Free The Fourth War by Chris Stewart Page B

which is the entire point . We don’t understand the situation, which is exactly why we must act.”
    Bradley waited, sucking on his cheek as he thought. “And you believe POTUS will authorize an operation?” he asked into the phone.
    Washington didn’t waver. “Yes.”
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    After completing the conversation with Washington, Bradley made his own call to Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, back at Whiteman Air Force Base.
    It took several minutes for the call to patch through. “Colonel Kier,” his friend finally said as he picked up the phone.
    â€œTracy, it’s Shane,” Bradley announced hurriedly.
    â€œYou okay?” Kier asked, a worried tone in his voice. If Shane was in trouble, then, baby, he was there. He was as protective of Bradley as any subordinate could be.
    Bradley almost smiled. Loyalty and dedication were only two of the reasons he had selected Colonel Kier to be his second in command. “I’m fine,” he answered quickly, “but we’ve got a problem here.”
    There was a short pause. “What’s up, boss?”
    â€œStay close to your intel office. You should be hearing soon.”
    Kier grunted, an apprehensive reply. He was one of the few men in the air force who was aware of Bradley’s responsibilities in the CIA, and he knew Bradley only worried when things were an inch from the fan.
    Kier paused a moment. “Anything you can tell me?” he asked.
    â€œNot yet. But stay close. And Tracy, I think I’m coming home.”
    â€œGood. When will you be here? I’m tired of doing your job.”
    â€œA day, maybe two. But meanwhile, I need you to do something, okay?”
    â€œAnything you say, boss. You know I’m your guy.”
    â€œTake a look at the regulations governing Group 21. I think we might get a mission, and I want everyone prepared.”
    Bradley heard Kier swallow, a dry gulping sound. “No kidding,” he answered.
    â€œWish I was,” Bradley replied.
    The Waldorf-Astoria Towers
New York City
    The presidential protocol officer stood in the spacious dining room at the top of the Waldorf Towers, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nation’s official residence for the last thirty years. He studied the table. The china was elegant: white plates ringed with blue and overlaid with an image of the presidential seal, the eagle facing the olive branch in a gesture of peace. The table centerpiece was made from pink roses and white baby’s breath. The napkin’s tight cotton weave was also edged in blue. The military waiters, young naval enlisted men, stood off to the side in their military tuxedos, pressed uniforms so crisp they nearly crackled when they moved. Four marine color guards walked through a side door and were sent toward the entrance. A dozen secret service men came and went, all of them intent and serious, listening to the wires in their ears. The official White House photographer slipped into the room and was quickly accosted by two security agents. Though they recognized him, having worked together for almost three years, they still asked the photographer to unzip his bag and leave it on the floor so a short-haired German shepherd could sniff it for bombs. “Let me see you operate that,” a dark-eyed agent said to the photographer as he motioned to his cell phone. As the protocol officer watched, a steward began placing the name cards in their positions—the calligraphy radiating the power of the men who would soon arrive. The president would sit at the head of the table, with His Excellency, the President of Oman on his right and the secretary of state on his left. From there, the guests would be seated in pecking order; Gen. Shif’ Amonnon, Oman’s secretary of state, Omar Mushar, then the United States secretary of state and the U.S. ambassador.
    The protocol officer studied the menu, which was embossed with the