CHAPTER 70
CSTC Headquarters, Maryland
The upcoming classified meeting with the Office of Domestic Strategy was weighing on our minds, so Oliver and I met to prepare with Tristan and his wife, Alison, co-owners of CSTC.
The Nantucket event had put the cart before the horse.
It was now forcing us to scramble to define the Rocket’s Red Glare charter and all the necessary legalities for such an entity.
As CSTC was the plank holder of the whole shebang, we were expected to build on the boilerplate of the CSTC charter, incorporating everything we had learned from recent experience.
The goal was not only to describe how we could be utilized in future domestic conflicts, but to set forth a clear understanding of parameters for completing the mission we were already engaged in.
Ali Dent quietly took notes for most of the morning, asking for clarity from time to time. Tristan’s wife was like the coach who is always two touchdowns ahead of the game.
“Did any of you ever read ‘The Man Who Would Be King’?” she asked us after a while.
“I think I saw a movie based on it once,” Tristan muttered sheepishly.
“Oh, yeah—Sean Connery and Michael Caine,” I chimed in. “Awesome flick!”
Oliver shook his head and laughed. “I think you’re missing the point, guys.
Ali’s not talking about the 1970s adventure film.
She means the original source—the Rudyard Kipling story from like a century earlier, about British soldiers who decide to make themselves Afghan kings. Ali, please elaborate.”
“Thank you, Oliver. At least one of you uses his noggin for more than a hat rack! Yes, I meant the Kipling story. But for you knuckleheads, I guess the movie is close enough. The whole point is that while the enthusiasm may be admirable and the mission may be worthy, it’s still always a dangerous proposition to give anyone the keys to the kingdom—especially folks skilled with guns and explosives.
We’ve got to be hot-wired tight so that we don’t talk ourselves into acting like those men who would be kings, and get ourselves in deep shit thinking we are gods. That’s all I’m saying.”
Man, that stung worse than the hotwash. Alison Dent was exactly right, of course. I tried to think of a calm and collected professional response.
Tristan cleared his throat and looked at me. “Nat, I think this is where you’re supposed to say something.”
I frowned at him. “Thanks for selling me out, pal. I know what I want to say, but I don’t know if I should say it. So that’s why I’m sitting here waiting for you, the owner of CSTC, to answer the co-owner—who is, in fact, by law, your wife.”
“Oliver? Please just shoot me, right here behind the ear.” Ali held two fingers up to her head like a pistol and pulled the air trigger.
“I’m only kidding,” I reassured Ali. “Honestly, you’ve just voiced my biggest fear.
I’ve seen the Good Ol’ Boys Club go bad in a hurry.
I didn’t want oversight while we were in Nantucket during the fight, and I don’t really want it now, but I do realize we’re going to need it at some point.
What I don’t have is a well-thought-out answer.
I could bullshit you, but that’s all it would be.
Can I let it marinate and talk to my team and get back to you? ”
“Of course, Nat—I didn’t expect an answer today.
We need all of you and CSTC to be bulletproof, protected.
We’re embarking on unknown territory, and we’re sure to encounter plenty of complexities that we haven’t even considered.
So for a start, let’s begin by tackling this one: How do we guard against getting too big for our operational britches? ”
Now that I had my assignment, Tristan ended the meeting:
“Class dismissed.”