The M-16 Agenda

By James Wilcox

From the war torn battlegrounds of Iraq to the halls of power in Washington D.C., M-16 Agenda follows one man's rise to the heights of political power, as he struggles to live up to the promises he made to his fellow soldiers, his family, and himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Wilcox
• Release date: Jul 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452453842

James Wilcox

James Wilcox, a former newspaper photographer and writer, is currently a high school teacher in Kansas City, where is lives with his wife and three children. James, the author of Miracle Child, and two novels: Sex, Lies, and the Classroom and The M-16 Agenda, is currently working on his third novel tenatively titled Sacrificing Tyreshia.

Book preview

For my Mom, who instilled in me a love of books and politics.

I love you.

The M-16 Agenda

* * * * *

Part One

Chapter I

New York

Fall 2020

A man is not apt to forget the instant he becomes a killer, and that is what I am: a killer. I trained for months, years even, but nothing could truly prepare me for that moment, that one fateful second, when I took another’s life.

The blue-black smoke wraps me in boa constrictor coils, squeezing my heart with fear as it cloaks the approaching death, blinding with its kaleidoscopic swirls. Stinging, my vision swims in an underwater blur. Sweat wets my lips, tingles my tongue with its mouth-puckering, salty-tang, mingling with the gut-churning scent of burning flesh, making me want to vomit. My knee is shredded by the glass-sharp cut of the sand biting into my flesh. The western light, glowing amber, shimmers against sand and metal, creates starbursts of false images. The metallic snick of the slide chambering the round tingles in my ear. Cool metal, my lifeline, caresses my cheek in the whisper of contact, not unlike Samantha’s touch: gentle, tender, exciting, full of passion. I see her in eddies of smoke: her button nose, dimpled chin, and almond eyes.

The pressure of the trigger, weight under my fingertip, shatters the vision, as it flexes, squeezes, releases death. A man stumbles, landing in a motionless heap of desert clothes and twisted limbs. A puff of smoke and the ping of the ejecting casing are all that announce my deed, the taking of another’s life.

Almost twelve years have passed, although it could be a hundred, and the memory remains crystal sharp, haunting. This was the defining moment in my life, the moment to make or break me. It was kill or be killed. I made my decision and moved on to kill again and again. It’s this killing, this untold carnage, this continuous and persistent death, which has brought me before the American people today.

My being a killer would not be of much consequence; all soldiers train to kill, except I’m running for the presidency of the United States of America. I’ve been honest about my military career--about the lives I’ve taken in service to my country--and used it to justify my position against the war in Iraq. The people have accepted the truth of my experience and my position. The election of 2020 is only a month away, and I hold a double-digit lead in all of the latest polls. That was this morning, before the world changed, before I was brought back twelve years in time.

My name is John Keating Granger, Jack to my friends, and I’m a husband, a father, a teacher, a soldier, the former mayor of Kansas City, the governor of Missouri and the Democratic candidate for president.

I have been a good mayor and governor, who worked hard to improve my city and my state: economically, socially, and morally. I tackled issues ranging from education to gay marriage, from immigration to taxes. None of that matters now. It was my strong, persistent opposition to the stalemate in Iraq that gained national attention and brought me into the race for the White House. It always comes back to Iraq.

It’s amazing how one announcement, one issue, can undo months, even years, of hard work, of struggle, and of hope. If you ever want to hear God laugh, just tell someone you have a plan. That was my mistake. I told God and everyone else I had a plan; I went before the American people and told them I had a platform, my M-16 Agenda, and now I can almost hear God’s whispered chuckle in my ear as He slams the White House door in my face.

God damn this war! We never should have gotten involved in Iraq, but President W. lied to the country, to the voters, to the men and women in uniform. He convinced us all that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction. He sold us a bill of goods, and American blood has been spilled ever since. Now that I’m on the verge of the presidency, with the promise to end America’s involvement on the killing sands of the Middle East, weapons of mass destruction have taken center stage again. This time the threat is real.

This morning, the democratically-elected government in Iraq announced that it has developed a thermonuclear bomb. They threatened to use it against their own populace unless the various insurgent factions agree to an immediate end to the country’s civil war. That was not enough; they also demanded these groups recognize the authority of their government. Worse still, there are rumors flying that the American military supplied the resources, the technology, and the know-how to the Iraqis, with the president’s blessing.

