The Widow's Strike (35 page)

E
xactly three days
after I
was hoisted off of the ship ingloriously in a basket, I stood outside the port of Cape Canaveral with about five hundred other people waiting to see who would get off the boat. The difference was that everyone else had a name on a manifest. All I had was the word of the Taskforce that Jennifer had been cleared and would be exiting with the rest of the passengers.

The entire affair had been horrific, with the boat devolving into some sewer existence reminiscent of the worst of Charles Dickens. The government had done what they could, but the ship just wasn’t designed to house so many people without the ability to service them. Every crew member who’d had the job of keeping it functioning had been quarantined.

The government had done an admirable job on the medical front but had trouble finding enough people qualified to do the mundane work of keeping the boat functioning. I couldn’t blame them. How would you react if someone said, “We need you to help out on a cruise ship because of your special skills. By the way, it’s a floating death trap. You might die just by showing up. Did I mention you’d have to spend every waking moment in a moon suit?”

Surprisingly, they’d found enough dumbasses to show up. And now we waited. For the first time, I felt a little bit of what my family had when I deployed. This time it was me waiting on the steps to see the loved one coming home. Only I had the added angst of not being really sure she’d step off.

Kurt had said he “thought” she was cleared and that he was “sure” she’d be on the dock, but he’d also said the communication to the CDC was convoluted, something I’d seen on the news with my own eyes. Everyone was screaming about the lack of information, which, given what had occurred and what the administration was trying to keep hidden, was to be expected.

I was a little pissed that they couldn’t find out about Jennifer, though. After all, she was the person who had stopped every damn one of them from getting sick. But I understood why. My team had been evacuated before the press started really going into a frenzy, looking for the government cover-up, so we no longer existed for them to find. Pushing too hard into Jennifer’s status might have caused questions.

My eyes were drawn to a television set on a pole, much like you see at airport departure gates. A crowd was forming around it, and I followed, recognizing the presidential podium from the White House briefing room.

President Peyton Warren arrived on-screen, and the crowd around me began making shushing noises. He looked particularly somber, which, given the circumstances, was probably not an act. He gave a prepared statement, blending fact with fiction, stating a terrorist strike with a biological weapon had been averted, but making no mention whatsoever of Iran’s being behind it. He left it as a “Chechen separatist” event, keeping us out of a full-scale war.

It was a skillful display, as he walked the line of what to give out based on what he knew would leak, starting with the deaths in New York City and ending with the numerous witnesses to Elina’s death on the boat. When he was done, he opened the floor to questions.

The first, of course, had to do with who had stopped the attack. The press and the American public routinely slobbered at the mouth for stuff like this, spinning themselves into the ground trying to find the super-secret SEAL team, the Special Forces killer-commandos, or the Impossible Mission Force that operated beyond the usual classified units. Trying mightily to penetrate the facade to find a unit that didn’t exist in the real world. Except in this case, there actually
was
one. I leaned in to hear his answer.

“A combination of indicators from our intelligence community led to the threat being exposed. Once we had actionable intelligence we initiated a direct-action operation utilizing Special Operations forces. Unfortunately, during the interdiction, the terrorist initiated her suicide device, precluding a perfect outcome.”

A clamoring of voices emerged, all shouting essentially the same question: “What do you mean, Special Operations forces? What unit? Who was it?”

I smirked at that. Like it made a bit of difference who actually executed the mission. All that mattered was the outcome. But the press would not be denied.

President Warren said, “I’m not going to divulge which unit for both the protection of our capabilities and the safety of our forces.”

A perfect answer.

Another reporter chimed in: “Were there any casualties from the team?”

Smart journalist.
He was going to try to locate the unit by walking up the thread of a casualty list from the Department of Defense. Except he’d get nowhere with this one, because even if there had been a major casualty from the Taskforce—which there wasn’t—it would never enter into the Department of Defense database.

The president’s answer shook me to my core.

“Yes, but I’m not going to get into the nature of the injuries or the status. I’m not going to talk about the team in any way. Next question.”

Who is he talking about?
Was it Blood’s gunshot wound? Knuckles almost getting beat to death in prison?
Jesus, is it Jennifer?

T
he press conference
droned on,
but I heard nothing, my mind numb to the possibility that when the boat emptied, I’d be standing there alone. Waiting on someone who wasn’t coming.

The gangway door to our right opened and a trickle of passengers began to flow out, rapidly increasing to a flood, with all of them running through the terminal doors, some kissing the ground as soon as they exited. The crowd around the television broke free and rushed to the ropes separating the waiting from the arriving.

Families began waving flags as if the boat had just returned from Normandy in World War II, the crowds beginning to overwhelm the security force on the ground. And starting to piss me off because they were blocking my view.

I was jostled to the left and turned to the man who’d done it, glaring. An idiot wearing a torn-up ball cap, the man tried to push past me, and I shoved him back.

“Wait your damn turn.”

He raised his hands as if he wanted to fight, then began tearing up. His fists clenched, he stared at me, then said, “My wife is coming off that boat. Without my kids. They’re dead. Get the hell out of my way.”

He began to cry, and I remembered the blood-covered children. Realizing I was standing next to ground zero of the tragedy. His face held so much pain I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.

He choked out, “They went on her family reunion. I had to work. I told her it was too expensive. Now . . . now . . .”

A woman screamed near us, and he broke free, dipping under the cordoned-off lines and running to her. Security closed around him, demanding he fall back behind the rope. The argument devolved into a fistfight. I felt sick.

I returned to staring at the doorway in front of the terminal escalator, straining to see any sign of Jennifer. I stood for thirty minutes. Then forty-five. The exiting flow of the passengers began to slow, the flood becoming a trickle. I thought about calling Kurt. Calling anyone who could tell me what the situation was. Wanting the reassurance I’d had when I’d come here instead of the words of the president echoing in my head.

