State Of The Union

It had to have been. The fact that the Capstone credit card still worked, hell, the fact that he had even been called after all this time was reason enough to believe that he would find things just as he had left them fifteen years ago.

But what the hell was going on?Could it be a test? If so, why test him? Surely, they had younger, more capable operatives-operatives who were actuallyactive. None of this made any sense. If you were going to run the world’s most important horse race, why drag in old warhorses from the pasture for it?

Frank Leighton’s mind was overflowing with questions and as they began to get the better of him, he slammed an iron door on his misgivings and secondguessing. He reminded himself of what they all had been taught, the one thing that had been drilled into them over and over again-The protocol will never be wrong. The protocol is infallible.

As he pulled himself together and shut down his computer, Leighton thought again about calling his sister. If his mission didn’t succeed, at least she and the kids would have a chance. Then he thought again. No, he couldn’t call her. Despite how much he wanted to, the protocol was explicit. There had been no indication that this was coming. Nothing. But at the same time, it was one of the eventualities they had been told to be prepared for-something coming out of the clear blue sky.

After Leighton had thought about it some more, he rationalized that there was one person he could call; someone like him-someone who would have been contacted as well. They wouldn’t have to discuss details; the tone of their voices would say everything.

He retrieved his cache from the old lobsterman’s buoy in the boathouse and brought it back inside to his bedroom where he quickly packed a small suitcase full of clothes. After throwing in what looked like an oversized PDA, he opened the manila envelope from the buoy and spread its contents across the top of his dresser.

The passport was going to need some tweaking. He would need to update some of the stamps and of course, change its expiration date. He’d need to do the same thing for the driver’s license. The credit card and false business cards were slid into various pockets of the sport coat he had hung on the knob of the closet door.

Other items, like the pre-European Union currency, which was no longer of any use, were dropped into a metal wastebasket. An old coded list of names, addresses, and phone numbers was recommitted to memory and then dropped into the wastebasket as well.

Now was the time to place the phone call. Leighton walked back into his kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed. He felt like he was in one of those nightmares where everything moved in slow motion. The ringing of the telephone on the other end seemed to take forever. Finally, on the fifth ring, there was what sounded like someone picking up. Relief flooded through him. If the man he was calling was still at home, maybe he hadn’t been activated. Maybe this was all some sort of mistake. The feeling, though, was short-lived as Leighton realized he had reached the man’s voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

Nothing but the assignment mattered now. He could trust no one. Everyone and everything at this point was suspect. He retrieved a bottle of starter fluid from beneath the kitchen sink and doused the contents of the metal wastebasket. There could be no trace left behind. Leighton set the wastebasket outside on his stone patio, struck a match and watched as the assortment of papers went up in flames. When he was positive they were burned beyond recognition, he used the lid of his kettle grill to choke out the fire and after emptying it, returned the wastebasket inside.

Two hours later, having expertly altered his false passport and driver’s license with the drafting supplies he had held onto for just such a purpose, the house locked up and the suitcase in the trunk of his car, Frank Leighton pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the airport, committed to his assignment and the havoc he was about to let loose upon the world.

Chapter 3

CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS-8 DAYS

Scot Harvath sat in the Hotel Del Coronado’s Babcock amp; Story bar sipping one of their signature margaritas, but his mind was a million miles away. Coming home had not been easy for him, at least not like this, but his mother had insisted, and if nothing else, Harvath was a good son.

It had been ten years since they had laid his father to rest and on this anniversary, his mother thought it appropriate that they do something to remember him. Scot didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he remembered his father almost every day, because he knew she did too. Michael Harvath had been a good man-a good husband, a good father, a good soldier, and the reason Scot Harvath had become a Navy SEAL.