God damn them! How dare they break the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty and build a nuke in secret? How dare they threaten their own citizens with devastation? I’m now faced with a decision that could destroy my candidacy and steal the presidency from me. How can I come up with a plan – do I hear God snickering again – a strategy to deal with this new crisis?

There are just too many questions that don’t have answers! I have to make a statement, take some sort of position on this crisis! I have to say something to save the election, but what? I don’t even know if they have a nuclear weapon. I’m betting that our current president does, but he is not sharing his information with me.

If the Iraqis have a nuclear weapon, I can’t just pull our troops out and let innocent civilians face nuclear slaughter, but if I leave them, the blood of America’s military men and women will be on my hands. If I do not pull our soldiers out of Iraq, I’ll be breaking my campaign promise. I’ll be breaking faith with the American people.

What am I going to do? I need someone to talk to, but I’m alone. James and Mary, my two youngest, are both at school. I can’t believe that James is a senior in high school and Mary is in the sixth-grade. John Jr., my oldest, has taken a break from college and is on a campaign swing through the South, my area of weakest support. I’m sure he is being pummeled with questions concerning my Iraqi position, even as we speak. I want to talk Samantha, to be with her, to hold her close, but I cannot. The latest round of chemo has stolen every ounce of her strength. She is too weak to get out of bed, much less debate campaign strategy. Sarah is with her, back at the house, so I’m deprived of the two opinions I value most.

Damn it! I do not have time for a pity party! This is my decision to make! If I cannot face this situation, this crisis, what sort of president will I be?

Maybe the country would be better off without me as president. Maybe we really do need a president who is willing to send America’s sons and daughters to fight, kill, and spill their blood in some distant land. I’m not sure I can do it. I’ve seen war. I’ve been in combat. I know what it costs to take a life. How can I ask our soldiers to do something I’m not willing to do myself?

I’ve run a miracle campaign so far, coming out of a state with little influence in national affairs. Running on my M-16 Agenda, my political platform, I secured the Democratic nomination through hard work, a lot of luck, fresh ideas, and the promise to bring the troops home. I’ve given this campaign everything I am, everything I have, because I believe we can make this country great again. It’s time for change. I thought I was going to be the vehicle of that change, but now the situation in Iraq has ruined everything.

It looks like I’ve run out of miracles. With only a month to go, I do not have time to backtrack, to revise my position. Even if I did, I’m not sure I would. Damn it, why now? Why did this have to happen now?

It’s ironic really. I never dreamed of being president. I was content with my family and my life as a father, husband, and high school history teacher. Iraq changed all that. Recovering in Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, after suffering near fatal wounds during my second tour, I had a lot of time to think, to dream, to plan – there goes God cracking up again – to develop my M-16 Agenda. Iraq set me on the path to change my city, my state, my country, maybe even the world. Iraq set me on the path to the White House and now it’s Iraq that blocks my way.

Chapter II

Southwest of Haditha, Iraq

March 2009

The deuce-and-a-half rises from the desert, rocketed end over end by the pillar of fire, scorching the shattered remains under the ear-splitting crack of raging thunder. Steel fragments litter the air, embedding their razor-edged danger into sand and flesh, puncturing trucks, weapons, supplies, arms, legs, chests, and faces. The explosive echoes collapse the innocent, rupturing eardrums, leaving a deafened silence. Tires skid, brakes squeal, bumpers crash in a twist of ruptured steel, as the convoy slams to a halt around its stricken two-ton leader. Feet scamper, adrenaline rushes, fear crushes. The flames continue their destruction, consuming all, including the marines.

Dropping one knee into the glass-sharp sand, I slam the rifle stock into the cup of my shoulder. The M-16A4’s black barrel shimmers in the heat reflected in multiple mirage images, multiplying the destruction. My eyes flick across the landscape, trying to penetrate the smoke and confusion, seeing only Samantha’s face in the rainbow swirls.

Having been in-country only four days, this mission is our initiation, a way to ease us into action. Although the 1/129th is a field artillery battalion, part of the Missouri National Guard’s 135th Field Artillery Brigade, we were retrained as infantry troopers for our tour in Iraq. Assigned escort duty, which is the only job the higher-ups think this unit is capable of, we were supposed to protect this convoy from assault. We have failed. Now, I must take care of the eighty soldiers under my command, plus the sixteen remaining marines manning the trucks. The roadside bomb was unexpected, this road was supposed to be clear, but not really surprising. Haditha has become the battleground for insurgent control, since the eruption of civil war in this Godforsaken country.

