Page 5 of The Fourth Option
“Believe me, Leigh Ann will know the difference.”
“Well, whatever. I like this one. I’m going to see if I can get it home when we pull stakes and leave this shithole.”
“The U.S. is never leaving this shithole,” Walker replied. He shifted toneutral, coasted, and touched the brakes. “You have your ID? They don’t know us on this side of the runway.”
Walker stopped and cranked down the manual window. He presented his blue badge ID card to a pair of soldiers stuck with gate duty. Staub handed his green CIA identification card across the center console. The difference in colors signaled their differing roles. Blue badgers were management. Green badgers were muscle.
One of the soldiers disappeared inside the guard shack. The other inspected the undercarriage of the Rover with a lighted mirror on a pole. While they waited, Staub remarked, “I can totally see Leigh Ann driving this thing.”
“I can’t.”
“Be like riding in a tank for her and Connor.”
“How old is Connor now?”
“Sixteen. Growing up too fast.”
“Sounds like you need a Volvo. Nice and safe.”
“I don’t think Leigh Ann is a Volvo person. Plus, this is one hell of a capable four-by-four.”
“It’s not like you have mountains in New Orleans. The one time I passed through Louisiana, I thought the whole state was a bridge.”
“Exactly. See the snorkel?” Staub nodded at the hood corner where a thick black tube crawled up the front door post. “Katrina wasn’t the last hurricane to blow through that town. Something like this would be an evacuation machine, you know? I should take it for that reason alone.”
“It’s right-hand drive.”
“Good point. Maybe I just need to buy one. I read they’re coming out with a new design later this year. First time they’re selling Defenders in the U.S. since ’97.”
Walker watched the soldiers at the guard shack. “You’d blow all that extra combat pay you’ve banked over here.”
“Exactly what that money’s for. Tax-free, Mr. Philosopher,” Staub said, using the nickname Walker had acquired very early on in the SEAL Teams.
Chris stared doubtfully at his older teammate. Although Staub was brilliant when it came to tactics, he was capable of the worst possible financial decisions.
“We’re different,” Staub said, correctly sensing the judgment.
“Thank God for that.”
“No, I mean, Leigh Ann and I don’t like restoring old crap. You fixed up your mom’s house and car. You rebuild engines. You haul around that surplus typewriter of yours and clack away at your homework—”
“Dissertation.”
“Whatever. My point is, I bet you’d take this beat-up old right-hand drive over a brand-new made-for-America Defender, wouldn’t you?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Then why do you still wear that issued G-SHOCK?”
“Because it’s practical.”
“And this isn’t?” Staub said, pointing to the Tudor timepiece on his left wrist.
“It’s shiny.”
“You of all people should appreciate the history.”
“Oh, I do. That doesn’t make it any less shiny.”
