Chasing the Lion, page 4
We learned of Melissa’s cancer together, me holding her hand in Dr. Winthrop Blankenship’s office at Walter Reed in Bethesda, staring at the opaque monochromatic mammograms with the visible lumps that had appeared out of nowhere so suddenly. Dr. Blankenship was a civilian cancer expert who had invested much of his career at the National Cancer Institute. He had been newly assigned to executive patients at Walter Reed, and we were hopeful that he would have new ideas and treatments to prolong our time together on earth. I stared at his impassive face, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, slicked gray hair, and protruding jaw. He looked aristocratic, his Harvard medical degree hanging on the wall behind him.
Melissa was typically stoic when Dr. Blankenship said, “Malignant.” Her hand squeezed mine, and I felt fear like never before. When I’ve wrestled Al Qaeda terrorists in knife fights, I didn’t feel a whiff of the dread that washed over me when Dr. Blankenship began speaking. I realized that Melissa’s hand squeeze was not her flinching—she never did—it was a reassurance to me that I would be okay. As strong as I appeared to all the men and women in my command, our allies with whom I coordinated, and to our nation’s enemies, I realized at that moment the source of my strength was Melissa’s wellspring of love and determination. Ever since that first day in our church, she swept me into her magical world of home and family, knowing that I would be an utterly lost mercenary without her grounding.
“No!” I shouted at Dr. Blankenship, who undoubtedly had heard it before. He handled my fear and rage like a consummate professional by nodding warmly, but I persisted. “There’s got to be a mistake.”
They just stared at me, waiting for me to realize that there was no error, that the doctor would never make such a diagnosis without triple confirming the data. On the ride home, Melissa said, “It will all be okay. I’ll do the treatment, and we will figure it out from there. We will discuss it with Reagan and Brad and make arrangements going forward.”
She continued to lay out a methodical plan for our family to handle her treatments and the disruption that they would cause to the rhythm of life that she had created for us.
“Reagan knows enough that she can work with family readiness groups … Brad can take a lighter load if necessary at Chapel Hill … You’ve got a deployment coming up, so we need to make sure you’re set for that … Your mother will want to help…”
In typical fashion, she discussed everyone but herself. She was selflessly mapping out the legacy she had created: her family. More than anything, she wanted her family to not only survive but to thrive. Minimal disruption. Like a magician, she was able to leave her incredible power and force behind in her wake with no visible effort apparent to the casual observer, though as her husband, I saw the strain reflected in her weakened eyes, the crow’s-feet diametrically making her more beautiful yet showing the weight she carried for all of us. Now her presence was tangible to me every day. Perhaps it was the harrowing guilt that I carried, but I was so fortunate to have her present in my dreams.
Melissa died the way she’d lived, gracefully and with dignity. My children, Brad and Reagan, were by her side, loving and comforting her.
And I had been merely on the way.
The plane droned on, the four Pratt & Whitney engines moaning softly, lulling me back to sleep. Melissa’s face floated in my mind as I drifted. I recalled the letter waiting for me, penned by her weak hand as she lay dying and I was fresh off the al-Baghdadi kill.
My dearest Garrett,
Time seems to be spinning faster, and I’m afraid I won’t see you again before I slip away, as you paratroopers like to say. I’ve loved you madly since that day you pretended to have a shot at Harvard. You’re the knight in shining armor that every young woman hopes one day will arrive; I’m glad you were mine. No, you didn’t save me, and I didn’t save you, but we lived life as life is intended to be lived. My prayers are with you and Joe and Randy and Sally as you make our world safer. My sadness related to missing you now is replaced by years of happiness having you by my side. We produced two wonderful children with Brad and Rea. Continue to guide them as we’ve done. I’ll no doubt be reaching down and reminding you to not give Brad a hard time about his music and to support Rea in her efforts to—in her own way—follow in your footsteps. Continue to be kind, gentle, and firm.
