The Sellout

By Frederick John Moll

Book Synopsis of The Sellout

 

     The Sellout is commercial fiction based upon the entry of the U.S. M1A2 Abrams main battle tank in an international tank competition. This competition, among the French, Germany, British and US main battle tanks was held to determine which country would win a contract to co-produce their main battle tank in the country of Turkey as a deterrent to regional wars and Russian hegemony.The book is based upon fact, using a fictional version of the Abrams M1A2 tank as the U.S. entry into this competition. 

 

     The focus of the book uses these wars for regional dominance, such as what is now taking place in the Ukraine, as a backdrop to the story. Using a fictional major US defense international corporation as the vehicle to develop the story the tale unfolds, as seen through the eyes of the book's main character, Frank Russo. Frank is a corporate man who is caught up in the labyrinth of office politics, conflicting interests, and the quest for profits, which afflict most large US defense corporations. He is also torn between loyalty to his wife and the love of another woman who happens to be the daughter of the majority stockholder in this multi-billion dollar corporation.

 

     Set in an international backdrop that includes Washington DC, Detroit Michigan, Moscow, and Istanbul, the reader has an inside view into not only the workings of a US global defense corporation, but also the operation and crew interactions of a modern main battle tank. The additional mixture of supporting characters to include a female assassin, unscrupulous corporate executives, and international power moguls, coupled with weapons demonstrations, murder, sex, and international intrigue makes for a thrilling action-packed story along the lines of a Harold Robbins novel.

 

About the Author

     Lieutenant Colonel Moll served for 22 years in the US Army with a background in Armor and acquisition management. He holds a BS in Economics from Widener University and a MS in Human Resources Management from the University of Utah as well as completing post graduate work for comptrollership at Syracuse University. While assigned to the Pentagon he was selected as the first US Army Systems Manager for the Armor Gun System (AGS) program and was part of the design team for the M1A2 Abrams Tank.

 

     His civilian career includes being a Project Manager and Regional Director of Business Development in Turkey for the General Dynamics Corporation. He has also held positions as a Project Manager and defense analyst for the Camber Corporation and Booz, Allen, Hamilton as well as doing independent consulting work for Boeing, Raytheon, and Lockheed Martin. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick John Moll
• Release date: Jan 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215225882

Frederick John Moll

Lieutenant Colonel Moll served for 22 years in the US Army with a background in Armor and acquisition management. He holds a BS in Economics from Widener University and a MS in Human Resources Management from the University of Utah as well as completing post graduate work for comptrollership at Syracuse University. While assigned to the Pentagon he was selected as the first US Army Systems Manager for the Armor Gun System (AGS) program and was part of the design team for the M1A2 Abrams Tank.   His civilian career includes being a Project Manager and Regional Director of Business Development in Turkey for the General Dynamics Corporation. He has also held positions as a Project Manager and defense analyst for the Camber Corporation and Booz, Allen, Hamilton as well as doing independent consulting work for Boeing, Raytheon, and Lockheed Martin. His current position is the director of business development for the EnviroPower Renewable Energy.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

SOMEWHERE NEAR ABADAN, WESTERN IRAN, NOVEMBER 1998

Danilov Petrov hugged the face of the hill so tightly that he could smell the earth. The rise of the small hill provided his only cover from tank and rifle fire. He wished the hill were larger but for now it would have to do. At least for the time being he was safe, but he needed to find a way out of this place soon and decided to chance a look around. Furtively he raised his head, his eyes frantically searching the battlefield for any sign of the Iranian fundamentalist fighters who had been by his side less than thirty minutes ago. He saw none, only the unmistakable orange and black fireballs of another high explosive tank round impacting somewhere nearby. But this round was close, so close that for a moment the flash and noise of the shell blinded and deafened him. The only sense that still seemed to work was his sense of smell as the pungent odor of cordite invaded his nostrils. He cautiously raised his head again. The burst of another shell sent him back to the ground. This explosion seemed closer yet. He knew he could not stay behind this little hill much longer. He would either die or be captured for sure. But where were the damned Iranians who brought him to this place of death? This cross-border raid was a disaster. It was as if the Iraqis were just poised and waiting for them to venture across the barren rock-strewn border area.  Petrov wondered why these people would fight and die for such a desolate wasteland anyway. Of course, his native Russian steppes weren’t much better.  But was this fight really for the land? He mused. Wasn’t it in the name of some stupid religious ideal or at least, that’s what the Iranians told him as an excuse to invade Iraqi territory.  Now it was the Iranians who were being pursued across their own border. Where was his guide, Ali? He had been very near as they retreated toward Iranian territory. But somehow, they had gotten separated in the confusion and panic that ensued at the first sight of Iraqi tanks at the border crossing. Ali had been only a few yards in front of him as they made their way back across the border, but he had lost sight of him in the smoke and dust of impacting artillery and tank fire. The thought that Ali had abandoned him to save his own life flashed though Petrov’s mind. A rush of cold fury began to take hold, so he quickly put the thought and the anger out of his mind. He had to concentrate on getting out of the onslaught of shells and rifle fire bursting around him. Petrov took another cautious look around to see if there was any way out of this hell. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Fuck Nevski, safe back in Moscow. This was supposed to be a routine arms deal. I am a businessman now, thought Petrov, my days as a Goddam soldier are supposed to be over.

