CHAPTER 30
My team took the news about Rocket’s Red Glare like the pros they were.
If any of them had even an iota of apprehension about the program, I sure missed it.
There were nothing but smiles and nodding heads all around as I walked them through all the friction points that had been stewing inside my head.
“This opens up a whole new world for us, guys,” I said as I raised a beer. “It’s staggering to think about what we can do with carte blanche to fight a domestic war on terror.”
“Right on, Nat. It’s a pretty wild idea.
My only concern is getting real-time intelligence without the ability to vet any of it ourselves or ask direct questions.
” Meg, our intelligence chief, was a master at puzzle-solving.
She had done enough real operations to know what separated good intelligence from great, actionable intelligence.
John Paul Kennedy smiled and shook his head.
He wasn’t one for deep discussions, but he might be the best listener I’ve ever known.
He removed his John Deere cap, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Shit, with the fucking money Dent has, why don’t we just make our own intelligence agency?
Think about it: We’re three-quarters of the way down this secret-army rabbit hole already, so let’s take the fuckin’ plunge and go all in.
If we’re gonna win this thing, let’s stack the deck and kill these fuckers wholesale.
” He returned his hat to its rightful place, sank back, and smiled.
JP loved being a part of the team. He never doubted the nobility or validity of anybody or any unit in any country who stood against evil. He could quote great patriots from memory and tended to drop the words kill and terrorists in just about every conversation.
But his personal mission statement had come with a steep price tag. In fact, it had nearly cost him his life.
JP’s younger brother, Mike, had been a fireman at Ladder 23 on September 11, 2001.
He’d been lost in 2 World Trade Center, with only traces of his body ever recovered.
JP had been a Green Beret at the time, on an operation in Belize.
He’d been unable to get back to the States to join the search.
Logically, he knew there was nothing he could have done, but emotionally he could not forgive himself.
He had struggled mightily in the wake of the attack, experiencing severe depression.
By the New Year, JP had left his beloved Green Berets and the Army entirely.
For two years, JP distanced himself from family and friends, did odd jobs around Las Vegas, and burned through most of his savings. One day he found himself on a park bench outside the Venetian, considering suicide. He knew he needed help. Fast.
That’s when he’d called Oliver Smith, his old team sergeant. Oliver was already with CSTC by then, so he jumped in Tristan’s G5 and flew to Sin City to gather up his friend.
Back at the CSTC farm, JP was given a room and access to therapy. Tristan even flew in his old priest to spend time with the prodigal son. Thankfully, JP responded to treatment. On his own initiative, he started daily gym visits and began devouring books with a vengeance.
Eight weeks after arriving at the farm, JP knocked on Tristan’s door and asked to use the rifle range.
Two weeks later, he asked for a job.
With Oliver’s recommendation and my approval, John Paul Kennedy was assigned to Team Rhino as an operator and sniper on a six-month probationary period.
On his first security assignment in Colombia, JP killed a FARC rebel who’d been attempting to kidnap the foreign minister’s six-year-old daughter.
“I shot that fucking asshole twice in the head,” he said afterward.
“Didn’t bring Mike back from heaven, but it sure made me feel like I was helping to make it right. ”
The foreign minister called the White House personally to thank the president for sending such a talented and brave American.
From then on, JP was a new man. He found peace and dedicated his life to hunting down evil.
* * *
“The problem with that,” Meg said now about JP’s suggestion, “is that it’s such a huge, time-consuming process to develop our own system—one that will get us the shit we really need.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“But we could do it, couldn’t we?”
“Yes, no doubt we could do it—with a hell of a lot of money.”
“Leave that part to Tristan,” I said.
Bottom line: As long as we were all 100 percent certain that this clandestine program was thoroughly legitimate—and that we couldn’t be left holding the bag after a domestic operation—we were willing to jump in headfirst and immediately begin planning contingencies.
That settled, there was just enough time for everyone to get cleaned up before the party.
Like most houses on the island, mine had both an indoor and an outdoor shower.
When the weather was nice, I bathed outside and enjoyed the view of the Atlantic.
The cedar wall afforded some privacy, and I’d even built an extra shelf perfect for holding a cold beer.
The boys immediately began a wrestling match to see who would get the first crack at the outdoor shower. Meg and I stood in the kitchen and laughed.
“So, Mr. Phillips, is there a new love in your life?” Meg asked, eyeing me appraisingly.
Her directness caught me slightly off guard. In every situation—a gunfight or briefing the SECDEF in a combat zone—Meg was poised and in control. I don’t know if she was a card-carrying Mensa member, but she was certainly one of the most intuitive people I’d ever met.
“Uh, no, not really. I mean, no—I don’t have any love life to speak of.”
“Well, my friend, trust me when I say that she is definitely into you. Even from across the yard, I could see the way that agent was looking at you. You must have used the Jedi mind trick on her without her even knowing.”
“There is definitely no Jedi stuff going on around this place,” I assured her.
“Whatever you say, Obi-Wan. But you’d better recalibrate your radar, because I’m pretty sure you’re missing the signals. Then again, this is you we’re talking about—you miss all the signals.”
I looked across the yard and watched the protective detail outside the senator’s house. The same three guys were still standing in front.
I finished my beer and got ready for the Wilsons’ party.