Free Tiger by the Tail by John Ringo, Ryan Sear Page A

sensitive special operations outside the United States. They assisted operator teams that needed intel, a favor, or that had just gotten into a jam they couldn’t handle on their own. OSOL also briefed the higher-ups on what was going down when necessary, then relayed new orders to the operator or team in the field. It was staffed twenty-four/seven by higher echelon officers, and could perform just about any service an operator needed done ASAP or sooner.
    Pierson’s shift had been remarkably quiet; so much so that he thought he might be able to get out at what was approximately a normal shift-end time. He also knew the approximate odds of that happening, as it was an old maxim in intel analysis: the longer things remain quiet, the bigger the shit storm that’s coming down—
    And just like that, the secure phone rang. With a resigned exhalation, Bob picked up the receiver, immediately shifting from slightly tired officer to perfect, precise, professional soldier.
    “Office of Special Operations Liaison, U.S. Army Colonel Robert Pierson speaking, how may I help you?”
    “Go scramble,” a familiar voice on the other end said.
    Bob did so and leaned back in his chair. He knew the caller on the other end well, and also knew that his plans for a quiet, uneventful evening had been shit-canned the moment he’d picked up.
    “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation, Mike?”
    “Yes, and here in the land of tomorrow it’s eighty-nine degrees and sunny. How are things in your neck of the woods?”
    “Well, they had been quiet until you called. Otherwise it’s about forty-five degrees and raining salamanders. I’m sure this isn’t a social call, however.”
    With Mike, it never was. Bob had first “met” him during the Syria op, and had been Mike’s handler on the D.C. end of things ever since.
    “Is it ever?” Mike briefly outlined what he and his Keldara had run into, including the loot they’d picked up from their captives.
    Bob blinked twice.
    “Is Vanner absolutely sure about the cargo?”
    “We checked with Doctor Death. They’re the real deal. My question is, what the hell am I supposed to do with them?”
    “That is a good one. Just sit tight and let me inform some people who need to know right now. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
    “Works. I’ll be around.”
    “Okay. I’ll be in touch the second I know what The Man wants done.”
    “You’re taking this that high?”
    “Not my call. But somehow I have a feeling that I’ll be visiting a certain big white house before the night is over.”
    “Good luck. Jenkins out.”
    Bob hit the disconnect button, then dialed a number that went straight to the National Military Command Center.
    “This is Colonel Pierson in OSOL. We have a situation.”
    * * *
    Two and a half hours later, the President, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, held up a hand.
    “Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Computer chips that run a nuclear power plant were found in the possession of ocean pirates off Singapore?”
    “Yes, sir. As improbable as it sounds, that is the situation in a nutshell,” Pierson said. “However, to clarify, they are not simply computer chips, but the motherboards that are the brains, if you will, of a nuclear reactor.”
    The President rubbed his chin.
    “Bob, I know Mike’s intel is on the level. If he says he’s got ’em, then he’s got ’em. But frankly, this sounds like the opening of a James Bond film.”
    The rest of the cabinet secretaries and chiefs of staff all smiled or chuckled politely, then their expressions grew serious to match the President’s.
    “Do we have any intel on a missing shipment?” he asked.
    “Nothing has come across my desk in the past two weeks regarding missing or stolen nuclear reactor operation boards,” the head of the NSA said. “Whoever lost these is keeping it very quiet.”
    “Before we get any deeper into this, Mr. President, are we waiting on the NRC chair, or are they not going to