Always seek. Be Brave. Be True.
Yours forever, Lissa
P.S. Steadfast and Loyal ;)
I had memorized every word of her deathbed letter, its strength and directness affirming our selection of one another as life partners. The last sentence about seeking, bravery, and truth was an uncharacteristic note, but I attributed that to the fact that death’s door was opening slowly, confronting her. Brave and True was the motto of the West Point class that graduated a year prior to us. Ours, Steadfast and Loyal, was how Melissa and I often ended our letters. I assumed that given her friendships with several members of the preceding class, including Jim and Donna Tharp, that they had visited and as her mind was winding down, she mentioned both mottos.
Melissa’s face appeared in my beta sleep state of mind. “Naomi, Demon Rain, and True Bravery,” she whispered in my hallucination. The words scattered to the back of my mind, but her image hovered vividly. Her lips pursed and moved softly, her gentle smile pushed up her cheeks, and her eyes glistened, reminding me how her death had so entirely crushed my spirit that it was nearly impossible to move forward.
5
SOON AFTER WE LANDED, I was sitting in the MacDill Air Force Base office of General Fred Fillmore, one of my classmates—Steadfast and Loyal—and someone I considered a friend.
The floor-to-ceiling windows had a majestic view of Tampa Bay, a C-suite corner office if there ever was one. The other three walls had dozens of pictures, awards, and shadowboxes highlighting Fillmore’s career. Pictures of dignitaries with Fillmore dotted the wall with the occasional images of mountains and farms. I cooled my heels in the soft leather sofa that faced his gigantic desk and considered whether the bad guys could predictably target this office with a drone from a random takeoff point nearby and fire a few missiles in the window.
It wasn’t that I wished harm on Fillmore or anyone else in the building. Calculating risk was just how my mind worked. Over decades of combat, my brain was mapped to assess my environment, check for immediate threats, and then consider possible creative enemy courses of action and solutions that might counter them.
Sitting just outside the open door was Fillmore’s executive officer, Colonel Luke Hodgins, who looked like a gym rat with his muscled arms and blocky chest. He sat in an adjoining office that controlled access to Fillmore’s digs. On the wall facing Hodgins’s desk were the usual plaques and mementos that every officer collected over the course of their career. Evidently, he was a military police officer, with his Criminal Investigation Division plaques prominently displayed. I couldn’t see any combat tours reflected in his gallery; perhaps Fillmore had hired him because they had that in common. It was difficult for me to conceive how someone could have not deployed to Iraq, Afghanistan, or Syria in the last twenty years, but there were some that fortune passed over. As for Fillmore, he had served in remote headquarters in Kuwait and the UAE, but never in the trenches of combat.
Fillmore entered the office and said, “Enjoying the view?”
“Impressive,” I replied.
“We’ve come a long way since graduation,” he said.
Fillmore was six feet tall, wiry, and had a nose too large for his face. His body was sleek and angular, his face narrow and aerodynamic, as if he were built to be a track-and-field athlete. He was wearing his army-blue uniform with short-sleeve white shirt, showing his lean, muscled biceps and forearms.
“Still running?” I asked.
“Every day,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Good job on the mission, Garrett. How are you holding up?”
His simple question was loaded with memories packed so tightly it was explosive. He had encouraged me to return before Melissa died. I had chosen to take the extra time to conduct the mission. Fillmore had disagreed, urging me back. And while his question was genuine, how was I holding up? Not too fucking well, at all.
He sat across from me and leaned his elbows on his thighs in a compassionate, friendly pose.
“You know the deal, Fred. Life sucks without Melissa. Period.”
“I can’t begin to imagine, though she was dear to all of us who knew her.”
“Yes, she was,” I said quietly.
“I know we could have teleconferenced this meeting, and I apologize about having you come back.”
“Never apologize,” I said.
