years of honing his psyche to be ready did more than just leave him with an inability to put both legs under the table in case he needed to spring into action; it left him with a powerful need to be in complete control of not just his environment, but himself, at all times. Always be ready . . . that was the unspoken, personal mantra for guys like him and Munn. Evil never takes a day off, Munn had once said to him down range, and neither do I.

  “How are you feeling about the training?” Jarvis asked, watching Munn. It had been more than a few years since they had served together in the Teams, but Jarvis knew the former SEAL officer very well. The bonds formed in combat were almost unbreakable.

  “Feeling sore,” Munn said, smiling at his former—and current—boss. “And maybe a little old.”

  “Training at the Farm will do that, especially when that training includes the Israelis,” Smith said with a laugh, checking around casually to make sure no one was in earshot. At the CIA’s secret training facility, the Ember team was allowed to train as “contractors” for an unspecified DoD entity. Even from the CIA, Ember NOCs were always protected.

  “He’s doing great,” Dempsey added, feeling a little protective of Munn. “He’s fully operational as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Which means you are just under halfway there, Dan,” Jarvis said softly. “The skills you are relearning from being an operator are actually a pretty small part of the skill set you will need. The real challenges are coming.”

  “I’m ready, sir,” Munn said, and Dempsey was happy to see more than a glimmer of the badass SEAL Munn had been when they were at the Tier One. “And I’m honored to be part of the team you’ve built here.”

  “To the team!” Wang chimed loud enough to confirm his own rising state of inebriation.

  “We’re lucky to have you, Dan,” Jarvis said more softly. Then he glanced at his watch and stood. “As much as I’d love to stay and party with you yahoos, I should probably hit the road.”

  “Ahh, you’ve got time for one more,” Smith said, looking up at his boss. “This round’s on me.”

  “Thanks, Shane, but I’m already late as it is,” Jarvis said. “Tell you what, put everything on the company tab tonight. This one’s on me.”

  “Be sure to tell Director Philips we said hello,” Grimes said. “And even though he ran out of invitations for the rest of us, make sure he knows there’s no hard feelings.”

  Dempsey smiled at her sarcasm and the warm little slur in Grimes’s voice. Tonight, she was having fun. Tonight, she felt comfortable enough to let her guard down. Over the past year, the bond between them had deepened, and not just because they shared the loss of her brother, Spaz—one of Dempsey’s teammates who had died during Operation Crusader. Her fiery personality and natural disposition to play devil’s advocate had put them at odds from their very first encounter. Since then, he’d ridden a roller-coaster ride with her: from finding her presence on the team a nuisance, to recognizing her tactical and strategic prowess, to viewing her as an indispensable teammate. Grimes was like a sister to him now, but there was also something else between them—something he couldn’t quite articulate. And as long as they were both working at Ember, romance was categorically off the table. He’d seen entire commands undermined by secret affairs between personnel when he was in the Navy; he would never let that happen here.

  “Tell the DNI he’s welcome to join us for the after-party,” Wang added. “I have a feeling we’ll still be here.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll be sure to convey the team’s warm regards,” Jarvis replied with a wry smile. His eyes then found Dempsey’s, and a silent message passed between them: You’re in charge . . . Don’t let them do anything I wouldn’t do.

  Dempsey gave the Ember Skipper a nod and then watched him disappear. A beat later, Dempsey stood and scanned the pub.

  “Ah, don’t tell me you’re bailing on us, too,” Smith said.

  “No, no. I’m just looking for the pisser.”

  “I’ll show you,” Grimes said, getting up from her chair. “I gotta go, too.”

  As they left the table, Dempsey heard Wang make some wisecrack about which of them would win the pissing-for-distance contest, to which he couldn’t help but chuckle. For having never been a sailor, that kid has the filthiest mind.

  “I’ve been watching you with him the last couple of weeks,” Grimes said, taking him by the arm.

  “Who?”

  “Munn, of course,” she said, fixing her pale baby blues on him. “You’ve done a good job bringing him back from the edge. I’m impressed.”

  Dempsey shrugged. “I happen to have personal experience with the matter . . . That’s all.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, John. Dan needed a rock, and you’ve been that for him. Hell, after we lost Mendez, you’ve been that rock for all of us—including me.”

  She stopped in the middle of the short hallway leading to the restrooms and turned to face him.

  “You’ve been there for me, too,” he said, looking down at her.

  Her hands found his waist and she stepped into him.

  “You’re drunk, Elizabeth,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said through her breath. “And I don’t care. Kiss me.”

