President Kealty has turned the full weight of the United States Department of Justice loose on a distinguished soldier of the United States Army. That soldier was in Afghanistan looking for the Emir, Saif Rahman Yasin. The mission to apprehend him failed, probably due to poor intelligence, but in carrying out that mission, this soldier killed several enemy combatants. Now the Department of Justice is investigating him for murder. I’ve looked in to this particular incident. This soldier did exactly what soldiers have been doing since the beginning of time: He killed enemies of our country. Clearly President Kealty and I have very different ideas about what the armed forces of our country are supposed to do. This prosecution is a gross injustice. The government is supposed to serve the citizens, and a soldier in the United States Army is, in fact, a uniformed citizen. I call upon President Kealty to put an end to this outrage immediately.
“So thanks for coming. My campaign starts here and now. It will be a long one and probably a hard one, certainly harder than my first. But I am in the race, and we’ll see what the American people decide in November. Again, thanks for coming.”
Ryan stepped back from the lectern and took a deep breath. He needed a sip of water. This he got from a glass on the lectern. He looked over at Arnie and Callie, and got thumbs-up from both. Okay, that was done. The race was on. God help him.
Motherfucker!” Edward Kealty snarled at the TV. “Goddamned Dudley Do-Right riding to the rescue of a beleaguered nation! The worst part is, millions of sheep out there are buying his shit.”
McMullen and his staff had known Ryan’s announcement was coming and had been prepping Kealty for it; clearly, their efforts had failed. Kealty’s reaction was mostly anger, McMullen knew, but there was genuine worry there, too. Much of the American public was still uneasy with Kealty, due in large part to the way the election played out. The phrase “victory by forfeiture” had been common fodder on the political shows for a month following Kealty’s election, and while the polling numbers couldn’t quite encapsulate the country’s mood, McMullen suspected most people felt as though the election had been missing an essential ingredient—namely, a long and hard-fought contest between two candidates who’d bared their souls for the voters. Kealty had done this, or mostly done this, but his opponent hadn’t had the chance.
“How the hell did he find out about this thing with the Ranger?” Kealty demanded. “I want to know.”
“Impossible to know, sir.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Wes! Find out.”
“Yes, sir. We’re going to have to drop the prosecution.”
“Of the grunt? Yeah, I know, dammit. Dump it into Friday’s news cycle. Get rid of it. Where are we on opposition research?”
“Still working on it. Nothing we can sink our teeth into; the problem is Langley. A lot of stuff Ryan did there is still compartmentalized.”
“Get Kilborn—”
“There’ll be leaks. If the press finds out we’re digging into Ryan’s CIA past, it’ll backfire on us. We’ll have to find another way.”
“Whatever you need to do. This dickhead wants back in, fine, but I want it to hurt.”
Holy shit,” Sam Driscoll said from his hospital bed. “Here’s a face from the past. What the hell’re you doing here?”
John Clark smiled. “Heard through the grapevine you fucked up your shoulder playing badminton.”
“I wish. Sit down, man.”
“I come bearing gifts,” Clark said, then set his briefcase on the bed and opened it. Inside were two bottles of Sam Adams beer. He handed one to Driscoll, then opened his own.
Driscoll took a gulp and sighed. “How’d you know? The beer, I mean.”
“Remembered you talking about it after Somalia.”
“Some memory you got there. Got a little more gray, too, I see.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Driscoll took another long pull. “So what’s the real reason?”
“Mostly just wanted to check in, but I heard about the CID bullshit, too. Where’s that stand?”
“No idea. They’ve interviewed me three times. Best my lawyer can figure is some dickhead behind some desk is trying to figure out what to charge me with. It’s a cluster-fuck, John.”
“You got that right. Damned if you do the job, damned if you fail. What do the docs say about your shoulder?”
“Need one more surgery. The rock missed the big vessels in there but fucked up the tendons and ligaments. Figure three months’ recovery, then another three for rehab. They’re pretty confident, but I don’t think I’ll be swinging