Ghosts of the Republic: Boone's File, #6

By Dale Amidei

Homicides of prominent figures spike inside the Beltway, and D.C. is on edge.

Presented with an ultimatum from the Director of National Intelligence to find their killers or shoulder the blame, Peter McAllen's people devote themselves to a singularly vital mission. Interested parties range from Congressional inquisitors to agents of a spiteful liberal news media determined to ferret out InterLynk's every past move and present ally. None of them are helping.

Boone, Daniel Sean Ritter, and their allies navigate an alarming scenario. If prime movers are using threats to political stability in the world's last superpower to institute a constitutional crisis, who can they trust?

Approx. 85,000 words / 315 pp. print length

• Language: English
• Publisher: Single Candle Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393962304

Dale Amidei

Dale Amidei lives and writes on the wind- and snow-swept Northern Plains of South Dakota. Novels about people and the perspectives that guide their decisions are the result. They feature faith-based themes set in the real world, which is occasionally profane or violent. His characters are realistically portrayed as caught between heaven and earth, not always what they should be, nor what they used to be. In this way they are like all of us. Dale Amidei's fiction can entertain you, make you think, and touch your heart. His method is simple: have something to say, then start writing. His novels certainly reflect this philosophy.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Situation Normal

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Monday evening, October 14

Boone, you look positively glowing.

Thank you, Mister President.

She liked him, regardless of the fact that some of his detractors in the colloquial press yet referred to the current resident of the People’s House as Crazy Uncle Joe. The Man, to whom the Bradleys owed much, extended his hand to her husband. And Terry, the Chief Executive said as they shook, I’m glad you could both make it. I understand you’re very busy these days.

Busy is not the word, Boone knew. Terrence Bain Bradley, the most previous Director of National Intelligence, her former boss, and now her husband, had fully engaged his present position. Challenges inherent to the role of Vice President of Operations in the Americas at her father’s private intelligence entity, InterLynk, had awaited his caliber of executive excellence. Governments throughout Central and South America are an untapped opportunity for account seeding and Field Operations contracts. They are Daddy’s next oil field. Suppressing an outward sigh, she thought, Terry should have been in Brazil by now.

It’s our honor, sir. Thank you for the invitation. Terry responded per protocol, adding a courteous nod.

Dining in the Residence, with an overnight in the Lincoln Bedroom as a kicker, was a plum usually reserved for heavy-hitting political donors. The mere circumstance of Terry and her being here was also nothing less than a scandal waiting to bud, should their visit be handled with anything less than the discretion the present administration’s people had promised, Boone knew.

Regardless, it was their host’s way of thanking them for his elevation to the office he had pursued for thirty years. The means—namely Boone forcing his predecessor into an early exit following collateral fatalities in the White House senior staff—assured their contributions would never reap any more formal an acknowledgment. Two intelligence careers—hers covert—had been their last sacrifice to government service, both given in exchange for the presidential pardons offered in consideration of their nondisclosure agreements.

Dinner is served, Mister President. The announcement came from an anonymous staffer, dressed in the white-and-black livery of the place, who appeared in the door to the dining room.

The Man turned from their small talk to wave the Bradleys in. Shall we, then?

There was no First Lady in this administration; his wife's sudden and fatal stroke early in his predecessor’s first term had been a shock to the nation. Boone thought their host handled the added duties of hospitality with a grace more than adequate to the occasion.

Tonight, they were his only guests. This was one of the few such evenings, she understood, now unencumbered by his habit of governing beyond normal business hours. The Family Residence Dining Room was resplendent in its furnishings and place settings, with the dark wood contrasting against the white linen, silver, gold-rimmed china and Tiffany crystal waiting there. All the accoutrements designate a realm of power, however casually invoked.

A chair with arms, I presume? the President asked, offering the one to the left of his place at the broad, round table. Tonight, there were four chairs, two each with side arms and the others without.

Oh, yes those would be helpful, she admitted. Barely over a week into her third trimester, Boone was continually adjusting to the changes in her obviously pregnant anatomy. Care and balance were not the least of her concerns in her jealously guarded condition. The men helped her settle into her first formal dining experience with child. Mind your reach and concentration, Boone honey. This is not the venue for an unfortunate spill onto the maternity wear.

Once she was seated, Terry took his place across from her at The Man’s right hand. The fourth setting would, apparently, go unused this evening.

Their host noticed her sideways glance toward the unoccupied position. He indicated the empty chair as they undid their napkins. It remains my habit to set a place for Eveline, he explained.

