Page 6 of The Fourth Option
“Some supply guy was taking a hammer to all the old Tudors at my first SEAL Team,” Staub said. “Have I ever told you this story?”
“About a hundred times.”
“Said he was ordered to do it to get them out of the system. Said it was illegal to take them. I reminded him of the age-old naval tradition of ‘gundecking,’ and in exchange for the last four Tudor Subs, I rewarded him with a case of beer. I saved a bit of history that day. You know, the Team guys who jumped in after the Apollo astronauts when they splashed down were wearing these.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Gave one to my chief, one to my LPO, and one to my BUD/S swim buddy. One day this one will go to Connor when he graduates college.”
“What’s he interested in?”
“Journalism. Works on the school paper. Big reader. He’s not like me. He’s smart enough to make a living with a pen, not the sword.”
“Well, let’s hope so,” Walker said as a soldier arrived with a clipboard.
The sergeant handed the badges through the window.
“We’re picking up a new arrival,” Walker said. “He would have checked in last night. Name’s Lawrence.”
“Lawrence the first name or last?” the soldier asked.
“Both. He should be staying in visiting officer quarters.”
The other soldier approached with the clipboard. After a half-minute search, he tapped the clipboard. “Got him. He’s in the CHUs. A-16, third alley to your left.”
“Thanks.” Walker shifted into gear and let out the clutch.
The CHUs—container housing units—were the high-rent district on the Bagram base, boasting metal walls and Mitsubishi mini-splits for heating and cooling. Staub was working on requisitioning one of them to set up out in the swamps as a hunting cabin back in Louisiana.
“You worked much with Fisk?” Staub asked as they coasted to a stop by a container.
“We were in the same class at the Farm. But after that, he went the case officer route.”
“Not a gunslinger?”
“Too smart.” Walker smiled, killed the engine, and yanked the parking brake.
“Come on, no one’s smarter than you, genius.”
Walker rolled his eyes.
“I’ll hop out and give him the front seat,” Staub said. “And I can check out the cargo volume of my future ride.”
Walker found container A-16 at the center of a rat maze of narrow passages. In addition to the stenciled A-16 address, a laminated card had been inserted in a slot that read: “L.L. LAWRENCE, OGA.” Other Government Agency was the catch-all term for the various government groups that cycled through Bagram: CIA, FBI, DEA, DSS. But for all intents and purposes, the term had become synonymous with the CIA. The nondescript alias was another dead giveaway.
“Hey, Chris,” Leonard Fisk said in greeting. “Long time.”
Walker shook hands with the taller, skinnier man. “Welcome to Kabul, Lenny.”
“Thanks. Come on in.”
Walker climbed the steps and entered the corrugated metal wall container. “How’s the jet lag? How are things at Langley?”
“Langley’s Langley and jet lag is my standard operating condition,” Fisk answered, pushing his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Give me a second to close out this email, then we’ll get going.” Fisk sat on a desk chair and typed while Walker remained standing by the door.
After half a minute, bespectacled face to the screen, Fisk asked, “What’s your contact’s name again? Just putting together a quick synopsis for the station before we head out.”
“Naji Mansour,” Walker replied.
