Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

“What about this other Special Forces guy, McCool? Is he any good?”

“If you are referring to General McNab’s deputy, General O’Toole, Mr. President—”

“Okay. O’Toole. Is this O’Toole any good?”

“General O’Toole is a fine officer, Mr. President,” Naylor said.

The President looked between Beiderman and Naylor, and said, “I’d rather have McNab, but you go with what you’ve got, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Naylor and Beiderman said almost simultaneously.

“I had Clemens call O’Toole and tell him to drop everything and get up here,” Clendennen said. “When’s he due, Clemens?”

“He should already have landed at Andrews, Mr. President,” McCarthy said.

“Well, while we’re waiting for him, let me bring you up to speed on what’s going on around here and how I’m going to deal with it,” the President said.

The sound of helicopter rotors penetrated the sound-insulated walls of the White House.

“That has to be him,” the President decided out loud. “We’ll wait. I hate to explain things over and over.”

Major General Terrence O’Toole was shown into the President’s study. He was wearing a somewhat mussed camouflage-pattern battle-dress uniform.

He saluted and said, “Pardon my appearance,

sir.”

“You look, General,” the President said, “as if you’re ready to go to work. No apologies are necessary.”

“So that’s the plan, gentlemen,” the President said. “What do you think?”

“Mr. President, I think it’s brilliant,” Clemens McCarthy promptly said.

“What you think, McCarthy,” the President immediately shot him down, “is irrelevant. You’re a press agent. What is it they say? ‘You might want to write that down.’”

“Mr. President,” General Naylor said, “with all possible respect, sir, I have a few questions. Possibly because I missed some things as you laid out your plan.”

“I expected you and McCool here to have questions, General. I’m the Commander in Chief, but I’m not a soldier. What didn’t you understand?”

“As I understand the situation, Mr. President, there are two sites for the exchange of this fellow Abrego for Colonel Ferris.”

“No. There’s only one. At the Oaxaca State Prison.”

He turned to the map. Using a ruler as a pointer, he aimed it at the map.

“Here,” Clendennen said. “It’s apparently in the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

Naylor said: “Excuse me, sir, but I thought I understood you to say that there has been a message from the kidnappers stating they wanted the exchange to take place at the Juárez International Airport.”

“And I thought I had made it perfectly clear that if we did that, we’d play right into their hands. The helicopter would land there, the two U.S. Marshals on it would find themselves outnumbered by Mexican banditos, who would take this man Abrego from them, and then either wave bye-bye or kill them, too.” As he looked around the room at everyone, he added, “The exchange will take place at the Oaxaca State Prison. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Naylor pursued, “but may I respectfully suggest that these people do expect the helicopter to appear at the Juárez airfield at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. If—when—it does not, then what?”

“Then they will figure out that they haven’t made a sucker out of Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen.”

“That may put Colonel Ferris at risk, Mr. President,” Naylor said, carefully.

“He’s already at risk, isn’t he, General?” Clendennen responded. “You ever hear what Patton said, General? Or was it MacArthur?”