As my medics try to pull corpses from the burning hulk, I’m on the cusp of moving the men forward, when the snap-crack of the bullet entering Private John Calley’s head forces me to reassess the situation.

D Company, on me! Squads one, two, three, on the left flank! Squads four, five, six, on the right flank! Squad seven on me! Firing positions! Get the 60-cals set! Firing positions! Move, move, move! Let’s go men! Let’s go! Get ready, boys!

Gradjowski and Barrett fall into the sand, assuming positions of death. Cummings and Davis writhe, burning shrapnel along their backs, legs, and arms; twisting at unnatural angles. Wilson, Roland, and Spivek were riding the jump seat of the burning deuce. I’m down seven and we haven't even gotten off a shot. We have seventy-three rifles, plus sixteen marine guns; eighty-nine shots against an unseen enemy.

Time freezes, caught in slow motion, as the chill whine of artillery rents the stifling air. The first mortar hits on the left flank, wiping out Egan, Lowe, Abbey, and Macklin, who haven’t had time to find cover or dig in. The next shells fall harmlessly in our area, causing no casualties, but kicking up sand and dust that further reduce our vision. As quickly as they began, the explosions stop, the air erupting in silence.

Look alive, people, bad guys at twelve o’clock! Lock and load! Give ’em everything you got!

The first jihadist comes running through the cement mixture of smoke and dust, firing his AK-47 from the hip. Leveling my weapon, peering down the sights, I wait for the first report to echo back, before pressuring the trigger, giving death its release. My first shot, directed at another human being, is true to its mark. My heart beats once, twice, a third time, as I watch him crumple to the ground. How am I ever going to explain this to Samantha and the boys?

We have never allowed John and James to have guns, not even as toys. Samantha and I taught them that they are dangerous; they kill. Now I’m the one using a gun to take another’s life! How can I ever explain what I’ve done?

I’ve killed a man! This realization explodes the acid filling my gut, forcing my sickness. Cleaning my mouth on the back on my hand, I watch hundreds of insurgents swarm toward our position.

We’re pinned down, trapped by tracers, bullets, explosions, sand, dehydration, and death. Locked down only two hundred yards from the walls of Haditha, the M-60s open up, slaughtering those in their path in the angry killing field: butchering, maiming, destroying. Like threshed wheat, they fall in tumbling stacks, blood mixing with the sand. Our attackers charge the line in wave after wave, covering everything, destroying all, like the plagues of Moses. As the hordes threaten to overrun our positions and cut off our escape, I give the order to fall back, to retreat.

Sprinting from truck to truck, breath gasping, adrenaline pumping, blood coursing, chest heaving, legs aching, sides cramping, I try to keep my head low, my body protected, and reach the relative safety of the city. Soldiers drop in scattered heaps around me.

Two hundred yards, two football fields, the distance is not so far and should not take long to cover. The incessant rain of mortars, grenades, and bullets makes the two touchdowns a death march. Johnson, King, and Elliott join the number of our KIA, killed-in-action. I call for an end of our retreat. We’re running pell-mell, unorganized, in every-man-for-himself fashion. We have done everything against our training, but now it’s time to regroup and show these motherfuckers what it means to be a member of the United States Armed Forces.

D Company, on me!

I do a quick head count as my boys gather around, checking the number of guns I still have in action.

Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty…is that all? Where are our marines?

The marines bugged out when the shit hit the fan, Captain! Said they would be better off on their own than with bunch of weekend warriors. I told them they could rot in hell!

You got to be fucking kidding, Sarge! How could they just up and abandon us?

Don’t know, boss, but we can worry about that later. We gotta get the fuck outta here, ASAP. We’re getting our asses kicked out here. We gotta get into the city, find some cover, and call in some backup, maybe an air strike or two!

Just like James Nixon, the Company First Sergeant, to state the obvious. He's right, but I still have to figure out how to put my best friend’s advice into action.

"Okay, boys, I want teams of two! Smith, Lockett, Johnston, and Corky, I want you to lay down a suppressing fire while I direct the teams! First team, I want you to do an end-around on the left flank off the deuces. When you get to the lead truck, the one that's burning, pull up with the 60s and let ’em have it with everything you got. Set up a base of fire and beat those son-of-a-bitches back! You gotta hold ’em off until we get everyone up!