His mind quickly wandered to thoughts of his beloved wife back in Moscow. Would he ever see her again? Would he ever hold her again and feel her passion when they made love? He felt he would. He had been in similar situations before and lived. But those were supposed to be behind him or at least he thought they were. Damn Nevski! Why did he ever send him here?

Petrov, a voice shouted out in heavily accented English, the agreed upon common language between Petrov and his Iranian customers.

Petrov! It is Ali, the voice repeated.

Ali strained to see through the thickening smoke and dust that was enveloping the battlefield. Where are you? We must leave, now?

Petrov recognized the voice of his Iranian guide and translator. He rolled to one side toward the voice, careful not to expose too much of himself. He started to shout back but stopped. He needed to be convincing. Merely a simple but very frightened arms merchant caught in a world of death. Certainly not a well-trained agent accustomed to death as part of his chosen trade. He had to play the role of the arms merchant who profits from the deaths of others but certainly not his own. He needed to show fear. He needed to show an innocence of war. These Iranians must never know how truly skilled he was in the terrors of war. He deliberately allowed his bladder to drain.

Ali, I am over here? He forced a note of desperation in his voice.

Ali turned in the direction of the voice as he tried to move toward Petrov while remaining as low to the ground as he could. Within a few meters of where he first heard Petrov’s voice, he could just make out the form of a body lying on the ground through the dust and smoke. He crawled toward it. He could hear the crack of rifle and machinegun fire only inches above his head. Instinctively he knew that Iraqi tanks would not be far behind, and they would be followed closely by infantry. They had no time to lose if they were to get out of this place alive. He knew that the Iraqi army would take no prisoners. In only a few seconds he covered the short distance to where Petrov lay frozen against the ground. Reaching him he could see Petrov had urinated on himself and was clearly in a state of panic. He grabbed Petrov by the shoulder. He could feel Petrov trembling though the heavy field jacket he wore. Ali shook him violently. We must leave now, Petrov, or die. Do you understand? the Iranian yelled through clenched teeth. The Russian only began to sob. Once more Ali grabbed Petrov, this time shaking him hard with both hands. Petrov’s sobbing only grew louder. Ali released his grip and drew back his open right hand slapping the Russian across the face. Petrov’s sobbing stopped abruptly, his blood shot eyes now staring directly up into Ali’s face.

Listen to me, Ali said. I will get us out of this place, but only if you listen to me. Do you understand? Petrov sheepishly nodded in agreement. OK, I want you to follow me. Stay low for the first hundred yards and crawl, but crawl quickly. Do you understand? Again, Petrov merely nodded. Good, Ali said.

Ali took a quick glance over the crest of the little hill toward the Iraqis. He could see no tanks. They still had a chance he thought. Ali’s observations were cut short by the whistle of an Iraqi artillery shell overhead, which sent him scrambling back for the safety of the ground. His brief visual reconnaissance ended, and it was now time to move. The artillery would be a problem. The Iraqis, sensing the battle was won, had already begun to shift their artillery fires beyond their original objectives directly onto the most obvious Iranian escape route. He made a mental note to skirt the artillery fire. It would take longer but it was safer. One big advantage was his, he thought. This was his country. He grew up here and knew it well. The Iraqis did not. The scream of another artillery round confirmed his plan and made him think of his colleagues. He hoped they were not in the path of the artillery and offered up a short prayer of hope to Allah to protect them. He looked toward Petrov and pointed to another small hill off to the left and about two hundred meters behind them.

Petrov, you must make it to that hill? Ali shouted.

Petrov said nothing, only nodding affirmatively.

We’ll crawl over there. Once we’re behind that hill we should be able to move at a crouch. If we get separated, head southwest toward Abadan. Our forces are strong there and surely these Iraqi dogs will not venture that far. But do not travel directly south, at least at first. That is the direction of the Iraqi Satans and if their artillery fire doesn’t kill you, their tanks or infantry will. Do you understand me, Petrov?

Again, Petrov nodded.