  “Uh . . . I don’t think that’s such a good—” But he wasn’t able to finish the sentence because her lips found his.

  He didn’t kiss her back, but he didn’t pull away. A relationship with him was not what sober Elizabeth wanted. Her heart was confusing fraternal intimacy with physical intimacy.

  When she stepped back from him, her cheeks were crimson. “Apparently that
was a mistake.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It happens.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t,” she snapped. Then, with an about-face, she retreated into the women’s restroom.

  “Elizabeth, c’mon. I’m sorry,” he called after her. As he spoke the words, he felt someone else’s gaze on him. He turned left to see Smith standing at the end of the corridor, eyes narrowed in condemnation. No, not condemnation . . . something else.

  Envy?

  “Women,” he said, holding up his hands and shrugging at Smith.

  Smith shook his head and strode toward the men’s lavatory. When he walked past Dempsey, he muttered, “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “What I did?” Dempsey said in disbelief. Surely Smith must have seen that Grimes was the one who kissed him. He had been a gentleman and a friend, minimizing what could be a devastating mistake for the team. “Oh, c’mon. She kissed me,” he called after Smith, but the men’s-room door was already swinging closed. He loitered there in the hall for a minute, unsure what to do, until the awkward prospect of simultaneously confronting his two closest colleagues drove him to flee the little hallway. Fists clenched, he walked past the Ember table without making eye contact with anyone.

  “Where you going, Dempsey?” Wang called after him.

  “To get some fresh air,” he growled, and then under his breath added, “and to take a piss in private.”

  CHAPTER 5

  US Highway 50

  Annapolis, Maryland

  May 3

  1915 Local Time

  Inflammation.

  Inflammation was the bane of Kelso Jarvis’s existence. Chronic and omnipresent—inflammation was breaking him down. For years, his philosophy toward this internal enemy had been that the best defense was a strong offense. Problem: Achy joints? Solution: Navy SEAL willpower, exercise, and a shitload of ibuprofen. But that wasn’t working anymore. Something else was happening inside him.

  Something insidious.

  Something systemic.

  The first warning sign had been subtle: a coffee mug had slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor. He’d written it off as an accident, but then he began to notice episodic weakness and a tingling numbness in his hands, along with bouts of vertigo when he was tired. When he dropped a mug for the second time, he immediately went online and began researching. His symptoms correlated most closely to four different degenerative neurological diseases, none of which had a favorable prognosis.

  He gripped the steering wheel of his GMC Yukon, alternately clenching his right and left hands. Tonight, he felt fine. Strong. Like himself. Whatever this is, he told himself, I’ll defeat it. Fighting disease was no different from counterterrorism operations. The body was the battleground, disease the terrorists, and his immune system—Special Forces. He would tackle this problem like any other search-and-destroy mission. He would identify the target, plan the offensive, deliver the payload, and annihilate. Simple, efficient, effective.

  He spied the sign for Exit 32 ahead, braked, and exited US 50 East onto Oceanic Drive. He took a quick right onto Skidmore, then a left onto Holly Beach Farm Road, which led to the private residence of the Director of National Intelligence. This was his second invitation to the Philips estate. During his first visit, the DNI had given him a personal tour of the house and the grounds while sharing the story of the property and his early married years. The twenty-five-acre estate on the Chesapeake belonged to Philips’s wife, Jackie—the property having passed to her upon her mother’s death in 2013. Jackie hailed from a wealthy Maryland family. The fact that Philips had married into money was something the man neither took pleasure boasting about nor tried to hide, Jarvis had observed. Philips had met Jackie while enrolled as a midshipman at the Naval Academy. Jackie’s father, although having never served himself, was a staunch supporter of the Navy and a decent sailboat skipper. Oliver had treated his future son-in-law like family from the first day they’d met and on multiple occasions had tried to woo Philips away from the Navy to join his real estate business. But as Philips explained, he’d had only one career aspiration, and that was to become Chief of Naval Operations. Neither Jackie’s father nor her mother lived to see the day that he eclipsed that goal—the day he’d been sworn in as Director of National Intelligence.

  Jarvis piloted his big black SUV slowly along Holly Beach Farm Road. The private driveway to the estate was not well marked, and he’d driven past it on his last visit. This time, however, the security detail at the gate made the turn impossible to miss. He stopped at the gate and handed his ID to an armed sentry. A second guard inspected the undercarriage of the Yukon with an angled mirror attached to the end of a five-foot pole. Without having to be told, Jarvis popped the hood and opened the tailgate for inspection. Two minutes later, they waved him through the gate.