"Second team, move out on the right flank as soon as the 60s open up. Everyone else follow in thirty-second intervals. When you get to the 60s, spread out and cover the rest. The 60s are the rally point. If anything happens, get to the 60s any way you can. Any questions?

Go!

Compton and Garcia grab their weapons and ammo boxes and step out onto the coarse grit, as M-16s cut hole after hole into the advancing line. Even as one drops, another fills the space, each shooting their mixture of AK-47s, M-16s, M4s, Uzis, even handguns, charging amid their thunderous screams.

I now know what Colonel Chamberlain felt as he held the hills around Gettysburg against wave after wave of enraged rebels on those fateful days during the American Civil War. Johnny Reb was relentless, with their fearsome rebel yell, their war whoop. They charged again and again, despite the losses and devastation to their ranks. They failed, much as I hope these maniacs charging my position will fail, but the odds are long.

Chamberlain held the high ground and had set up a strong defensive position. All we have are burning trucks and miles of sand. Chamberlain faced an army which followed the rules of war. Times have changed. We’re in a network battle, where individual bands of guerilla fighters join together and attack a superior force before dissolving back into the landscape. Gettysburg has been remembered for almost one hundred and fifty years, will anyone remember the stand we make here today?

The deuce providing me cover evaporates under the destructive power of a rocket-propelled grenade. I feel the burning envelopment of heat and metal, as I’m thrown twenty feet from the ground and land in a sprawling heap of fire and sand. The pain threatens to split my head in two, blocking all thought. It eases in intensity as blackness creeps across the corners of my vision. Shards of memories of my wife and children, shatter before my eyes. I see Samantha standing radiant in her wedding dress, struggling with the birth of our first son; John’s amazement the first time holding his little brother. Using every ounce of strength, discipline and training I possess, I refuse to lose consciousness, clinging to my love, desperate for my life.

I push myself into a sitting position, checking the integrity of my body. Nothing seems to be broken, but I’m covered with black charred skin and my own blood. Gaining my knees, I pull my weapon from the swallowing sand, clawing to my feet. Bodies lay in confused heaps, burned black and twisted. How many teams made it to the 60s? My parched, burning throat makes sound nearly impossible. All I can manage is a hoarse gurgle.

All teams move out! Everyone to the 60s! Move! Now!

Move! Move! You gotta move! Keep moving!

My legs get pumping, carrying me across the barren landscape, moving toward the rally point. I quick count five moving through the destruction and pray for more. After ten yards, I find Stapinski’s mangled leg, half buried in the sand, the rest of him another few yards off. He tries to pull himself to safety, powered by adrenaline and shock. With no time for first aid, or even morphine, I pull him onto my shoulders. His screams of pain echo into my soul, but I have no words of comfort, as breath after breath explodes from my scorched lips.

Move! Move! You gotta keep moving! Keep moving! Always keep moving!

My straight line is dangerous, exposing me to more fire, but Stapinski’s weight makes anything else impossible.

Move! Move! You gotta move! Keep moving! Keep moving!

Bullets sing past, reports echo, explosions sculpt the dunes across the landscape. The distinctive sound of the 60s gives me a sense of direction. Only thirty yards from the tattered remains of my unit, I’m thrown down again by a nerve-shattering explosion, as another deuce is reduced to flame. Stapinski’s scream assures me he is still among the living and focuses my men’s attention in our direction.

God, if you get me through this, I promise…

My adrenaline fades when hands pull me from the sand. Sergeant Nixon forces my exhausted body into a sitting position. Quinn is already moving with Stapinski. My first sergeant gives what support he can as we stagger to the 60s.

Collapsing at the rally point, Nixon gives me his first smile of the day.

Good to see you, Captain. Thought you were a goner when that deuce went up.

The clang, clang, clang chatter from our guns drowns out all remaining conversation. I take a moment, then two more, to clear my head and get a bearing on our situation.

Nixon, is this it? Is this everybody?

Only thirty-two of my boys have made it this far and Stapinski cannot walk or shoot, drugged with pain, shock, and morphine. Thirty-one guns, we’re down to thirty-one guns, with fifty yards to go. Nixon eyes me, as he loads another bandolier into the 60.

Jack, we can’t stay here! This is it for the 60s and we’re running low on ammo for the 16s. We gotta go and we gotta go soon!

The use of my first name confirms the desperation that grips my unit. Taking a deep breath, I issue death warrants.

