Executive orders - Tom Clancy [452]
What's your area of specialty? BLACKHORSE Six asked on the way to his car.
My dissertation was on the operational art of Nathan Bedford Forrest.
Oh? I've always admired Buford, myself.
He only had a couple of days, but they were all good days. He might have won the war for Lincoln at Gettysburg.
The Spencer carbines gave his troopers the technical edge, Hamm announced. People overlook that factor.
Choosing the best ground didn't hurt, and the Spencers helped, but what he did best was to remember his mission, Eddington replied.
As opposed to Stuart. Jeb definitely had a bad day. I suppose he was due for one. Hamm opened the car door for his colleague. It would be a few hours before they had to prepare for the next exercise, and Hamm was a serious student of history, especially of the cavalry. This would be an interesting breakfast: beer, eggs, and the Civil War.
THEY BUMPED INTO each other in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, which was doing a great business in coffee and donuts at the moment.
Hi, John, Holtzman said, looking at the crime scene from across the street.
Bob, Plumber acknowledged with a nod. The area was alive with cameras, TV and still, recording the scene for history.
You're up early for a Saturday-TV guy, too, the Post reporter noted with a friendly smile. What do you make of it?
This really is a terrible thing. Plumber was himself a grandfather many times over. Was it Ma'alot, the one in Israel, back-what? 1975, something like that? They all seemed to blend together, these terrorist incidents.
Holtzman wasn't sure, either. I think so. I have somebody checking it back at the office.
Terrorists make for good stories, but, dear God, we'd be better off without them.
The crime scene was almost pristine. The bodies were gone. The autopsies were complete by now, they both imagined. But everything else was intact, or nearly so. The cars were there, and as the reporters watched, ballistics experts were running strings to simulate shots at mannequins brought in from a local department store, trying to re-create every detail of the event. The black guy in the Secret Service windbreaker was Norman Jeffers, one of the heroes of the day, now demonstrating how he'd come down from the house across the street. Inside was Inspector Patrick O'Day. Some agents were simulating the movements of the terrorists. One man lay on the ground by the front door, aiming a red plastic play gun around. In criminal investigations, the dress rehearsals always came after the play.
His name was Don Russell? Plumber asked.
One of the oldest guys in the Service, Holtzman confirmed.
Damn. Plumber shook his head. Horatius at the bridge, like something from a movie. 'Heroic' isn't a word we use often, is it?
No, that isn't something we're supposed to believe in anymore, is it? We know better. Everybody's got an angle, right? Holtzman finished off his coffee and dumped the cup in the trash bin. Imagine, giving up your life to protect other people's kids.
Some reports talked about it in Western terms. Gun-fight at the Kiddy Corral some local TV reporter had tried out, winning the low-taste award for last night, and earning his station a few hundred negative calls, confirming to the station manager that his outlet had a solid nighttime viewership. None had been more irate about that than Plumber, Bob Holtzman noted. He still thought it was supposed to mean something, this news business they both shared.
Any word on Ryan? Bob asked.
Just a press release. Callie Weston wrote it, and Arnie delivered it. I can't blame him for taking the family away. He deserves a break from somebody, John.
Bob, I seem to remember when-
Yeah, I know. I got snookered. Elizabeth Elliot fed me a story on Ryan back when he was Deputy at CIA. He turned to look at his older colleague. It was all a lie. I apologized to him personally. You know what it was really all about?
No, Plumber admitted.
The Colombian mission. He was there, all right. Along the way, some people got killed. One of them was an Air Force sergeant. Ryan looks after the