Chapter 12
“MR. SECRETARY.”
“General Bradshaw.” Secretary Harry Reed Jarrett uttered his name as if it tasted sour. “I do hope you have good news for me today.”
Major General Daniel “Brad” Bradshaw didn’t sit, nor did he stand at attention. The Secretary of Homeland Security was a jackass and it grated on his nerves that he had to kowtow to the sorry SOB. Still, the man wielded all the power. For now. Politics were never static. He stared out the window behind the secretary. The new Department of Homeland Security campus sprawled across what had once been the grounds of St. Elizabeth’s Mental Hospital—a fact he found highly amusing, if not ironic. Occupying an office on Congressional Heights, the secretary had quite a view of DC.
Brad continued to stare off into the distance waiting until Jarrett started drumming his fingertips, irritated at the silence. Without changing expression, he spoke without looking at the man behind the huge, granite-topped desk. “I’m activating the Atlantis Protocols.”
Secretary Jarrett leaned back in his massive leather desk chair and folded his hands over his ample stomach. His gaze flicked to the other person in the room, a man lounging on the expensive leather couch nearby and who looked completely at home. The observer held a bar glass in his hand, an antique crafted of Irish cut glass crystal. Three fingers of sixteen-year-old scotch glowed amber as he negligently swirled the glass. Brad knew the age of the scotch because the secretary drank nothing else.
The man on the couch might appear relaxed, but the words he barked out belied his demeanor. “About damn time, Bradshaw. Do you have a lead on those motherfucking Wolves? I am sick and fucking tired of them showing up to ambush my men and blow the crap out of my facilities. And now I’ve lost a full team of hunters. Idiots crashed off the side of some fucking mountain in West Virginia. It’s damn tiring to find and train new security forces, and despite the fact the two of you thinking I have an endless supply of money, building labs and staffing them is not cheap. We need to get this project nailed down.”
Bradshaw didn’t give a damn about the guy’s problems—other than the fact the asshole was stirring up shit for him. He slowly turned his head to stare at the man, both of them ignoring Secretary Jarrett. He inhaled a measured breath and exhaled before speaking.
“No, Mr. Smith. I do not have a concrete lead. I do, however, suspect they’ve returned to their roots. As a result, I am authorizing a SEAL team for a seek-and-destroy mission.”
“SEALs? Fucking SEALs are the best you’ve got? You’ve seen what these motherfucking sons of bitches have done to my operations.”
“I have, yes, Mr. Smith.” The businessman had either forgotten or didn’t know that Bradshaw had trained most of the Wolves Smith was currently bitching about. “But I’m not sending in just any SEAL team. I am sending in SEAL Team Atlantis.”
Smith glowered at him. “Is that what you meant by…what did you call it? Atlantis Protocol?” He sipped his scotch, considering. “Are you saying those men still exist? And are on active duty?” He waggled a finger at Brad. “I’ve always wondered. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Of course they still exist. Just because the Navy spirited them out of the labs in Nevada doesn’t mean the Pentagon didn’t know exactly where they were. But no, I didn’t have a hand in that particular pie. Not at the time.”
“But you do now.” A sly grin slid onto Smith’s face. “And you’ve been using them.”
“We have, for highly specialized military missions.”
“Ha!” Smith snapped his fingers and looked mighty pleased—for about a minute. Then his expression darkened. “Will they follow orders?”
“Absolutely.”
“Get it done.”
Bradshaw returned his gaze to the now ineffectual man behind the desk. Jarrett thought he was in charge, but Brad knew who the power behind the throne was. Still, he needed to keep up appearances. “Mr. Secretary?”
“You heard the man, Bradshaw. We’ve been dilly-dallying with this situation far too long. It’s time we take the gloves off.”
“And the survivors?”
Jarrett cut his eyes toward Smith then nodded slightly. Brad noted the exchanged looks and wasn’t surprised when it was Smith who spoke. “There won’t be any. We don’t need them or their bastards. We have other resources available to us now.” Smith took a long drink of scotch. “Will your frogmen have a problem with that?”
Brad shrugged, pasting an expression of disinterest on his face. “They’ll do whatever their orders are.”
Jarrett cleared his throat so Brad returned his attention to the secretary. “Be sure of that, General Bradshaw. Your next star is on the line here.”
“Of course…sir.”
The secretary waved his hand, dismissing Brad. Turning smartly on his heel, Brad strode to the door without looking at either man. They believed they pulled his strings. He knew better, but it suited his plans to let them believe they were in charge. For now. They’d crossed the line when they’d set up Senator LaMotte—not so much that they’d done it, but they’d been sloppy. The assassination had been clumsy, and no homicide detective with an ounce of ability would pass the deal off as a murder suicide.
He passed through the outer office, nodding at Jarrett’s staff. They would remember him being there this day, but it didn’t matter. Secretary Jarrett was always yanking his chain, forcing him to make an in-person appearance. The man wouldn’t pick up the phone, couldn’t send an email. Despite the fact he controlled the National Security Agency, Jarrett still worried they were spying on him. They were. Hell, the NSA was spying on everyone. That’s what they did.
He made a phone call as he waited for the elevator. By the time it arrived and Brad boarded, he wore a smile—one that even touched his eyes. Yes, it was time to set the Atlantis Protocols in motion and pity the poor bastards who got in his way.