Free The Fourth War by Chris Stewart

was going to be Somalia or Fallujah again—crazed teens prancing over some shot-up American Humvees, pictures of American bodies being dragged through the streets, video on al-Jazeera, you know the scene, Iraqi and foreign insurgents gloating over destroyed U.S. hardware while some hooded thug hangs a burned corpse from a bridge.”
    Zembeic decided he wasn’t going to give the rebels another chance to get on CNN. He ordered his men to stay and fight, but they were ordered back. Nothing doing, Zembeic said. The extraction choppers came in, but he wouldn’t get on. Absolutely refused to get on board the choppers. His second in command put in a call to headquarters. Thomas ordered Zembeic to get on the chopper, but he pretended satellite interference and cut the connection.
    â€œFor the next thirty-six hours, he holed up in the fourth floor of a bombed-out apartment building, shooting anyone who even came close to the bodies of his buddies or the burned-up machines. He was that serious about protecting the remains of his fallen comrades, that serious about denying them a propaganda tool. He used a silencer and shot from almost a full block away, so they never found him, never knew where he was. I guess they thought it was silent death straight from God. By some counts he killed half a dozen insurgents, some say it was more, but who really knows. Two days later, marines regained control of the area. The fallen soldiers were repatriated to U.S. forces, and Zembeic finally crawled down from his sniper outlook.”
    General Petate’s aide bit his lip. “Sounds like he needs his head examined,” he said.
    â€œYeah. Maybe. And what would I give to have a few more like him.”
    The deputy took a step back and said, “Alright, sir, we’ll stay with him.”
    â€œYou do that, Colonel, and he will lead us to them.”
    â€œAnd when we find the warheads?”
    â€œYou know what to do.”

6
    Typhoon 57
Over the Eastern Mediterranean Sea
    Colonel Bradley’s aircraft was just passing over Cyprus when he got the call he was expecting on the secure telephone. Dr. Thomas B. Washington, Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), United States Central Intelligence Agency, spoke into the STU-IV. Bradley listened to his boss, holding the receiver away from his ear as the DDO cursed through the satellite phone.
    As DDO, Washington specialized in HUMINT, or Human Intelligence. For almost twenty years he had been working with various intelligence contacts overseas—smugglers, spies, traders in human flesh, traitors, officers, and even the occasional king, president, or premier; men who for one reason or another—money, sex, power, hatred, or revenge—had been willing to trade what information they had for what they wanted most. Washington knew these men; he knew who they were and what they had done. The secrets in his head were worth many lives.
    And because his professional life was a shadow of covert operations and lies, the elements of which he rarely seemed to be able to control, Washington compensated by demanding perfection from his underlings and staff. And the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was being caught unaware. And the fact that none of Washington’s informants, none of the dark work he had done, none of top-secret sources he had cultivated over the years, had provided him with an early warning of the pending catastrophe, only made the bitter news worse. Washington had sold his soul to satisfy these dark, evil men, and none of them had come forward to warn him in time.
    Bradley calmly sipped at a bottle of water and watched the passing night clouds, while Thomas Washington ranted on the phone, knowing it would take another twenty or thirty seconds before his boss would settle down.
    Despite the tirade, the men had a good relationship, though both would admit it was often strained. For one thing, their personal backgrounds were as different as their skin color;