Quinn, Axel, carry Stapinski and take point! We will cover the rear. Get into the city any way you can; don’t stop for anything! The rest of you get into firing teams! We will leapfrog back to the gate every ten yards! Short, controlled bursts and everyone move fast! Go!

With military precision, each man moves out, struggling closer and closer to the walls of the city in our slow, military ballet. Each team rushes past the other, the sound of death creeping behind, reminding us of our peril.

Move! Move! You gotta keep moving! Just keep moving!

Feeling the warm stone of the wall on my cheek, I savor a moment of victory, before spinning a one-eighty and dropping into firing position. Reaching the city walls, which should provide our escape, we find the gates closed, locked, sealing our fate! The wall, blazing destruction, and the barred gate block our way into Haditha, the way into our salvation. Only moments from now, the insurgents will be upon us, consigning us to capture, torture, death.

Blow it open! Now! Grenades, claymores, C-4, I don’t care what you use! Blow it open! Now!

Twenty grenades are bundled together at the base; we use our remaining ammunition to ignite the explosion. The gates shatter under the concussive force and once again we’re on the move.

Move! Move! Gotta keep moving! Just keep moving, keep alive!

I’m surprised by the empty streets, the silence. No one is out; Haditha is a virtual ghost town under our gaze. More bullets and explosions rock the remains of the gate. The insurgents insist on following us through the deserted streets.

Move! Move! You gotta keep moving! Gotta find some cover! Move!

Racing up one street, moving onto another, I scan open doorways, alleys, and the rooftops. I have to find cover and watch for snipers, all the while fighting off my exhaustion and pain.

Move! Move! You gotta keep moving! Find shelter!

Nixon’s shout breaks my concentration.

Captain, we can’t keep on like this! The men are shagged out! We gotta find a place to hole up for a while, call in the cavalry, get some ammo! We gotta get off the street!

Nodding once, I advance to the nearest door. Mustering my rage, I slam the bottom of my boot into the handle, kicking the door open before being blinded by the sun-flare flash, as the explosion rips down my leg, across my chest and into my face.

This time I cannot fight it. I whisper my love to Samantha, John, and Jimmy before everything fades to black.

Chapter III

Kansas City, Missouri

March 2009

Tracy, is my six o’clock here yet?

No, he called and said he's running late and won’t be here before 6:30.

But his appointment was at six, why does he have to be a half hour late?

He didn’t say, just said he would try to be here by 6:30.

Slamming her clipboard onto the counter, Samantha’s almond eyes smolder behind flaming red hair that spills across her face, hiding the tears.

"Why does everyone have to be late today? Don’t people understand we schedule appointments for a reason? I had twenty-two patients today, and we managed to squeeze them all in, but I want to spend more than twenty minutes with my patients! It was tight, but manageable! It would have worked if everyone had been on time! My very first patient threw the entire schedule out of whack when he showed up twenty minutes late!

Twenty minutes! Even five minutes adds up, can throw off an entire day! If eight o’clock is too early, why in the hell did he schedule for eight in the first place? People just don’t realize that they can’t waltz in any old time they want! It throws everything off and now I have even less time to spend with each patient! Every single person has been late today and now my final patient is running thirty minutes behind! Why can’t people just get here on time? I’m giving him five more minutes and then I’m outta here! If he wants his physical therapy, he'll just have to wait until we can fit him in again! God, people are so damned frustrating!

Turning on her heels, Samantha stomps away, leaving a swath of confusion in her wake.

Samantha, are you all right? Courtney, the office manager, asks around tightened lips, as she runs her fingers through her gray-blonde hair.

She tries again after getting silence for an answer.

Sam, really, how are you holding up? How are the boys handling this?

Tears welling in her eyes, Samantha can’t hold back the pain as she faces her boss, her best friend.

"Jack’s been gone for six days, but it seems like an eternity. John and Jimmy just don’t understand why their father is gone. They’re only six and eight, how can they understand war and the sacrifices we have to make. They’ve been whiney, argumentative, and just plain cranky. They miss their daddy’s bedtime stories, his hugs, his laugh, him just being around. They’re confused and are taking it out on each other and on me.

It just isn’t fair, damn it! Jack served his tour during the first Iraq War, when he was on active duty, now he’s being called to take part in another as a member of the National Guard. Why didn’t the first President Bush just take care of things during Desert Storm? Why didn’t he just take Saddam out when he had the chance? We wouldn’t have had to go in a second time if we’d just taken care of business!