A touching sentiment, sir, Boone acknowledged. Eyeing her husband, she thought Terry appeared uncomfortably sad.

The moment thankfully did not last as the meal was served in a fashion meant to provoke intimacy, with soup forgone in favor of a side salad and the Residence kitchen’s beef bourguignon, light on the broth, with succulent vegetables and egg noodles. Wine was poured, with a half liter of Perrier by her request at her place instead.

The President cut into the supple chunk of Angus before him, maintaining the easy flow of conversation. Terrence, I was happy to hear of the role you will play with InterLynk in your Americas expansion. I know you understand … the political machinations which had us arrive at this point were nothing any politician could avoid.

Sir, no apology is necessary, Boone's husband confirmed. It’s our pleasure to continue serving in the private sector as we had in our public offices.

Well, I’m glad to hear it. As they do so often, I imagine efficiency and productivity to have spiked once they were loosed from an encumbering bureaucracy.

Quite so, sir, Terry agreed, sipping his vintage red. One’s life satisfaction does so as well, as I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate one day.

The thought resulted in a grin from the head of the table, now at the apex of his political career and thrust unexpectedly into the Office of the Chief Executive. He was still smiling as he turned his attention to her. Boone, Terrence surely speaks for you as well, I hope?

We are in sync on most subjects, actually. Being happily off the grid as far as the government is concerned is certainly one of them. She reached for her water glass. The moment presented her an opportunity to broach a subject for which many in the Capitol surely wished the opportunity. On the matter of synergy, sir, may I ask a question of you?

Of course.

Boone drew a silent breath. "Your … boldness in addressing the issues which initially brought us together, Mister President … your agenda cannot be sitting well with your own party. I’m forced to compliment you on your addressing circumstances in a manner so at odds to your national organization’s dominant philosophies."

He paused in his meal only briefly. Yes, well … as you and your husband made clear and undeniable, the times called for change. He might have affected a slight grimace. Enemies amongst my own are no longer as much an obstruction as they might have been in the past.

Then, if again I may ask … your intention remains to seek your own single term as limited by the Twenty-second Amendment? She avoided eye contact with Terry, guessing he might have thought it too forward of her.

The subject of her query, though, seemed only resigned. The possibility of my serving another term? Yes, it’s still as much a matter of contention as ever.

Smiling, Boone returned to her food. I can only imagine.

Terry picked up her line of questioning. And you intend to pursue such a course?

There was a moment of silent contemplation as the leader of the free world gauged his response. Mister Bradley, as I implied, I am no longer beholden to anyone in my party. There is a great deal to do, and now, since my moment has arrived, I find I quite relish it. He lifted another forkful of the delicious fare. We are perhaps in the same place, you, and Missus Bradley, and I … in this way at least.

I think we understand each other, sir, she confirmed.

Working away at his plate, the clearing of which would signal the staff to enter soon with the dessert setting, he leaned in, glancing from one Bradley to the other. Yet, you’ve arrived to a time I can only envy. He crooked one corner of his mouth in a smile. Your life, Boone, after the Russian affair, which turned out so well … it’s been as placid as you’ve undoubtedly hoped?

Blessedly so, she admitted.

The Man lifted his glass half-filled with wine. Then let us hope for nothing but the continuance of such happy circumstances for as long as they will last.

She joined him in the toast as did her husband. "Amen to hope, sir. Amen indeed."

Auberon

Fairfax County, Virginia

Two days later

"Home. This was supposed to be where I worked." His comment sounded fatigued, appropriate for a man who had shuttled between Washington Dulles International and Geneva on a tight schedule. In accommodating the two most powerful men in his life this week—with a summons from her father, Peter McAllen, president of InterLynk, and an invitation from the President of the United States—Terrence was certainly paying his dues as an international air traveler.

It will come, Terry, she encouraged him. After your marathon tour of the best airports Central and South America have to offer, anyway, she had not the heart to add aloud.

He placed his bags inside the door alongside the first set brought in from the Escalade. As his wife watched, Terry straightened and sighed.

You’ve a few days here, at least, she reminded him. Come, see the lift!

Oh, yeah. He followed her through the foyer and past the Georgian brick’s main staircase, going nearly to the far end of the main floor. There an alcove used to nestle outside the chef’s kitchen. With the workmen finished and gone, a tastefully designed vertical tube contained a simple platform with a panel featuring the contraption’s controls.

He peered upward. To the study?

"It was the logical space, dear. I won’t be a bother while you’re working. And I do need to avoid stairs this late in the game, you remember."

