Goliath

Polaris Operations Complex

  Albany, New York

  The flight home was blissfully quiet. A U.S. Air Force Learjet, courtesy of the government, picked up Mitchell and his team the instant they landed in Iceland. They arrived home in the middle of the night. All Mitchell wanted to do was sleep, but several police cruisers and two sleek, black, armored, government SUVs were waiting for them at the airport. The column of cars sped upstate to the Polaris Complex, where General O’Reilly and several very interested parties from the State Department waited to debrief them all.

  Mitchell and his team accepted the debriefing as an unwelcome, but necessary, part of the assignment. Mitchell was thankful that Jen and her mother had—under escort—gone home shortly after arriving.

  The debriefing seemed to go on forever. If it were not for Tammy Spencer and her homemade coffee and delicious sticky buns, Mitchell doubted that he would have remained awake much longer.

  “The use of an electronic warfare burn over the ship was sheer genius,” said General O’Reilly, looking with pride at his fatigued people.

  “Not really, sir,” replied Mitchell. “We used it a fair bit to fry the electronics inside IEDs in Iraq and Afghanistan. I hoped that it would work, and thanks to the navy, it did.”

  “Sir, what about the information on the rebels that was sent back here?” asked Fahimah, stifling a yawn.

  “It was relayed to the State Department,” said Mike Donaldson. “They in turn fed it to the Russians, who struck back at the insurgent forces all across the country. Romanov’s plot is all over the news over there. President Ivankov is looking pretty good right now.”

  “The rebels are finished, thanks to you people,” said a stern-looking woman in a dark blue suit from the State Department. “The Russians have them on the run, and the information provided on Dmitry Romanov’s financing of the insurgency was the nail in the coffin for them.”

  “What about the other daughter?” said Jackson, trying to remember her name. “You know the one I mean. The one that got away.”

  “Nika,” said Mitchell.

  “Yeah, her. Any news on her?” queried Jackson as he reached over for another bun.

  O’Reilly looked over at the people from the State. None returned his gaze.

  “I guess she’s still at large,” said O’Reilly.

  The government people stood. The stern-looking woman smiled at O’Reilly, shook his hand, and then locked eyes with Mitchell’s people. “I need not remind you that this whole affair is to be considered a matter of national security. Any word of what has happened will be considered an act of treason with the penalty of life in prison should you be found guilty, which you would be,” said the woman.

  “Charming,” muttered Cardinal, who earned a sharp look from Sam.

  “Have a nice day, Ms. Early,” said O’Reilly, as he ushered the government people out.

  Ten minutes later, Mitchell and General O’Reilly sat alone in O’Reilly’s office, drinking more of Tammy’s coffee. The remainder of the team had already scattered to the winds: Sam and Cardinal had gone to Sam’s parents’ place in Hawaii, Jackson to his wife and kids on the outskirts of New York, Fahimah to her parents’ home, and Yuri, as was his style, had simply vanished.

  “I don’t mind telling you that you look like hell,” said O’Reilly, looking over at Mitchell’s bloodshot eyes.

  “I feel a hell of a lot worse than I look,” Mitchell said.

  “Well, you’re all home now.”

  Mitchell put his cup down and leaned forward. “Sir, what was with all the muscle and the threat from the State Department?”

  “No one’s happy about being played like a gang of fools, especially this administration,” said O’Reilly with a shrug. “Nuclear bombs don’t go missing every day, and the thought that they could have fallen into the hands of terrorists could have started a panic. That’s why this never happened.”

  “The Government of Iceland knows. They lost people on the island.”

  “Only a select few know all the details. The story being circulated in the press will be about terrorists using the island for training; the police and government will come out of this looking like heroes, in the long run.”

  Mitchell shook his head; he was tired and had no time for the games played by politicians and bureaucrats.

  “I see that look in your eyes, Ryan. Don’t let it get to you. If you do, you won’t last long in this business. The bureaucrats make the rules, and that is all there is to it. Be proud of yourself. You and your people worked miracles out there. You all deserve a long break,” O’Reilly said, consoling his protégé.

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “Any ideas of what you might do now? You know you’re still officially on leave.”

  Mitchell ran his hand through his unkempt hair. “I guess I owe some ladies a holiday. So, if they’re willing, I’m hoping to take Jen and her mom to Jamaica. It’s the least I can do for them.”

  O’Reilly smiled at Mitchell. For the first time since he had met him, O’Reilly began to wonder if Mitchell was ready to settle down, but decided for now to keep such thoughts to himself.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said O’Reilly. “Come on, Ryan, I’ll give you a lift into the city myself.”

  Five minutes later, O’Reilly was on the road, and Mitchell was slumped over in the passenger’s seat, snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.

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