Death Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR:



Death slowly lowered himself down the metal shaft. The metal plating wobbled, banged and echoed loudly as he inched his way down. He cursed under his breath, praying that the Russians wouldn’t hear the commotion above them. Once he was about ten feet down, the shaft came to a vertical T-junction, and he lowered his body down onto the lower ducting. The duct was large enough for Death to crawl through with room to spare, and had several large gratings on the bottom wall at regular intervals along the metal tunnel’s length. Death looked to his right and left, and upon seeing that the duct traveled off into a blackened infinity in both directions, chose the left direction. Left, in Death’s opinion, was the misfit direction; it is often passed over for right, and in a sense it was something he could relate to.



Death edged along the ducting slowly and steadily as to avoid any unwanted noises from alerting the Russians. He had been crawling for only a few minutes before he reached the first vent. Death paused, pulled out his switchblade again, and began to remove the screws from the vent. Once they were out, he stuck the blade under the grate, prying it away from the ductwork.



With the grating removed and placed safely off to the side, Death poked his head out of the vent and surveyed the hallway below: thin beams of moonlight shone in through the rain-speckled windows into the empty corridor. Death prepared to lower himself down when the echoing sound of footsteps below caught him off-guard. He withdrew slightly, watching the lone Russian guard patrolling the hallway below slowly approach, unaware of his presence. Death waited until the Russian was directly beneath him, and jumped. Death landed on top of the guard, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed it face-first onto the cement floor. The guard never made a sound. Death crouched quickly, checked his surrounds, and dragged the Russian’s body into the shadows for safe keeping.



Death crouched and hugged the wall beneath the windows as to avoid being seen in the moonlight. He worked his way down the hallway until the sound of approaching footsteps made Death freeze in momentary panic. Death quickly dove into a nearby alcove and watched another Russian patrol walk by through squinted eyes. Once the guard had passed, Death remained crouched and snuck up behind him. In the blink of an eye, Death grabbed the Russian by the head and with a quick flick of his wrists, snapped the man’s neck. Death grabbed the man to keep his falling body from making a commotion, and dragged it over into the shadows to be hidden safely from view.



He continued along the hallway for several more minutes, until he arrived at a three-way intersection. Death stood up flat against the wall, peaking around the corners to check for any approaching patrols. Suddenly he realized something; he couldn’t remember which way to go. Cursing his poor memory under his breath, Death chose the right hallway because of its lack of windows which made for complete cover from the moonlight.



He hugged the right wall of the hallway, crouching to muffle his footsteps and circumvent any disturbances. The hallway was completely dark, and Death could not see his hand in front of his face. To compensate for lack of light, he quickly donned his night vision goggles and switched them on. The ghostly green outlines of his surrounds flashed into sight before him, and he continued in this manner until the image of another Russian began to come into focus before him. Death flattened himself against the wall, and snuck up behind the guard. In a flash, Death covered the Russian’s mouth, knocked his feet out from under him, and slammed his head on the concrete floor.



Suddenly, the loud barking of garbled Russian came blaring over the unconscious soldier’s radio. As part of his training, Death had mastered roughly twenty dialects from around the world, and fortunately, Russian was one of his specialties.

“Krozski: status report,” the voice commanded. “What’s the status in the east wing? Any sign of the Americans yet?” Death snatched the radio from the soldier’s belt, pressed the button and—in textbook Russian—began to speak into the radio.



“All clear here, sir . . . No signs of American activity yet.”



“Good,” the heavy voice replied. “Report back in twenty minutes, Krozski.”



“Yes, sir,” Death replied, smirking to himself. He stuffed the radio into the unconscious Russian’s pants, and dragged his body over to another nearby alcove for safe keeping. Death was now off with confidence: he had been told the girls were being held in the east wing, and the Russian commander had just confirmed that the now unconscious Krozski was busy patrolling the east wing before Death had disposed of him. He soon arrived at another doorway, and gently opened it.



He had arrived in a massive, dimly lighted storage hangar of sorts, brimming with activity: a small group of maintenance workers were repairing a row of Russian tanks lined up against a wall of shutter doors, while several small forklifts were busy stacking crates of unknown contents. A network of catwalks spanned the length of the hangar, on which several heavily-armed Russians kept watch on the activity below. Several large fuel tanks stood against the far wall, and two idling Russian military refueling tankers stood parked nearby, preparing to receive their flammable cargo.