I pulled out my phone and saw Jennifer through the glass. Looking morose and riding down all by herself.

She reached the bottom and exited through the double doors, fighting her way through the people. I shouted her name, but she couldn’t hear me. She stood for a second and started walking away. I pushed my way through the crowd, shouting like an idiot until I got her attention.

She turned and broke into a smile, sprinting toward me, only to be stopped by security at the receiving line. I pointed to the left and took off running, meeting her outside the ropes.

She literally jumped on me, wrapping her legs around me and squeezing like a python.

I squeezed back, saying, “It’s all right. We’re okay.”

She dropped to the ground, her eyes alight. “They wouldn’t tell me if you were okay. Nobody would tell me.”

I said, “Same here. I wasn’t sure if you were coming out. Where’s your luggage?”

She squinted, and I held up my hands. “Just a joke.”

We began walking to my rental, no words spoken. I was content just to be near her, but I could sense this wasn’t a perfect homecoming. It wasn’t a movie, where we’d ride off into the sunset, because the endgame had been horrific, and she’d had to live with it by herself for days.

Truthfully, I had been kicking myself for not simply putting a bullet into the Black Widow’s head instead of letting Jennifer try to talk her off the ledge. But that was all hindsight. Something others could second-guess—but not to my face. Not if they wanted to remain standing. We’d both made the right call, given what we knew.

We continued walking in silence. Eventually, she said, “How are you doing?”

I clasped her hand and said, “I’m good. The team is good. Nobody we know was killed.”

She stopped and looked me in the eye. “A lot of people are dead.”

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

“I thought
I
was dead. Yesterday morning, I had a headache. I looked in the mirror, knowing I was going to see bloodshot eyes. It was the worst day of my life.”

I wasn’t sure how to make that better. I said, “I know. I waited for the same thing. A lot of people on my floor were taken way. But some of them made it. Not all of them died.”

Her face sparked pain, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“Pike, I killed one of them.
He
might have lived.”

“Don’t ever say that. You can’t carry that. Yeah, he might have lived, but he would have infected anyone he touched. The odds are he would have killed many, many more people.”

She let go of my hand. “I know. In my head, I know. He had to go down, but it doesn’t feel right. He wasn’t a terrorist. Maybe I should have . . . I don’t know . . . I just wonder if I did the right thing.”

“Jennifer, it
was
right
. You made the correct call. Don’t blame yourself.
You
didn’t ask for Elina to get on that boat. You didn’t ask for that guy to interfere. You can only do what you can do, and that was the right call. It’s like being a firefighter and blaming yourself because you could only save one child in a burning building.”

She leaned into me, putting her arms around my waist. I did the same and then felt her begin to cry, wracking sobs that went on forever. Eventually she stopped and looked up at me.

She wiped her eyes and said, “You’re a good man. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, you did once. In Bosnia, when I wouldn’t get in bed with you.”

She remembered the conversation and turned red. “I mean when I wasn’t screwed up by a near-death experience. When I could think straight.”

I said, “You mean like right now?”

She broke free and punched me in the shoulder. “Jesus, you can be an ass.”

I laughed and said, “Come on. I’ve got a pretty good hotel room, although it’s a little bit of a drive out of this place.”

“Better than the suite in Singapore?”

“Uh, no, but it’s got something that one didn’t.”

“What? The Marina Bay Sands room was a Taj Mahal.”

“A hot tub. You promised if I didn’t drop you in Singapore you’d get in one without a harness on.”

She gave me a hesitant grin and said, “You sure you want to do that? I could be contagious.”

“If I were you I’d be a little more worried about your kissing ability. The last time I tried to get infected it was like fighting a baboon for a piece of bacon.”

She squeezed my hand, her face splitting into a smile that finally touched her eyes.

And I knew we’d be okay.

I had already written my acknowledgments for this manuscript, thanking all the wonderful people who have helped me, when something terrible happened. In between turning in my draft and getting back the final revisions, a soldier I served with, and a close friend, was killed in action in Afghanistan.

His callsign was Taz, and he was hit repelling a synchronized suicide attack on a combat outpost in Jalalabad. I won’t use his real name because when he died he was no longer in the military and is now represented by a simple black star set into a white marble wall.

Anytime I’m asked who Pike represents, I state that he’s a composition of many men I’ve known, and that’s true, up to a point. If there was a way to split up Pike and specifically define him, many people could claim a piece, but only one would be the heart, and that was Taz.

Readers sometimes chide me about the “miracles” that I have Pike survive, saying they’re far-fetched, and I just nod. Inside, I’m smiling at a private joke, thinking about Taz and the real-world miracles I witnessed him accomplish in the defense of our nation. Miracles that eventually ran out. Pike
is
fictional, but he represents something real. Something tangible. More so than anyone else, he represented Taz.

I learned more about combat skill just watching him than people could possibly understand, and yet he will remain a complete unknown to the American public. No flags, no parades, no Kathryn Bigelow movies made about any of his exploits. Just a black star on a wall few are allowed to see and a granite stone at Arlington.

In the end, he died valiantly saving the lives of others, and some would say he was killed doing what he loved, which should be of some comfort. I wish that were an absolute because it would make the pain less, but I’ve watched him with his family, and I know what was the greater love.

Like them, I miss him every day.

Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.),
is a twenty-one-year veteran of the US Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, popularly known as the Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at the Citadel. His first three Pike Logan thrillers,
One Rough Man
,
All Necessary Force
, and
Enemy of Mine
, were national bestsellers. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.