He nodded and continued. “I wanted to give you an out on the next mission if you wanted it. Things may get tougher from here forward. Not that there was anything easy about your Iran raid. After the COVID struggles, the president isn’t taking any chances, nor do I suspect the president-elect will, either, and I know things have been … different since Melissa’s passing.”
“What’s the mission?”
“This is probably the most sensitive, important op in our lifetime, perhaps since World War II. Iran is off the charts with Soleimani dead. The COVID scare has given rise to new concepts of operation and attack.”
We had been on a roll, killing terrorist leaders at will, seemingly. Soleimani, al-Baghdadi, Hamza bin Laden, Osama bin Laden’s son and heir apparent. Before that, we killed Osama himself. Iranian Quds Force, ISIS, and Al Qaeda leadership had been knocked into the dirt. We were feeling good about our intelligence and operations. But the coronavirus outbreak had added another layer to everything.
“Biohazard? Pathogen?”
“Close. I got the report from Rogerson on your friend Ben David. Then I checked with Mossad. The Israelis are being very cloak-and-dagger about him. They’re not sure whether he’s gone native with the Iranians or is still loyal to Israel. He was an Iranian Jew, after all.”
“Still is, but he’s loyal. You can worry about the rest of the world. I know Ben David.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I trust you. You trust him. That works. But you should know that he escaped.”
I stared at Fillmore a moment. Escaped? It would be just like him to do that. Rogerson was no match for a healthy Ben David. But why would he escape instead of providing us with critical intelligence?
“Any idea where to?”
“We are assuming back into Iran, but really that’s just a bullshit guess.”
I stared at the rippling water of Tampa Bay, the sun’s reflection looking like a million diamonds twinkling, thinking of Ben David and churning through scenarios of why he left, or even how he fled, given his condition. Nothing took hold.
“Are we looking for David?”
“In Afghanistan, yes. The Iranian military is on the border, so our cover is blown there.”
“Did Rogerson make any progress?”
“No. Rogerson couldn’t get anything out of him, and David was gone by the time you landed here,” Fillmore said.
I nodded and changed the topic. “Rogerson is an interesting character. We chatted some in Farah. Said this op was beyond my pay grade.”
“He could be right, but I know that you’ve got a special relationship with President-Elect Campbell. In a couple of days when she’s inaugurated, you’ll be cleared for everything,” he said.
* * *
KIM CAMPBELL, A former schoolteacher, won her historic presidential election in November. On the campaign trail, she singled out our actions during the al-Baghdadi raid as something exceptional. Hobart, Van Dreeves, Jackson, Brown, and I were all in on that action and at the time she had flown to Fort Bragg to meet with us as well as attend Melissa’s funeral during her campaign. Until now, I didn’t know of anyone who had leaked that information. I was glad for my men that a presidential candidate would personally thank them for their actions. She never sought any publicity; rather, she talked with the troops for about thirty minutes and with me for about two hours. We sat in a nondescript windowless room along Pope Field at a gray metal table in two ratty chairs from the property disposal yard and discussed Middle East policy, defense budgets, family readiness groups … and Melissa.
But our relationship long predated that meeting behind the fence at Fort Bragg. Kim and Melissa had been college roommates at Raleigh’s prestigious all women’s university, Meredith College. They both aspired to be teachers and make an impact on generations of students. Kim’s career took her into an impassioned run for the North Carolina state legislature, followed by service as the state’s second female governor and finally to the brink of the presidency after a bitterly contested race. She was now awaiting her inauguration less than a week away.
While I was dating Melissa, I knew Kim as just an athletic girl with blond hair and ice-blue eyes who liked to drink beer with us and her then boyfriend, a young man named Peter Ducoix from Duke’s Fuqua School of Business. On my breaks from West Point, Melissa and I would spend a fair amount of time shuttling between Fayetteville and Wil-mington visiting friends and families. The Campbells had a large home on Wrightsville Beach, near Wilmington. When Kim told us about her presidential ambitions, Melissa and I joked with her that we knew too much about her beer-drinking days. Now, thirty years later, she had married, divorced, and remarried, finding marital bliss, served one term as governor, and become president of the United States.