His arms embraced her. "You will never be a bother, he promised. He opened the door, seemingly out of curiosity. Let’s see you ride," he urged.

Smiling, Boone climbed onto the one-person lift and closed the door. Here I go. The pressurized tube whisked her to the upper level with a whir of its motors. Requiring no pit or machine room in the basement, the self-contained air pump accomplished everything the lift needed to do. The ride back down was even quieter once the pressure holding the platform aloft released. She could not hold back her grin. "Is this not the coolest, Terrence dear?"

Granted. What did it cost?

Her gaze averted. Oh, not enough for worry.

Boone, you are your father’s daughter.

"In financial matters, dear, we can all aspire."

Terry took her by the hand and led the way into the kitchen, with its massive prep surfaces and smaller, casual dining area. He retrieved a bottle of water from her stainless behemoth of a refrigerator. In business, too, perhaps.

Boone leaned against the edge of the counter. "Terry, you’re doing well. Her arms crossed. Daddy’s being aggressive now, after he senses opportunity. Your contacts throughout the international intel community make your situation golden."

And take me away when you need me most.

His twinge of emotion resonating within her, she replied, I’ll be fine. As much to convince herself as him, she added, Besides, I have business too, you know.

Domestic operations are keeping pace with recruitment?

More than. We’re lucky to have Sean helping out with corporate head-hunting.

Daniel Sean Ritter, her father’s Director of Field Operations and lead operator for more years than she had in the business, was stateside now and aiding recruitment. As a result, their stable of ex-military and intelligence staff had expanded to meet the growing needs of InterLynk Americas. It was a good thing, too, she could admit. Her senior counterpart had been able to allocate the time, and as a consequence, she owed him yet another marker.

I’ll be away a month. So much to miss.

There’s always Skype, should your phone be down. Boone did everything she could to project confidence. "The payoff will be worthwhile, I promise. Daddy promises."

Never a bad call from that man, her husband observed.

Not in my lifetime, Boone agreed.

Terry came to her, and they embraced again. Their child—son or daughter, it was her wish that the sonographer keep the detail a secret—seemed to sense their closeness and wiggled in response … testing her bladder in the process.

This will all be worth it. We will make it so, she determined. Every bit.

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Also Wednesday, October 16

Blade. The greeting from behind took his former teammate by surprise. Though not intentional, Daniel Sean Ritter realized he had approached in the noisy environment without enough warning. And it’s unwise with this one.

Ritter. I’ll be a son of a bitch. Ahiga Altsoba’s expression broke into a grin bigger than his former Lieutenant had ever seen him display in the service. C’mere, man.

Their embrace was genuine. Damn, Blade. How many years is it? Ritter wondered.

"Damned near fifteen years. Where you been?"

Released from the shorter man's bear hug, Sean's expression probably told him more than he wanted. Oh … just about everywhere.

Yeah, I bet. Altsoba looked him over. You ain’t changed. Older. Leaner, maybe.

Carrying less weight. Trying to make up for lost mass with cardio to keep my docs happy.

I hear ya.

Ritter’s glance made it down to the Navajo AFSOC veteran’s right leg before he could stop himself. Damn.

Altsoba glanced down too, and then a resigned expression replaced the grin he had first displayed. Yeah, it ain’t never grown back.

Ritter knew. Five AK rounds made sure of it in 1999’s Abu Dhabi. As he was discovering, words addressing the subject were still hard to summon. He took another tack, hooking a thumb toward the field of the stadium. Not competing today?

Grim, Blade barely smiled. Those days are done, man. I coach the younger guys.

Full time?

As full as I want it to be. You? Up to anything these days you can say?

Ritter shrugged. Still working for the General. I’m on the private side, now.

Yeah? McAllen?

Same as he ever was.

Shit. That says something.

Yeah, Ritter admitted.

Doing what, then?

Recruiting. Corporate head-hunting.

Altsoba appeared dubious. You ain’t any kinda boardroom type, Ritter.

Granted. We should talk, though.

His former TACP’s head cocked and then recovered into a shake. "Uh uh. McAllen took his games private? I ain’t touching his world, amigo. No more. The medically retired tech sergeant paused. That’s what took Mick, wasn’t it?"

A quiet sigh broke the silence between them. It’s still classified, man.

Altsoba lowered his voice in consideration of their surroundings, at least. "Hey, fuck classified. He was my friend too, bud. He brought me up just like he did you. If that don’t give me a right to know, I dunno what would."

Ritter felt the resurgence of a pain he had hoped to avoid. Still. I should have known.