Death pulled out his silenced pistol and took aim at the guards on the catwalks first. THUD, THUD, THUD. Three shots. Three direct hits to the back of the head. Three instant kills. The hapless guards dropped like flies, one by one, until the upper area of the hangar was clear. Death holstered his pistol and began to descend the metal staircase to the lower levels.



It took him several minutes to work his way across the warehouse to the fuel trucks, dropping Russians with quick one-shot one-kill dispatches along the way. Once the maintenance crew had been taken care of with several quick shots to the temple, and the forklift operators had been incapacitated by shots through the neck, Death made a break for the tankers.



He reached into one of his jumpsuit’s various pouches, withdrew a compact detonation pack, pulled the shortwave antennae from the block, and stuck the adhesive side onto the underside of the tanker. He wished it bon voyage then hurried up the metal stairwell to the doorway out of the hangar area. This new hallway led to a flight of stairs straight up, followed by a sharp turn to the right. Death slowly ascended the stairs, opened the door at the top, and then made a quick turn right. He had arrived in another hallway, which led straight down to a lone doorway with a thin beam of light shining out beneath it. Two slumbering Russians stood guard on either side of it. The hallway was windowless and dimly lit by a few fluorescent lights spaced every twenty feet down the length of the corridor. Death pulled out his silenced pistol, took aim and fired. THUD. The first Russian was hit directly through the top of his head. He fell with a thump and slumped on the floor. The sound of his falling comrade awoke the second Russia, who looked around the hallway through sleep-blurred eyes. Suddenly there was a loud THUD, a small puff of smoke, and his eyes went black. He never felt himself hit the ground.



Death rushed down the hall to the doorway, dropped down on his knees, and pressed his face down onto the cold cement floor, trying to peer under with all his might. ‘Screw this,’ he thought to himself, pulling out his switchblade again. A few seconds of poking and prodding with the tip of the blade, and the door swung open. The room was blindingly bright, and there before him, lay six sleeping girls on a worn mattress in the corner of the room. Ashley woke abruptly, and starred at him for several seconds; he smiled softly back at her.



“Hey,” he said reassuringly, relief washing over his face. “Wait, where’s Makenna?” He looked around the tiny room frantically as his oldest daughter got up from the bed and walked over to him. In a flash she had wrapped her arms around her father’s torso and hugged him with all her remaining strength. Suddenly a loud, powerful siren began to go off somewhere in the base that made them jump, and caused the sleeping girls to bolt upright on the bed, wide awake and alert.



“They took her,” Ashley said, tears welling up in her eyes. “They took her to— to—” She released her grip, and stood there, looking away from her father to hide her fear. Death grabbed the Benelli from the sling across his back, reloaded the silenced pistol and handed it to Ashley. He touched her face softly, and turned her to face him.



“If anybody except me or Makenna comes through this door, blow them to hell. Okay sweetheart? I’ll be right back.” He cocked the shotgun and closed the door behind him. Meanwhile out in the hallway, the lights had blazed to full life, and a group of ten anxious and confused Russians had arrived to uncover the source of the intrusion. Death quickly looked around for cover, and finding none, knew he had to act fast. A quick, well aimed burst from the shotgun hit the fluorescent light above the Russians, showering them with sparks and immobilizing them for a few seconds. Holding the Benelli in his left hand, Death whipped out his Uzi with his right and let out several short bursts from the weapon across their chests sending them toppling over one another to the ground like dominos.



He rushed down the hallway, jumped over the heap of lifeless Russians, and turned the corner. He kicked open the door at the top of the stairwell to see several more Russians rushing up to apprehend him. Death flicked the Benelli in his left hand to cock it and blasted the lead Russian directly in the chest. The force of the impact knocked him backwards into the other Russians sending them all tumbling down the stairs. Death’s eyes burned with pure hatred; he had no mercy. He unleashed his wrath via Uzi on them, and then stomped indifferently on their corpses as he descended the stairs.



He was back in the warehouse area, where the blaring sirens were echoing and most prominent. It was swarming with Russians, and Death was promptly greeting by a barrage of semi- and fully-automatic gunfire. Death rolled down the stairs and ducked behind a stack of metal crates nearby. The bullets hit and ricocheted off the metal box, making an awful sound. He returned the Benelli to the strap on his back, and pulled out an Uzi for both hands. He smiled, and grabbed a fragmentation grenade from his belt. He pulled the pin out with his teeth, and tossed it around the corner. The level of gunfire died down momentarily, followed by shouts, a massive explosion and then cries of agony. Death got up—an Uzi in both hands—and rounded the corner spraying anything and everything with bullets.



