Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

Domenick Boucher sank wearily into the chair at the conference table in the White House Situation Room, and gestured for his traveling companion, Staff Sergeant Lewis Aleman, to do the same. Despite the fact that Aleman’s right arm was heavily bandaged and nestled in a protective sling across his chest, he looked alert and ready for action, which was more than Boucher could say for himself. He’d caught a few hours of sleep on the flight back from Iraq, but anxiety over the unfolding crisis had robbed him of anything vaguely resembling rest.

Despite his injuries and over the protestations of the doctors at the base in Tikrit, Aleman had insisted on accompanying Boucher back to the states. “I need to be a part of this,” the Delta sniper had argued. “If I can’t be in the fight, then at least let me coordinate the mission from the TOC.”

There was a lot to recommend granting the request. Aleman was familiar with the team and their protocols, but more importantly, he was already read in. With the full extent of the conspiracy still unknown, Aleman was one of a very few people that were above suspicion. Until more was known about the enemy, secrecy was paramount. That was why the President had directed the operation be run from the Situation Room.

Boucher was in the process of establishing a secure satellite link with General Keasling when the President entered the room. Aleman immediately snapped to attention and somehow managed to extricate his hand from the sling to offer a salute. Boucher also started to rise but Duncan waved him off.

“I’ve only got a few minutes, so let’s dispense with all the formalities.” Duncan nevertheless returned Aleman’s salute. “Sergeant, as one shooter to another…helluva job. I promise you that your sacrifices will not be forgotten, and I will see that the deaths of your teammates are avenged.”

“Yes, sir.”

Duncan turned to Boucher. “Do we have the General on the line?”

Keasling’s voice issued from the speakers. “I’m here, Mr. President.”

“Good. Let’s have the sitrep, gentlemen.”

Boucher went first. “We’ve conducted preliminary forensic testing on the intel recovered from Ramadi, but there’s nothing conclusive. The paper and ink are of the same type available for civilian use in Iraq. The only trace DNA evidence was from the people that we know handled it: the Delta team and our own analysts.”

“Wouldn’t that support the idea that it was a forgery?”

Boucher nodded. “The most likely conclusion is that Lt. Col. Rainer created the document and planted it during the course of the raid. But it’s also possible that the insurgents were working with him—sacrificial lambs, so to speak—to further reinforce the illusion.”

Duncan frowned. “Let’s cut to the chase. Is there a WMD lab out there somewhere?”

Boucher knew the President well enough to recognize that the man wanted a truthful answer, but he hated having to admit to his own uncertainty. “I wish I could say unequivocally that there is not, but…”

“I read you, Dom. Keep digging.” Duncan turned away, directing his voice toward the speaker box. “Mike, what’s your situation?”

“Sir, we’ve tracked Rainer and the others to Mandalay. Our people on the ground have placed them at a remote facility east of the city. We’re in the air now. Once we arrive and get the lay of the land, I will have a better sense of what our options are, and I’ll develop contingency plans.”

Boucher had no difficulty reading between the lines. Keasling was anticipating a covert assault on the Burmese facility, an action that was technically illegal and which carried enormous diplomatic risk, to say nothing of the danger to the Delta operators. Of course, that was the very reason why Delta had been created; sometimes, the strict letter of the law had to be broken in the interest of the greater good. Delta’s job was to take those risks in a strictly unofficial capacity, giving the President full deniability, and if things went south in the field, they were on their own.