Leviathan(38)

Barley snapped his head to the door. “Lock and load!”

Instantly the two Rangers loudly chambered rounds into the M-16s, faces dead calm. And Barley's aspect became utterly dangerous. He placed a hand solidly on the Beretta pistol at his waist, standing behind Chesterton like granite.

Blake stepped back and shouted to the black-clad MPs.

“Lock and load!”

Chambered rounds thundered across the room from the MPs, and Frank felt his head go light. Then with a movement too quick to follow Barley had jerked out his pistol and thumbed the hammer back instantly to place the barrel point-blank against the nose of the MP Lieutenant.

With the touch Barley's finger had taken all the slack from the trigger of the semiautomatic, and the MP's face went stark white. His hands dropped limply from his weapon.

Barley's voice was so low it was almost inaudible.

“You'll be the first,” he whispered to the MP, a cold nod.

The MP Lieutenant nodded, raising his hands to his sides. Then he gestured quickly, almost frantically, to the rest of the black-clad soldiers who were obviously not regular Army or they wouldn't have surrendered, and they also lowered their weapons.

Implacable and vengeful and terrible, Chesterton stepped forward until he was face to face with Blake. Frank suddenly realized that if anybody got killed, Barley would put the MP Lieutenant at the head of the crowd. And Chesterton would personally take out Blake, no matter what else happened in the room.

Chesterton's angry voice rumbled in the tense silence. “You want to go head to head with me, Blake? You want to see who's really been relieved?” Blake blinked, his face white. Took another step backward.

“Be . . . b-b-be assured, Colonel Chesterton, that. . . that I-I-I’ve been informed of your credentials!” Blake drew a quick breath. “I know very well that you're … that y-y-you're West Point. Fourth in your class. Just as I know that y-y-you demanded ... very, very adamantly demanded ... to command a Special Force Battalion during Desert Storm.”

Chesterton frowned, eyes darkening.

“Your decision was certainly noble, Colonel,” Blake continued, standing more solidly. “And I know that you ... ah, personally led your battalion to more campaign victories than any other commander of the war. But your stubborn decision to remain in combat, Colonel, also . . . ah, also stalled your career. Your determination to command the soldiers of a Special Forces Battalion during the conflict was—”

“It was a war, boy. Not a conflict.”

Blake hesitated. “Yes, of course . . . but, ah, your stubborn determination to command a Special Forces Battalion during the . . . the war . . . removed you from a circle of career-minded candidates.” Blake paused. “Candidates who laid the groundwork for advancement while you were out of the country. And, just to remind you, Chesterton, you are still a Lieutenant Colonel, an 06. While I am an 05. A full bird. So I have the rank, Chesterton. And an Executive Order. And the authority of the Pentagon! So I believe you should carefully consider just how much you are willing to defy!”

Blake glanced at the others, who seemed mesmerized by the conflict.

“I am not sure that this is even the best place for this discussion, Chesterton. But the fact remains that those orders were issued from the Executive Office and signed by your own chain of command. And, regardless of your personal objections, you are still under Pentagon control.”

Silence.

“You know,” Chesterton said slowly, eyes hardening like black diamonds, and just as impenetrable, “I've never liked working with any of you guys, Blake. Because I know that whenever Black Ops takes command of good soldiers, then good soldiers get killed. I saw it in the war. In Beirut. Somalia. Rowanda. It's always the same story. You desk-riding goons don't know the job, and you're too stupid to admit it. But some civilian who's been appointed to a Cabinet post always gives you a command.''

Blake laughed. “Certainly, Colonel, someone with your consummate credentials will not disobey orders from the highest level. After all, you and I are part of the military machine.”

“I'm not a machine, Blake.” Chesterton leaned even farther forward, eye to eye. “I'm a gentleman and a professional soldier in the United States Army. And I have a duty to defend my men and protect my government's interests.”

“As do I,” Blake responded flatly.

“No you don't, Blake. You work for those clowns in the NSA who send good men to their deaths because they don't have the foggiest idea what real war is all about. You fight a war with polls and toothpicks and little flags. You have no idea what it's like to share the same foxhole and food and ammo as your men just so you can turn a hostile sector into your backyard. You don't know what it's like to watch your men die. Or what it's like to write their mammas back home to tell them the only boy they'll ever have in their entire life just died like a man.”