Free The Fifth Profession by David Morrell Page B

Reagan retaliate in that region? No, because the Mideast situation's too complicated. So what did he do to save face? He ordered American forces to attack an easy target to rescue supposed American hostages in the Caribbean.”
    “But the American public perceives Grenada as a blow for freedom, an important U.S. victory against a Communist threat in the Western Hemisphere.”
    “Because reporters were restricted from the invasion. The only reports came from the military. In civilian life, it's called lying. In politics, it's called disinformation.”
    “Yes,” Graham said. “Disinformation. Exactly the word I was waiting for. As I said, what attracted me to you was your mind. Your ability to step back from your military conditioning, recognize the truth, and think independently. Why was your reaction so bitter?”
    “You know that already. I was part of the first team to hit the island. We parachuted from a transport plane. Other chutes brought us rafts because we had to infiltrate the island from offshore. But the Navy misjudged the weather. The wind was stronger than predicted. At night, the waves were so fierce we couldn't see the rafts. A lot of us—a lot of my
friends
—drowned before we reached the rafts.”
    “Died bravely.”
    “Yes.”
    “In the service of their country.”
    “In the service of a movie-star president who sent us needlessly into combat so he'd look like a hero.”
    “So with disgust, you refused to reenlist in the Navy, despite the fifty-thousand-dollar incentive the military offered you. However, a disaffected Navy SEAL, a top-of-the-line ex-commando,
could
have asked a huge fee from mercenary recruiters.”
    “I didn't
want
to be a mercenary.”
    “No. You wanted dignity. You had the wisdom to understand your true vocation, not a soldier but a protector.”
    Graham leaned back behind his spacious mahogany desk, puffing his cigar with satisfaction. Though corpulent, he wore impeccably tailored clothes that minimized his bulk: a gray pinstripe suit and vest, a subdued maroon tie, and a subtle blue handkerchief tucked perfectly into the chest pocket of his suitcoat. “The tie and the handkerchief should never match,” he always insisted, instructing Savage about the proper way to dress if a distinguished client had to be escorted to a semiformal occasion. “Wear clothes to match your surroundings, but never choose a suit that's more elegant than your client's.”
    Proper dress had been only a small part of what Graham taught Savage about the rules of executive protection. The occupation was far more complex than Savage had imagined when he first came to Graham in the fail of ‘83, though to Savage's credit he had not assumed that his extensive experience with one of the finest military units in the world had been all the preparation he would need. Quite the contrary. Savage's commando training had taught him the value of admitting what he didn't know, of thoroughly preparing himself for a mission. Knowledge is power. Ignorance is death. That was why he'd come to Graham in the first place—to dispel his ignorance and learn from a world-class expert about the refinements of his newly chosen profession.
    Weapons: Savage required no instruction in that regard. There wasn't a weapon—firearms, explosives, ballpoint pens, or piano wire—that Savage couldn't use proficiently.
    But what about surveillance techniques? Savage's training had been to assault, not follow.
    And “bug” detection? Savage's experience with bugs was limited to disease-bearing pests in jungles, not miniature microphones implanted in telephones, lamps, and walls.
    And evasive driving? Savage had never evaded an objective. He'd always attacked. And as far as driving was concerned, he and his unit had always been transported to whichever plane or ship would take them to their target. Driving was something he did for fun in a rented Corvette to take him from bar to bar while on leave.
    “Fun?” Graham had winced.