Russians crumpled and fell left and right, while the guards on the catwalks tried frantically to shoot the madman below, but to no avail. He rolled, took cover behind another stack of crates, and reloaded his Uzis in the blink of an eye. Death grabbed another fragmentation grenade and chucked it around the corner. The blast knocked over one of the towering shelves holding the crates, and the entire structure went crashing down on a group of hapless Russians.



The momentary confusion was all Death needed: he made a break for the door out of the hangar, laying down suppressive fire with his Uzis the whole way. When he reached the door, Death turned around to survey the damage: Russian bodies were scattered across the floor, lights had been blown out, one of the catwalks had collapsed, smashed crates lay strewn across the floor, and a raging fire has caught on the cargo crates from one of the grenades. Another squad of Russians was running towards him, their bullets ringing all around him. Death pulled out the detonator for the remote bomb he had placed on the tanker earlier, and pressed it. There was a momentary delay, then a deafening explosion. The tankers were ripped in half, and the flames quickly ignited the jet fuel stored in the massive holding tanks nearby. The ill fated Russians on the ground were swallowed up by flames. One of the catwalks collapsed, and the Russians standing on it tumbled backwards directly into the pool of burning fuel beneath. Death almost felt sorry for them . . . Almost.



He closed the door behind him, loading the Benelli with shells while he had the chance. Death spotted a squad of Russians retreating down a hallway while another group broke off to engage him. He knew they were falling back to protect the room where Makenna was, but first, he would have to deal with the group directly in his path. A fire extinguisher hung conveniently on the wall in an alcove just ahead of him. He grabbed it, chucked it down the hallway, and waited for them to get within range. They opened fire, and Death dove into the alcove for cover. He waited until they were right on top of it, and unleashed a short burst from the Uzi. The bullets hit their mark: the fire extinguisher exploded, spraying pressurized liquid nitrogen foam all over the oncoming Russians. Some slipped on the foam, while others began yelling frantically, shooting recklessly about in a frenzy of noise and confusion. Death laid down a single burst of fire across the lot of them and they dropped to the ground.



Death hurried down the hallway he had seen the second group of Russians head down minutes before as quickly as he could. The screeching of the alarm in his ears spurred him on, and he quickly reloaded the Benelli with shells and the Uzis with fresh clips. A lone elevator stood at the end of the corridor. He rapidly pushed the ‘descend’ button until the doors finally opened and rushed inside. The elevator only traveled between this level and another one below. After several tense seconds of listening to the alarm blaring over the elevator speaker system, Death was jostled about as he came to a halt. The doors had barely begun to open when Death was greeted by bursts of gunfire.



Death took cover up against the wall to the side of the doorway, and watched as the back wall of the elevator was speckled with bullet holes. He smiled impishly to himself as he grabbed a white phosphorous grenade from his belt and whipped it around the corner. Suddenly there was a short abrupt BANG, a flash of blinding light, and the sounds of agonizing screams as the Russians were soaked with torrid drops of liquid phosphorous. When the last of the screams had subsided, Death exited the elevator and walked past the remains of the Russians who were burned beyond recognition. The door they had been defending directly in front of Death was solid steel. He knocked on it gently to evaluate its integrity, and then grabbed another detonation pack from his jumpsuit. Just like in the hangar minutes before, he grabbed the pack, pulled out the antennae and stuck it to the door. Death took cover inside the elevator and pressed the detonation button. Another BANG, and the door flew open.



When the smoke had cleared, he could make out the faint outlines of thirty or so armed Russians standing in front of a large stone desk. Behind it stood Putin, wide awake, a look of fiery fury burning in his normally cold, gray eyes.



“Kill him, you idiots!” he snarled. The Russian soldiers flinched slightly at the sound of his harsh voice and opened fire simultaneously. Bullets began to burst and ricochet all around him. Death dove behind the stone fountain in the center of the room, and chunks of rock splintered and broke off as it was showered with bullets. He peered around the corner and unloaded an entire clip on the Russians. The majority of his shots missed, but the ones that didn’t sent their targets crumpling and falling to the floor, riddled with gunshot wounds.