  The long asphalt driveway snaked through a grove of trees, doglegged right to run along the bay for about a quarter mile, and finally turned back toward the house. The ten-thousand-square-foot redbrick Georgian Colonial stood majestic in the glow of the setting sun. He looped around the circle drive and was directed to park his Yukon along a row of other government-issue vehicles in the grass. He backed into the spot, leaving extra space on the driver’s side for easy access. Stepping out of the Yukon, the first thing that hit him was the aroma of meat being grilled. He was surprised the caterers would be running grills, but it was a beautiful evening, and Philips definitely wasn’t a caviar and champagne kind of guy. He had expected that the menu choices would be highbrow nonetheless, with Philips tending to defer on such things to his charming and sophisticated wife. Now that he could smell the grills, however, Jarvis grinned. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the DNI was out there tending short ribs on the barbecue personally.

  As he walked toward the house, he scanned the area, looking for any gaps in the security. When he reached the entry, he stopped before two men in black suits who flanked the door. He flashed the right-hand guard his ID and asked, “How are the appetizers tonight?” which was a scripted statement conveying he had a concealed carry.

  The older of the two guards validated his ID while the younger gave him a pat-down, passing over the pistol in the small of his back without stopping. The pat-down was just a show for anyone else watching—the password game verified he was one of only a handful of guests authorized to carry a weapon on the property.

  A beat later the older guard said, “Enjoy the party, Director Jarvis, but I recommend you steer clear of the egg rolls.”

  Jarvis nodded and walked inside. Five steps into the vestibule, he paused to marvel. The Philips mansion looked like it had been ripped from the pages of Architectural Digest. The French provincial style—with its ornate moldings, white marble floors, and luxurious appointments—occupied the niche opposite his own clean, contemporary taste, but he could appreciate it nonetheless. His eyes were tracing the soaring spiral staircase when a familiar female face slipped into his field of vision.

  “Kelso!” Jackie Philips exclaimed. “So sorry to leave you stranded in the parlor—come in, come in.”

  He leaned in to embrace the hostess, both giving and receiving a polite peck on the cheek.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, making a show of admiring her summer dress, which he imagined rivaled the cost of most monthly mortgage payments. Jackie Philips was tall, with a handsome face and lithe frame. His compliment was not a hollow one.

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Where is everyone?” he said, glancing past her and the empty parlor to the living room beyond. He could hear the din of voices, but they were very much alone.

  “Some are in the dining room, most are in the kitchen, but the Israeli contingent has laid claim to the sunroom, and despite being packed in there like sardines, they refuse to relocate.”

  “Sounds very Israeli, if you ask me.” He chuckled. “Sharott will probably demand you relocate your bartender in there, t
oo.”

  Jackie laughed. “How did you know?”

  Jarvis shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, where the DNI was talking to a circle of guests who were hanging on his every word. When Philips saw them, he smiled and gave a little nod, but didn’t miss a beat. When he finished, everyone laughed, and he got a pat on the shoulder from an Air Force General that Jarvis didn’t recognize. The DNI excused himself and made his way over.

  “Kelso,” the DNI said, extending his hand. “I see it didn’t take you long to find the most beautiful woman at the party to keep you company.”

  Jarvis shook Philips’s hand. “Well, sir, I tried my best to steal her away, but she seems hell-bent on sticking with you. I guess she’s got a thing for fighter jocks—or else something against frogmen.”

  The DNI laughed. “Glad you could make it. Although you do realize the party started an hour ago.”

  “I’m terrible at these things. It’s usually best if I don’t start making small talk until the important folks already have a couple of drinks in them. Otherwise I’m liable to create an international incident.”

  “Oh, Kelso, don’t you know? Small talk is what wives are for,” Jackie said with a coy smile. “And when are we going to get to meet Mrs. Jarvis?”

  “As soon as I meet her,” he said, then made a show of scanning the room for women. “Any recommendations?”

  They all three laughed at this, and he felt his mood begin to lighten.

  “Have you ever met Mossad Director Rami Sharott?” Philips asked.

  “No, sir. But his reputation I’m quite familiar with.”

  “And I understand you’re close with his predecessor, Levi Harel.”

  Jarvis nodded, though he knew the DNI’s comment was a statement, not a question. Philips made a point of knowing everything about those who served below him—just as when he’d commanded a fighter squadron, then a wing, then a carrier battle group. “Harel and I have a long working relationship,” Jarvis said, choosing his words carefully.