Cradling her physical therapy coordinator to her chest, Courtney coos words of consolation before asking any further questions. The raw edge of despair constricts her words, as they echo in a harsh croak.

I know you’re worried about Jack and the boys, but something else is bugging you. I’ve seen you counting days and months on the wall calendar about six times today. Jack will be gone for a whole year and you don’t have to check the calendar to know when he’ll be home. What else is going on?

The air is pregnant with silence.

I’m late, Samantha whispers. After everything that happened when Jimmy was born, Jack and I decided not to have any more children. We just couldn’t face the risk of having another preemie. We have been careful, but those weeks before he left were so hectic, so chaotic, so passionate; we must have made a mistake. I was due the day Jack left, which was six days ago, and I’m never late. I’m regular as clockwork, so this can mean only one thing.

Have you taken the test yet?

No, I don’t want to do it without Jack. He’s never missed a pregnancy test and he should be on the phone for this one, at least. He hasn’t called though. He hasn’t called in two days! Why hasn’t he called?

He’s just busy, getting settled in. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Courtney squeezes her shoulders, even as a tear escapes her coal black eye and rolls across her wrinkled cheek.

"I was never all that happy he went into the army after college, but we really didn’t have a choice. The ROTC program was the only way he could afford to go, so he owed them four years. I was scared to death when he went to Iraq for Desert Storm and ecstatic when he came back home to me, alive and in one piece.

"When his four-year commitment expired, I talked him out of extending his service. Well, he didn’t really want to stay in the army; he wanted to start his career and his life, so it didn’t take much convincing. I wanted him out of the military altogether, but he went and joined the National Guard. I was happy about it at the time, convincing myself that there was no way his Guard Unit would ever be called up for active duty. The whole purpose of the Guard is to help with emergencies, floods and hurricanes, not to fight overseas.

God, I can’t believe Jack is gone. His unit was activated, retrained and shipped out all in a matter of weeks. He’s been away six days, six of the longest days of my life. Now he is late. He has sent an e-mail or called every day since he left, until yesterday. No phone calls, no e-mail, nothing! They must be out on a mission. They’ve only been in Iraq for four days and they’re already out on a mission!

Samantha, I’m sure… Courtney’s sandpaper voice cracks.

God, I’m so scared! I’m probably pregnant, Jack is in Iraq, and the boys are going crazy without their father. How am I going to get through this? What if something happens to him? How could I ever make the boys understand? What am I…?

Peeking around the corner, Tracy, the receptionist, interrupts.

Sam, the national news is starting and they’re opening with a story about an attack in Iraq!

Bursting from the maze of equipment that litters the physical therapy gymnasium, Samantha and Courtney reach the lobby in time to catch the lead story.

Good evening, I’m Brian Jordan in New York and this is The Nightly News.

As America ramps up its military might in the continued build-up of forces being deployed to Iraq, an insurgent attack on a military convoy outside the embattled city of Haditha overshadowed U.S. peacekeeping efforts.

At least twenty national guardsmen and six marines were killed when their military convoy hit a roadside bomb before being attacked by insurgents south of Haditha today.

The convoy, which was carrying food, water, and medical supplies bound for the residents of the city, came under heavy attack when their progress toward Haditha was stalled after the lead truck struck a roadside bomb. U.S. forces battled the insurgents before pulling back into the city where it’s reported they have been pinned down for several hours.

The Defense Department released a statement confirming the attack and stating that rescue operations are under way…

Staggering to a chair, she collapses, haunted eyes shimmering beneath desperate tears.

Jack was in that attack.

How can you know that, Samantha? You have no way of knowing that, Courtney counters.

He was in that attack!

Samantha, you have a call on line one, Tracy interrupts.

Oh God, no! It’s about Jack, isn’t it? They called to tell me he’s dead! Oh God, oh God, oh God, noooo…!

Grasping her shoulders, Courtney screams in her face.

Samantha, I’m sure Jack is all right! They would send someone in person with news like that! They wouldn’t give it to you over the phone!

Gasping for breath around the force of the scream, Samantha manages to stand on jelly legs and reaches for the phone.

This is Samantha Granger, she

Reviews for The M-16 Agenda

[mattidw · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really thought I was going to like this book a lot but in the end it was hard for me to get into. I did really like the characters but I really couldn't get into the book. I guess because it is a political thriller it just wasn't my type of book. In the end I got bored reading it but if you enjoy political books I am sure that you would love this book.