We shared a common grief in the loss of Melissa. At the funeral in Fayetteville, she had approached me, the tears in her eyes as genuine as the friend she’d been to Melissa. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I miss her so much.”
“Me, too,” I replied. I had received thousands of calls, texts, emails, and visitors after Melissa’s passing and remained relatively stoic throughout it all, yet Kim’s simple gesture produced a lone tear cutting a solitary path down my cheek as I stared at her. In her eyes, I saw resolve, empathy, and determination. In mine, she most likely saw an utterly shattered human being trying to reassemble his life.
“We need soldiers like you. Leaders like you, who know not just the price of war but the cost. When I win, I’ll be counting on you.”
Most often, senior leaders, whether they be generals or CEOs, had few people with whom they could genuinely share thoughts and emotions. Just like people wanted to believe their doctors and priests were of divine origin, the fifty thousand troops you command in a combat zone needed to believe you to be Conan the Barbarian, not someone with shattered emotions. The truth was I was both.
And her own empathy was heartfelt. There wasn’t a political utterance in our conversation. I was not naive enough to think she wasn’t there to shore up her military family support credentials with the election a year away.
Based on Kim’s and my longstanding friendship, the television pundits briefly speculated that I was the lead nominee to be her national security advisor, but I put an end to that by never answering the media’s phone calls.
However, before leaving Melissa’s funeral, she had handed me a smartphone. “Keep this,” she’d said. “You may need me. I may need you. If I don’t answer, don’t leave a message. I’ll know it’s you and will call you back if I’ve still got the phone. You respond, or not, however you wish if I call you. Could be two friends just needing to talk. Could be how to stop World War III. Remember, if I win, I’m going to ask you to be chairman until you say yes.”
“You know what they say about friends in Washington, D.C.,” I replied.
“Yes, get a dog. I’ve got two, and you don’t live in D.C.”
I nodded and said, “And you’ll have a whole bunch of people leading you into World War III as they’re telling you how to avoid it. Watch those West Pointers.”
She smiled and stuck a slender finger in my chest. “Exactly. Keep the phone.”
I pocketed the phone and had not used it, nor had she. Part of the reason was my deference to the chain of command. I was always a leader who dwelled within the organization, not one that looked outward from it, seeking my next thing.
* * *
SNAPPING BACK TO the moment, I said to Fillmore, “Kim and I go back to college, but she was really Melissa’s friend.”
“President Stone and President-Elect Campbell are being briefed on this mission. You are the commander of the task force leading it. If you need to give anyone a heads-up, feel free.”
Because the mission could span the transfer of power, Fillmore was giving me an opportunity to discuss the mission with Kim, but I deferred to him.
“That’s your lane, boss. I don’t need a million people listening to my conversation with the incoming president.”
“True, well, here’s the deal. Rogerson said that the chemicals we found in Iran can be traced to a lab in Germany. The national command authority wants us to investigate it, and they want the same team that did the Iran mission to go to Germany.”
“Germany? This is Demon Rain?”
Fillmore nodded and rubbed his face, something he did when he got nervous. “Yes. There are two schools of thought. The FBI is thinking this could be about mind control. The CIA is thinking this could be a superspreader chem-bio combination—a manufactured virus that has chem properties. Think COVID-19 mixed with sarin mixed with LSD.”
I thought of Ben David’s face contorted in horror. “Worst case, we have a highly infectious virus that can attack your respiratory and nervous systems?”
He aimed a finger gun at me and collapsed his thumb like a hammer falling. “But with mind control mixed in there.”
“COVID got everyone to stay home. What more mind control could you want?”
“That’s what we’re concerned about.”
I nodded again, rubbed my chin, and asked, “Do we have a location in Germany? A timeline?”
