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

stogy.” James glanced at his watch. “The Joint Staff Cigar Club is meeting in the center of the Pentagon around fifteen hundred. We’ll sneak off and see what the gossip is in the Joint Staff, and you can impress them about how you get such a great smoke from a cheap cigar.”
    “I’ll have you know these cigars cost . . .”
    Tucker’s mind wandered back to two days after he passed her. It was a Friday night, after a few drinks at this Irish bar in Pentagon City. She had grabbed his armand insisted he come back to her place for coffee. He did, and stayed for breakfast. He recalled with a smile how the next morning the sheets wove over and under both of them, tangling their bodies between the linen. It was as if the bed had seen a massive fight and taken mystical actions to entrap them with the sheets. Moments later, when her eyes had opened, the sheets soon lost their entrapment. He grinned and surreptitiously glanced at the clock. While these two flags were pandering to some sort of Joint Staff cigar club, he would meet Sam.
    “Commander, it’s not good protocol to laugh when your superiors are duking it out.”
    Tucker’s thoughts raced back to the room. “Sorry, Admiral. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he lied.
    “He was probably imaging how a man with such bad knees and old age could rub his hair off making fast turns anywhere, much less under the sheets.”
    Admiral James held his hand up, palm out, and laughed. “This is fun, Dick. It’s always good to have you come up,” he said seriously as he stood. “Unfortunately, we only have a couple of hours before these two officers have to join you on the helicopter back to Little Creek Naval Base.”
    Two hours! Tucker’s mind reeled. Two hours! He hoped they didn’t mean today.
    James reached over and flipped the intercom. “Chief, please ask Captain St. Cyr to join us.”
    First impressions are always lasting impressions, Tucker’s father always told him. The Frenchman was immaculately dressed in his Navy whites with the familiar four stripes across his epaulets familiar to most every navy in the world. The face drew his attention. The French officer had his hard cover tucked under his left arm as he shook hands with Admiral James and Admiral Holman, his heels touching at a forty-five degree angle and him bowing slightly each time. The mustache—that was it. The dark mustache ran a thin line directly above the lip, with bare skin separating it between the upper lip and the nose. Shit! If he were going to have a mustache that tiny,it’d be just as easy to draw it on. Tucker had had his own experiments with a mustache years ago. The French officer had to spend time nightly to keep a mustache that thin peeked and marked.
    He reached forward and shook the man’s hand as Admiral James introduced them. Tucker was pleased to discover a firm grip. His father said you could always tell the caliber of a man by the firmness of his grip. “Always give a firm grip—don’t try to break the other guy’s arm, but let him know you are glad to meet him. Don’t give him one of these dishrag shakes that make you want to run to the bathroom and wash your hands. Christ! I hate men who shake like that.”
    TUCKER GLANCED AT HIS WATCH AS THEY ENTERED THE Intelligence Briefing Room. Nearly an hour. The good news was the Navy had moved him to Crystal City across Interstate 395 from the Pentagon. The bad news was the Navy had moved him to Crystal City directly across Interstate 395 from the Pentagon. Seemed whenever anyone wanted to speak to him, he had to fight his way to the Pentagon, through increased security, diverted traffic, and humongous crowds of others trying the same thing. Then it took another hour to find where he was supposed to be in this five-sided wheel of national security.
    “Admirals,” the tall, thin Navy Intelligence officer greeted as he extended his hand. “I’m Captain Lawford, sirs. I will be the briefer today. The briefing room is