He ducked back down behind the fountain as the remaining twenty guards began firing round after round into it, hoping to force him out into the open. Death quickly reloaded the Uzis and dove out into the open, firing a spray of bullets across the line of Russians. They were so stunned by this bold move that they momentarily stopped firing, leaving Death with a clear shot at his targets. They dropped in pairs until only Putin remained. He was sitting behind the massive marble desk in his oversized Corinthian leather chair. Death stood up and dropped both Uzis on the floor. He bared his teeth in a menacing snarl, overcome with a blind rage. Putin remained seated, his face remaining an emotionless stare.



Death dove headfirst over the marble desk straight at Putin, tackling the Russian president, and sending them both flying backwards over the chair. Death punched Putin—a black belt in karate and former operative for the KGB—in the head several times. Blood trickled from the corner of the Russian’s mouth. Putin countered, kicking Death in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards giving him time to get up. Putin hit him with a roundhouse kick to the cheek, and Death went straight to the ground. Putin lunged at him as he lay on the ground, kicking him in the stomach as he tried to regain his composure.



Death was on all fours, gasping for breath—his stomach felt like he had been gutted like a fish. Putin wiped the blood from his mouth on his arm, and grabbed a large chunk of rock that had been broken off the now ruined fountain. Putin came at him with the rock, but Death grabbed his hand twisting his wrist. Putin dropped the rock and dropped to his knees in pain as Death began to push the Russian’s wrist to the breaking point. In a last ditch effort Putin punched Death again in the stomach. Death momentarily lessened his grip, and Putin escaped his clutches. The Russian Premier grabbed a nearby ceramic vase and smashed it over Death’s head. The marine again fell to the ground, barely conscious. Putin began to chuckle quietly at the sight of Death on the ground. He strolled over to the fireplace behind his damaged desk and grabbed the poker from a metal rack on the hearth. He felt the point with his fingertip, and seeing that it was adequately sharp, began to advance on Death.



Putin lunged at Death once again, but he wasn’t quick enough. Death stood up, dodged the jab of the poker, and grabbed it out of Putin’s bruised hand. He grabbed Putin’s extended arm, spun him around to face him, and thrust the metal spear straight into Putin’s stomach. Blood seeped from his shirt as the dying Russian starred at Death momentarily in wide-eyed disbelief before falling to his knees. He let out one final gasp, and then collapsed on the floor, his gray eyes staring blankly into space. Death wiped the blood from his mouth and stood up, panting slightly as he eyed the body to make sure he was dead. Suddenly, a static noise caught his attention. A computer monitor hanging from Putin’s desk by its chord was flashing a sketchy live feed from another room somewhere in the facility. It showed a seven-year-old girl strapped to a metal table.



“Dammit,” he yelled, grabbing his Uzis off the floor and bolting from the room. He recognized the door behind her in the picture: it was a red metal blast door, and he remembered passing one down the hallway that led to the bunker elevator. He rushed back to the elevator, rode it up several stories, then forced the elevator door open to get out quickly. When he reached the blast door, he found it sealed shut. Death whipped out the Benelli and shot the handle—the bullets barely made a mark. He grabbed a block of C4, placed it on the wall next to the door, and ran around the corner to take cover.



“So much for the element of surprise,” he muttered. The explosive ripped through the cinderblock wall, and he rushed through the gaping hole he had created into the torture chamber. The chamber was clouded with smoke and dust particles, but Death’s eyes shone like beacons as his fiery passion emanated outwards. He reloaded his Uzis and held them at the ready as he descended through the smoke into the room. He heard the sound of several panicked Russian voices squabbling to one another, barking orders and screaming, “He’s coming! Get ready!”



The Russians saw the silhouette of a man approaching through the haze: his auburn hair was dyed a brilliant red color that flowed down over his eyes like tongues of flame. He was dressed in baggy black camouflage and dusty leather combat boots. He was adorned with two leg holsters, pouches and pockets for his various tools, and around his neck hung a pair of night vision goggles. He was holding two machine guns, one in each hand. He laughed darkly, as he glanced around the room. The Russians had it surrounded with video cameras sending a live feed directly to the major networks back in the states. In the center of the room stood a heavy metal table on a hydraulic lift to which the Russians had restrained Makenna. Around it stood several polished metal carts laden with various torture implements: razors, scalpels, pliers, some syringes filled with unknown liquids, and a rusty set of jumper cables.