Taking a breath of his own, Altsoba was hardly finished. They wouldn’t let me out to Arlington, yanno. Not even in a damn chair. Not until months after you were gone again.

"I’m sorry, Blade."

Yeah. We’re all sorry. Some of us try to make things right is the difference.

This was not the day Ritter had wanted for either of them. Now for his friend, comrade and fellow Air Force Special Operations veteran, the most he could do was to listen.

The overt approach of another man—thankfully—broke the unfortunate vibe of their reunion. May I interrupt? he asked once he came within earshot of the pair.

Ritter watched Altsoba turn to the man. The stranger was a fit, crew-cut individual of what the InterLynk officer judged to be Japanese descent. He and Altsoba were roughly equivalents in physical size. He’s an operator, Ritter assessed.

Ahiga Altsoba? James Saigo. The man stuck out his hand, and Blade shook it with a solid pump.

Seeing the collar pin on the new arrival's jacket, Ritter cocked his head. Team Five.

Yes, sir, once upon a time.

A quick, mental calculation followed. Ramadi?

The newcomer took a moment to evaluate Ritter in return. Yes. Not with the Teams, though. You are?

Dick Mackey, Ritter lied. He noticed Altsoba did not so much as blink at the untruth.

Do we know each other?

Unlikely. But I was around, Ritter admitted. The Teams did a hell of a job there.

You’re a SEAL? Blade inquired of the stranger.

From there to Naval Intelligence and elsewhere. Retired a lieutenant commander, Saigo confirmed. I got more than my twenty in. It was enough, I thought.

Altsoba snorted. "Yeah, I bet. What can I do for you? The Paralympics Committee need something?"

Always. Not why I’m here, though.

What then? Blade asked.

Ritter watched Saigo’s eyes flick in a way he knew his own still did when confirming his surroundings. Yeah. This should be interesting.

I was just wondering if you’re working?

I’m busy being retired, Ritter heard his friend assert.

Though smiling, Saigo’s expression grew more serious. Ritter had observed the same transformation with other men in the field more than once.

I heard from another buddy you were ‘under’ back in the nineteen-nineties.

Altsoba’s reaction blanked instantly just like Ritter’s. "Friend, I ain’t got nothing to say about that … at all."

Yeah, I know how it is. Saigo reached inside his jacket and extracted a small, flat case emblazoned with the gold trident of his warrior brotherhood. From it he extracted two business cards, one of which he also handed to Ritter after sizing him up from head to toe. I’m always looking for a few more contractors. He indicated Altsoba’s bad leg. "Disability or no. Experience is what I’m after, gentlemen."

Saigo replaced the card case inside his pocket. Your reputation remains solid, Sergeant Altsoba. The man turned to Ritter. And if you’re what I think you might be, Mister Mackey, then I might have just as lucrative an offer waiting for you as well.

With who, exactly? Blade wondered.

"My Shiroyama Foundation … officially."

Blade registered a response. You’re a major sponsor here. He glanced at Ritter, who seemed determined to stay out of the conversation. Thank you for your very generous support, sir.

It’s my pleasure, Sergeant. Believe me, there are things left to do in the world. He looked them both over one last time. As I said, gentlemen. I don’t know your situations, but if I’ve roused your blood, call me.

Yes, sir, Altsoba acknowledged.

Ritter merely nodded as more handshakes were exchanged. The two then watched in silence until the former intelligence officer was out of range.

Ramadi, huh? Blade asked.

Team Five were scalp collectors, Ritter confirmed. They acted on information. I’m guessing he and I were working the same game in the background then.

Yeah. And he’s on the private side, now. Just like you.

Ritter again found their silence uncomfortable. He handed his friend a card of his own, one displaying only contact info rather than identification. We should grab dinner one of these nights. I’ve got a few more until I fly back to Geneva.

Yeah, man, Blade managed. He stuck the card in the same pocket with Saigo’s. It sure was damn good to see you again, Sean.

Yeah. Here too.

An overhead announcement sounded, at which Altsoba twitched his head. There’s my next event. Gotta go.

Yeah.

Blade nodded, turned and walked away. His gait concealed remarkably well the prosthesis supporting him from midthigh down on his right side.

Burdens of Ritter’s own rushed in then, only briefly making the tall, retired Lieutenant Colonel wonder if his attempt had been worthwhile. It was, he decided, if only in the dutiful sense of partially fulfilling an old debt to a teammate. Yeah, he said again before turning to take a step in the opposite direction.

