Chapter 1 / Page 2

Outside, the sun was shining a warm brilliance still possible for mid-November in Washington. The grass remained green with birds chirping in varicolored trees. Lawn tractors were busily scooping leaves into pull-behind carts, kids were chasing basketballs across hardtop, and others chased the elusive oblong football. The NFL and NBA were in full swing, and Saturday mornings were a great time for kids to play at being the next Michael Jordan or Joe Montana.

Brian lived in a world populated by grainy satellite photos, dossiers of crazed world leaders, and deadly weapons most people had never heard of. He was an expert, for sale to the highest bidder, as long as the bidder was a government or business friendly to Uncle Sam. These days friendship was defined by the largest illegal campaign contribution made in the most recent election. Brian sometimes mused whether the crooks in the current administration or the bad guys on the other side of the world represented a greater threat. He suspected it was still the bad guys on the other side of the world.

The normal introductions were made. Surprisingly, the National Security Advisor took control of the meeting. Usually, something in the Tank was the purview of the Joint Chiefs. A map of the Persian Gulf snapped up on the digital display screen at the end of the Tank. Brian sighed; another oil mess. Considering the map was centered on Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Saddam was up to something.

Brian believed the Bush Administration should have let the 24th Mechanized Infantry and the 101st Airborne roll into Baghdad when they had the chance. It would have simplified life. Instead, Uncle had parleyed away a battlefield victory for an expensive stalemate. It kept precious resources monitoring Saddam, when the real enemy was across the Persian Gulf working on their own missile platforms, biological weapons, and nuclear bombs. Nightmarish artifacts recently procured from the disintegrating Soviet Empire—All for the glory of Allah.

A briefing officer stepped to the podium that controlled the screen. He was arrayed in full dress blues, obviously young, and intense. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped air waiting for the NSA to finish his introduction. Stillwell had been that briefing officer once, albeit, not here and not before this many heavies. He had brought the bad news about many nasty problems before generals, admirals, and the odd senator. Thankfully, many of those problems never made it to CNN or the Washington Post.