“Daddy!” Makenna screamed as she saw him approaching. The bullets came in waves almost instantaneously. Death ran up against the wall as ten Russians approached, relentlessly firing at him. Death sprayed them with Uzi-fire, all the while taking extra care not to hit his daughter. He managed to drop five of them, while another five decided to rush him. He quickly wiped them out with both Uzis, then ran into the room, knocked over one of the carts and took cover behind it. The bullets punched dents in the metal, making awful noises as they hit and ricocheted outward. Death waited for them to reload, then sent another devastating wave of gunfire flying at them. Several more Russians dropped to the ground, mortally wounded, until only one remained. His gun had jammed, so the Russian dropped his weapon in frustration, whipped out his pistol and held it to Makenna’s head. Death got up slowly from behind the cart, both Uzis pointed at the Russian’s head.



“Drop the guns!” the Russian demanded; his shaky voice cracked as he tried to sound as resolute as possible. Death glared at him, glanced at his daughter’s look of utter terror, and then dropped the Uzis with great reluctance. The Russian smiled weakly, amazed at his ability to get the rogue American to listen to him. He took his eye off Death for a split second and felt a sudden sharp pain in his neck. He looked down and saw the glint of a knife blade jutting from his chest. He looked up at Death in disbelief, and then fell to the ground with a clatter, dead.



“Daddy!” Makenna cried, tears of joy streaming down her soft cheeks.



“Baby, its okay now,” he consoled her. “Everything’s going to be okay now . . .” He grabbed the keys to her shackles off the dead Russian’s belt, and went to work. He had only managed to unlock her left hand when he heard the sound of a gun cocking, and a sharp, deep voice from behind him.



“That’s enough, Watson,” the voice commanded. “Drop the keys. Hands in the air.” Death turned around to face his nemesis, Mikhail Nichev. He was completely uniformed, leather boots as polished as ever, standing bolt upright and aiming an AK-47 directly at Death’s chest. He glared at Death with his cold soulless eyes. “You were a fool to come here.”



“Nichev, you son of a bitch,” Death snarled, his voice emphasized his loathing of the man. “I can’t wait to kill you.”



“I’m so sorry that won’t be happening,” Nichev smiled to himself. “Even if you do manage to escape, there’s no possible way for you to get out of here before the troops we have on standby arrive. I’ve already called them, and they’re on their way now.”



“You dumb bastard,” Death laughed contemptuously. “You don’t think we’ve already thought of that? I’ve got my own troops on standby! Only thing is, mine kick more ass than yours.” Nichev frowned sourly, displeased but not entirely shocked by this information. The Special Forces Commander strolled over to the Uzis lying of the floor and kicked them far out of Death’s reach.



“Regardless,” he sighed. “If I am not leaving here alive, than neither are you!” The Russian began to fire, the harsh chatter of the machine gun echoed loudly in the chamber. Death dove to avoid his line of fire, and grabbed the pistol that had been held to his daughter’s temple just minutes before. He shot several rounds off. One hit Nichev in the left shoulder, which threw him off balance; the second hit him in the right thigh. He stumbled backwards from the force of the shots and began to retreat backwards towards the door. As Nichev turned to escape, Death took aim and fired a single shot which pierced the back of the Russian Commander’s head, sending him flying forward to land on the floor with a noisy thud. Death exhaled deeply in relief, then rushed over to his daughter. He picked up the keys and unlocked the remaining shackles.



“It’s okay sweetie,” Death said as she started to sob, tears pouring out of her eyes once again. “Daddy’s back. I am never going to leave you again. You’re safe. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again.” He noticed the scratches on her face where the Russian had slapped her, and hatred burned anew in his eyes. “What happened?” he asked pushing wisps of hair away from her face and behind her ears. He wiped the tears from her eyes and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.



“Daddy!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tight—she was determined to make sure he’d never leave her again for the rest of his life. “I knew you’d come . . . but I was scared,” she added trying to refrain from crying.



“Sweetheart, you had every right to be scared. In fact, if you were anything but scared I would have been shocked myself,” he said running his fingers through her silky-smooth hair. “I can’t even imagine how you must have felt being there.” She finally calmed down, and he wiped her cheeks and around her eyes with the back of his hand, smiling all the while.



“I missed you so much,” she said with an ardent sincerity in her eyes. “And you’re finally happy again . . . I haven’t seen you smile in so long . . .” She smiled at him through teary, bloodshot eyes.



“You know why I’m happy ’Kenna?” he asked with a grin.



“Because you love me, and Chasee, and Ally, and Ashley, and the triplets, and you missed us all so much, and you’re really happy to see that we are all okay.”



“You’re right,” he said laughing. “You’re so smart . . . you’re going to have to support me in my old age, you know . . .”



