Savage Son (James Reece #3) - Jack Carr Page 0,104
ending the exercise. From Reece’s perspective, it had gone exceptionally well.
Now they just had to do it for real, against an armed enemy defending home soil.
* * *
Even seasoned professional commandos felt the euphoria of a job well done and the mood during the debriefing was light but serious. Every pilot, operator, and support soldier involved in the operation was in the room. Men in sweat-stained combat uniforms sipped coffee, Kill Cliff, Gatorade, or Red Bull, each fighting their body’s circadian rhythm, which told them it was long past time to go to sleep. The clock on the wall indicated it was just after 0400 and, despite having trained every night and slept during the day for the past five days, everyone was exhausted.
The special operations culture is unique in its willingness to ignore rank when it comes to providing brutally honest assessments of an action. Though the mission went well, there was always room for improvement and the men in the room made no bones about what could have gone better. Drone footage of the assault was played back on the oversize screens and paused at various intervals to allow for discussion. The movements of each individual operator could be tracked using the ATAK software and were displayed and scrutinized the way that game films were in a football locker room. The technology left no doubt as to who did what, when.
Reece’s role was that of a Ground Branch liaison, there to support the highly capable operators who would perform the rescue. He had a reputation as a solid combat leader and because his postwar exploits had given him near-legendary status in this community, Sergeant Major Holloway asked if he had anything to add.
“Just that if it was me on Medny, there is no other group of killers I’d want kicking in the door to do the job. Thank you all for…” Reece’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, seeing Vic’s number come up in the caller ID.
Walking a few steps from the Army commandos he accepted the call. “Talk to me, Vic.”
“It’s a no-go, Reece.”
“Shit!”
“President’s chief of staff shut us down.”
“You didn’t even talk to the president? Get me his number. You’re the C-I-A. Get me his private line. I’ll call him directly and cash in those chips from Odessa.”
“I know you’re pissed, Reece. Director Motley and I have been talking all night about how best to handle this, but right now our hands are tied.”
Reece was about to continue but instead switched gears. It was time to think, not fly off the handle.
“Sorry, Vic. Understood. I’ll let the crew here know.”
“Pass on the director’s sincere thank-you to everyone on site. Get some rest and take your time getting back. We will figure this out. Like you said, we’re the CIA.”
Reece ended the call and turned to see the room of sweaty operators looking at him, already knowing what he was going to say. They’d been spun up only to be turned off more times over the years than they could recall.
“Mission is canked,” Reece said. “Director Motley thanks you all for your efforts, but it’s a no-go.”
A few heads hung in silent resignation before they started to shuffle to the door.
Sergeant Major Holloway approached Reece.
“Sorry, friend.”
“Yeah. You guys got a bar around here?”
“How’d you guess? Follow me.”
* * *
Most of the seats and bar stools were already taken when Reece and Christian Holloway entered the makeshift bar.
“What a find!” Reece remarked, looking around the cavernous interior.
“Well, we’ve been down here so much over the years we figured we needed a place to call home. Your Seabees built it for us. Built one for Blue, too.”
Plaques adorned the walls, red party lights were strewn from the ceiling, and speakers linked to one of the operator’s playlists filled the small structure with the songs of Johnny Cash.
“Join us for a beer?” Holloway asked.
“Give me a few minutes,” Reece said. “I’m going to grab a whiskey and do a little thinking.”
“Dangerous stuff, that thinking business,” Holloway remarked with a smile.
“That’s what they tell me,” Reece replied, making his way behind the self-serve bar, nodding to the [XXX] operators, who raised their glasses as he passed.
After picking through a seemingly unending supply of whiskey bottles, Reece selected a Woodford Reserve on ice and settled into a bar stool at the far end of the bar, swirling his whiskey and ice with a plastic stirrer.
The sun was coming up as the last operators left the bar. Reece’s ice had long since melted