Chapter 2 - Now and Then

The Oval Office

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, October 16

Bob Woodard, you recognize Senator Bellot. Senator, Bob is my new Chair for the President’s Intelligence Advisory Board. You’ll remember the good work he’s done with my People’s Action Fund as well.

Of course. It’s my pleasure, ma’am.

Woodard's polite handshake, the President noticed after making the introduction, was accepted perfunctorily. The Senate Minority Leader affected just such a manner with people she knew would never possess enough influence to do anything for her.

Mister President, I apologize for the abrupt nature of my request. The Senate schedule made it unavoidable.

Nonsense, madam. Mister Woodard and I will resume our briefing momentarily.

Beverly Bellot glanced at the advisor, seeing a man who yet fully resembled the Army Intelligence Major nearly mustered out of service by the previous President’s policies not so long ago. Now, the Chair of the newly reconstituted PIAB served in a higher capacity than he had in the Office of the Vice President, yet remaining a confidant and quiet liaison. We may, I assume, speak freely? she asked.

Mister Woodard’s confidentiality is unquestioned.

Very well.

The President showed them to the couches arranged in front of the Resolute desk. Some coffee, perhaps?

Shaking her head, Bellot demurred, I shan’t take up any more of your time than I must. Despite her assurance, however, she sat. Sir, regardless of your climbing popularity, these latest numbers from the party base concerning your plans for tenure—

Yes, those results were in my packet this morning.

—then you know, sir … our party leadership’s concerns are not unfounded, given your choice for Vice President.

The poll’s question, posed in what had undoubtedly been phraseology designed by the polling firm to evoke its client’s desired responses, purported to gauge the level of support for his pursuit of a second term after naming a member of the political opposition to the second-highest office in the land. Ironically, he had never raised the subject in any arena at any time. The hubbub had occurred purely on the airwaves. To him it was simply a notion picked up and passed around via conservative commentary like a cheap whore during Fleet Week. He sighed. Madam Senator, this is a choice I will announce at a time some years down the road, yet.

"But your consistent refusal to confirm or deny your plans is causing us problems right now, she insisted. Representative Downing informs me the rest of the party leadership agrees wholeheartedly."

We cannot address every rumor being propagated by gadflies, he reminded her with a glance at the barely discernible hint of amusement on Woodard's face. "We have things to do, Madam Senator, emergent and scheduled."

As do we all, sir. This subject, however, could be so easily leveraged as a source of funding for the National Committee. She also glanced at Woodard, who seemed intent on staying out of the conversation. You’ve undoubtedly been a busy man, Mister President. Your alacrity in weeding out your predecessor’s staff and replacing them with your own people speaks well enough to your diligence. Your insistence on throwing independent counsel into the situation, though, only exacerbates our anxieties.

They called it The Purge. That’s close enough to what it was. Agendas change with any administration, Bev. New ideas need new people to implement them. This isn’t anything unusual. He smiled. As far as the Independent Counsel is concerned, her office is a token of my sincerity to the people of this nation.

"Are there at least any major initiatives I will be able to report to our people? May I pass along any source of comfort rather than concern?"

I can only tell you I have a vision of what I want to accomplish. Concrete goals will be forthcoming.

Bellot seem unsatisfied. Her eyes narrowed "You’re concerning yourself with legacy too early, Joe."

"One’s legacy is what will endure, Bev. Enduring values are in resurgence here, as I’ve tried to make clear."

The Minority Leader huffed. "It would be so much easier if you would work with us."

"I shall, but indeed, it will be with you and the Party. Not for you. I value the distinction I hope you will all respect."

The woman rose, and both men joined her on their feet. I will not take up any more of your time, then, Mister President. It has been seven months since you began settling in. It is beyond time to more closely coordinate our efforts. I remain available, should you have a change of perspective.

He gave her his best smile, one signaling he knew who had retained control of the conversation. I appreciate your advice as always, Beverly. We will make every effort going forward to more clearly communicate our intentions. Perhaps my vision will become more palatable when it is as well understood on the Hill as it seems to be in the polls.

As they walked her to the double door leading to the reception area, she replied, Perhaps. She turned for one last comment. You’re a man of some ambition, Joe. I hope, for your sake, it resides with equal strength.

Admittedly, madam, my people have a lot of work ahead of them. He looked at Woodard and then back to the senior Senator. But I have every confidence they are up to their respective tasks.

You’ve three years to prove yourself correct, Mister President. The Minority Leader fixed her dark gaze on each of them in turn. Good day, then.

The door opened, then closed behind her. Peering at his advisor, the President shook his head. "I apologize for the impingement