“I just know these things, daddy,” she said mimicking her dad’s favorite reply to their questions.



“You would, wouldn’t you?”



“Yes I would.”



He stood in the room rocking his daughter back and forth, contemplating his next move. The sirens sounded so far away, like from another world. He racked his brain for ideas as Makenna slowly fell asleep on his shoulder. The sound of her soft rhythmic breathing brought him back to reality. He strolled over into view of the cameras and cleared his throat. He had never been fond of delivering speeches to his high school English class, let alone the viewing world, but he felt the circumstances called for it.



“Ahem. Attention viewers: my name is Nate Watson. Some know me as ‘Death,’ I suppose with my reputation, some of you think of me as an embarrassment, too.” He gazed off-camera and chuckled a little as he reminisced at this. “I don’t know how I got that title, but everything else is quite simple. Allow me to bring you all up to speed: in less than twenty minutes a massive assault is going to take place on this base, and I am the only man who can make sure that these girls—the president’s nieces—are safe. As shocked as some may be to see me out of a prison cell, you need to understand that the decision was made with a very simple motive in mind: to save these girls. The only soldier qualified for this task that was not tied down with the war in Georgia was me, and so I was called out of that federal hellhole and quickly cast back into action.” He sighed deeply as the tone of his voice grew much more serious.



“I feel there is something that you should all know. However, this isn’t going to be pretty, and it isn’t going to be ‘viewer friendly.’ I don’t play nice, especially when the people being fucked with are my own daughters. When my family’s safety is in jeopardy, I choose not to demonstrate the characteristics of an ‘honorable’ soldier. However, you also need to realize that I am not the same soldier that failed that mission in Korea, and put my life into a tailspin of sorts. I will not fail this mission. Not merely because they are my daughters, but because for the first time in my career I actually feel like I have to prove myself. I will do anything and everything to protect these girls, and that includes taking a bullet for them. While I know that many of you will be pleased with this information that this may in fact be my last mission, I assure you my death will mean the end of your security, and the end of my daughters’ happiness. Despite how much you may hate me—and rest assured, the feeling is mutual—please pray that we all come home safely.” He gave the main camera a polite nod, then unplugged the main electrical cable that was feeding the cameras with power.



He set Makenna down on the lowered hydraulic table and turned to exit through the hole in the wall. She began to sob softly as she watched him start to walk away.



“I’ll be right back cutie pie,” he said looking at her in a way that conveyed the utmost reluctance. “You won’t even know I was gone. And don’t you worry. Nothing is taking daddy away from you . . . nothing at all.” Death checked the hallway outside, and upon seeing the coast was clear, snatched up his daughter from the table and exited the room.



................................................................................................................................................



General Smith and the President cracked open a case of beer, clanking their bottles together before taking long droughts to quench their parched throats. The monitor on the wall showed the various networks changing from the live feed in Russia back to their anchors in the newsrooms whom at once began reflecting on the night’s rollercoaster ride of events.



“About damn time something went right for me, eh?” the President said smiling down at his bottle.



“I feel confident saying yes, sir,” the General said with a grin. “But we aren’t out of the water yet; we have a long way left to go. Now you have a press conference to hold, and the American people are going to be itching with questions for you.”



“Yay,” the President said with a sigh. “Just what I wanted to get myself into: a big PR frenzy. The media’s going to be like a thousand starving sharks circling in on me, and it doesn’t help that they all hate me . . .”



“Don’t worry, Mister President, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” But the President was still skeptical.



“Yeah, but you have to say that. I helped you work your way through the ranks at the Pentagon. Without me . . .”



“‘Without you I would still be pushing paper,’ yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it. Anyway, I’ve got to be going now Kevin; duty calls and whatnot.” The General stood up, downed his remaining beer, and placed his hat on his head.



“All right then,” the President said as he downed his beer as well and stood up to see his friend to the door. They strolled over to the door and exited. Kari looked up from sorting files on her desk and smiled as they walked over to the elevator.



“Good night, Kari,” the General smiled, tipping his hat in her direction as he left. She returned a smile and faced the President.



“Kari, I need you to schedule a press conference at the White House right away.” She nodded and turned to pick up the phone. “Could you also call for my limo? I’d like to get back home and finally get some rest tonight . . .” He sounded exhausted.



“Got it,” she replied with a sly smile. He turned to face her, but got cut off. “And before you say it, yes, I know . . . I’m the best.”