Free Joint Task Force #2: America by David E. Meadows

fine,” Tucker said, as the thought of Sam Bradley flickered across his mind. It took him four runs before he passed her. He smiled as he recalled the expression on her face when he shot by her the first time without a word. It was priceless. She expected him to do something when he caught up; touch her; grab her; say something wily and ribald about winning the prize. Instead, he just raced by, without a word. She had picked up the pace and caught up with him, and even with obvious attempts to get him to refer to her taunt, he pretended not to understand.
    “—is the reason he is here.”
    Tucker jumped slightly. “Sorry, sir. My mind wandered for a moment.”
    “Whatever it was, it must have been happy thoughts,” Holman said as he walked around the back of the small tanned leather couch where Tucker sat. He reached down and patted the Navy SEAL on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t have many happy thoughts in the Pentagon.”
    “I think it’s a Department of Defense regulation. Happy thoughts are to be tossed in the trunk of the car when you arrive. You pick them up when you leave,” James added.
    James cut his eyes at the young commander. “Dick Holman and I are old friends, in the event you can’t tell, Tucker. Back to business. Admiral Holman is here because you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him for the next couple to three weeks. Out in the next room is a French Navy Captain named Marc St. Cyr.”
    “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this Captain St. Cyr,” Admiral Holman said as he flopped down on the chair opposite Admiral James, who was sitting at the other end of the coffee table. “He was the aide-de-camp to Admiral Colbert, the French Admiral in charge of the French carrier battle group that I faced off Liberia.” He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. “Whew! I hate these Washington summers.”
    Holman reached forward and grabbed the silver-plated coffeepot. “Duncan, you got any real cups?”
    “Impressions?”
    “Well, Duncan, I would say St. Cyr is a professional Navy officer whose loyalty is to the person he is serving at the time. He speaks flawless English, and from the rough time he had between me and that butt hole Colbert, I would say he’s politically astute. I spoke with him a few seconds before I came in here, so I guess the question I have is why in the hell is he here?”
    Holman pulled one of the small coffee cups and a saucer toward him. The white Navy cups with theirdistinctive blue trace around the lip had been around for over a century. They held enough coffee to wet the palate, but—
    “That’s a good question, and one that deserves a good answer. Unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer other than to say that it’s politics.”
    Holman took a sip. “Then Marc St. Cyr is the right Frenchman for it.”
    Tucker wondered what the short, pudgy Admiral was talking about. If he met this Frenchman during the Liberian evacuation, then why did Tucker detect a sort of distaste from the Amphibious Group Two Admiral? From what he recalled, the French had sent their two nuclear-powered aircraft carriers off the coast of Liberia to help the United States evacuate their dual-citizen American-Liberian citizens. He even recalled how the two countries expounded on how close the cooperation was; so close, in fact, that Admiral Holman had placed his Joint Task Force under the French Admiral.
    “Well, he’s the one the French have sent. The British officer who will join Tucker will meet you in Norfolk. He’s arriving late. Apparently staying in London for the Chelsea Flower Show,” James continued.
    “Hard to believe,” Holman replied.
    “Why?”
    “The Chelsea Flower Show is held in spring, not August.”
    Holman recalled his first meeting with St. Cyr. They had arrived off Liberia about the same time the larger French carrier battle group showed up, acting like a blustery bully hell-bent on having him back down. St. Cyr had been the