Free A Northern Thunder by Andy Harp Page A

Gulf Stream, the flight to Andrews would take the better part of an hour. And Scott needed to begin to know this man. It was his job to train Will not only to succeed at this mission, but to survive it. He needed to know how Will Parker thought.
    “We have peace-time generals and war-time generals. Patton would never have made it through the selection process in peace-time or in the reserves. And I have no interest in doing what it takes to become a general. Even in times of war, our greatest hero was Chesty Puller.”
    Scott smiled. Puller, a tough, hardheaded fighter, had received more Navy Crosses in more wars than any other American. Yet, he did not become Marine commandant or even a four star general. Late in his career, he did make a two star general, but he was better known for his days as a Marine colonel than a Marine general.
    “You get picked for Marine colonel for what you’re capable of doing,” said Will. “You get picked for general, particularly a reserve general, by the innate ability to kiss ass.” Will smiled as he emphasized the last two words.
    It took several years of combat for Will to understand that the heart and soul of the United States Marine Corps was the young lance corporal and brand new second lieutenant, because each believed he was an invincible part of a true brotherhood, which was made up of the private first class in his new dress blues, and the buck sergeant leading his tank crew into combat. The higher in rank you rose, especially lieutenant colonel and above, the less it was a Marine Corps of ideals. The world was politics—even in the Corps.
    Generals like Admiral Krowl proved the point. They played the bureaucratic game, regardless of who became the pawns. Despite his experience and record, Will had never submitted to the General Selection Board a package of information for its consideration. Many an undistinguished colonel would mail into Marine headquarters elaborate, thick books summarizing their successes, designed to persuade an impartial jury. But the jury wasn’t impartial, and the verdict had been reached weeks before the Selection Board met. Will had heard and believed that the commandant was always consulted, and the Board always knew his preference. The king always had the last word. Will refused to play the game.
    Ironically, but for his unique history of personally knowing Peter Nampo, Will would continue to fade further and further away from the Marines, along with the challenge the Marines once represented to him. Yet he hadn’t agreed to this mission to gain the opportunity to become a Reserve Corps general.
    “You’re responsible for supporting this mission? You’re the operation’s sponsor?” Will changed the topic.
    “Yes, I am.”
    “I want to do the training at Quantico.”
    Scott had planned to use several Agency facilities in the Virginia area, but not Quantico. A Marine Corps base and home of the FBI Academy, Quantico was, he thought, too accessible and too close to Washington.
    “Colonel, your best bet for survival would be to keep this mission under wraps—to stay under wraps yourself—as long as possible. Quantico is open to everyone and has a lot of traffic.”
    There were certain benefits to being accessible, and Will wanted them. He was not prepared to put his entire fate in the hands of the CIA.
    “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but I want a familiar training environment.”
    Like virtually every Marine officer, Will had begun his training at Quantico. He went through several weeks of Officer Candidates School there, and returned for several months of basic officer training. He was familiar with every running trail, every hill, every swamp.
    “Also, I assume there will be a cold weather cycle before making an insert in North Korea during the winter. I want to do that at MCMWTC in Bridgeport, California.”
    The Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center was a small Marine outpost in the high Sierras near the Nevada and