Ali moved out, crawling in the lead, Petrov on his heels. Bodies of dead Iranian fundamentalist fighters littered their route causing them to detour. But as Ali instructed, they crawled quickly covering the two hundred meters in less than five minutes. Once safely behind the hill they halted to catch their breath. The loud moaning of a wounded Iranian who lay nearby caught their attention. He was obviously near death. Ali sensed the wounded Iranian fighter had been hit closer to the front but somehow had made it to this small protective hill before his wounds forced him to stop. Ali crawled toward him. The soldier was riddled with shrapnel from the Iraqi artillery, but he was still conscious and obviously in great pain. The sound of wounded soldier’s moaning was only occasionally drowned out by the sounds of artillery and tank fire. Ali was amazed the man had made it this far. The soldier’s clothes were covered with blood. He had open wounds in both legs through to bone. But the dark red bloodstain on the soldier’s shirt near his abdomen told Ali all he needed to know about the man’s chances of surviving. Ali had seen enough combat to recognize the fatal signs of a liver wound. The man did not have much time left. Ali took off his field jacket and made it into a makeshift pillow and placed in under the man’s head to make him more comfortable. The man whispered something in Arabic. Ali couldn’t make it out and leaned closer to the man’s mouth. The man whispered again between his agonizing cries of pain. Ali listened intently but could only make out only the word betrayed before the soldier lapsed into another seizure of pain. Petrov had crawled over next to Ali, intently watching the man desperately trying to cling on to a few more moments of life. Without warning, Petrov drew a small Makarov .380 caliber pistol from the cargo pocket of his field trousers. Ali tending to the wounded solider, did not catch Petrov’s move. Petrov fired quickly from a range of not more than two feet. The bullet impacted the soldier in his head directly below the temple. The soldier died instantly. Ali wheeled toward Petrov in a mixture of shock and anger.

I didn’t want the poor bastard to suffer anymore, Petrov said in desperate attempt to explain his actions. I met him briefly before the battle. He was a good soldier too good to suffer this way. Besides if he lived, the wounded soldier would have been captured and tortured. Believe me Ali this was the only solution, Petrov added.

Ali wondered when Petrov had developed a streak of compassion. Petrov did not strike Ali as the compassionate type and wondered if there might be other reasons for ending the soldier’s life. But he didn’t have time to sit and wonder about Petrov’s motives. He had to move and move quickly if he were to get himself and this cowardly Russian back safely. Not that he cared much about Petrov. But he did care that for the time being Petrov was his only key to obtaining desperately needed arms and ammunition. These he needed more than life itself if his army were to continue this holy war against the devil Iraqis. So, this time he would save the Russian even if he despised him.

CHAPTER 2

ROCHESTER HILLS, MICHIGAN, NOVEMBER 1998

IN THE THREE YEARS that Frank Russo lived in Detroit he had never gotten used to the harsh winters. A native of Philadelphia, Frank generally liked big cities, and he especially enjoyed the varied cultures that come with the mix of ethnic neighborhoods. Perhaps it was his own Italian background and the memories of his youth with the sights, sounds and smells of a big city that made him feel this way. But Detroit was different. The Detroit winter seemed too severe and never ending. The days seemed to be always gray in a depressing winter season that lasted from the end of October to early June. Detroit was a world away in both climate and attitude from Frank Russo’s past. The skinny Italian kid from Philly who joined the army in the late sixties, just to get away for a few years and ended up making it a twenty-six year career. The Frank of those days, before Detroit, before Global Defense, even before both his marriages, had found a home and family in the Army and, much to his surprise, realized that he liked what the Army offered. It offered an escape from his blue-collar background and a ticket to the better things in life. So, he made the most of the Army, attending Officer Candidate School, and later college and graduate school at the Army's expense. Overall, it wasn't a bad life and it served him well even after his retirement. If it hadn't been for the Army, Frank wouldn't have had a career with Global Defense. So, at forty-eight, Frank had an executive job, an army retirement income, a successful career wife and a genuinely nice home in an upscale neighborhood in the suburbs of Detroit. He was still youthful in appearance, with only hints of gray beginning to appear around the temples of his jet-black hair. So, apart from having to live in Detroit, life should be good. But it wasn’t. His marriage hadn’t been the same in the last three years. Ginny, his wife, had changed. Not physically at least. She was still an attractive woman even as she approached her mid-forties. But emotionally she was different. She no longer seemed content with being the bride and stay-at-home spouse he married seventeen years ago. She wanted her own life now, apart from his, and he didn’t know how to fix that. What he did know was that their relationship was different. The heat of their lovemaking was gone. It had been replaced by the heat of their seemingly endless arguments when they were together for more than twenty four hours. During most of the ten-hour plane trip home from Oman the thoughts of his marriage, past and present, consumed his mind as they did now on his drive home from the airport.

It was late when he finally pulled the Explorer in the driveway. According to the dashboard clock it was almost one o’clock in the morning. He hoped she was already in bed for the evening. He didn’t want another confrontation. But the downstairs lights indicated she was still up. Please God not another argument, not tonight. He was too tired and had too much to do in the office tomorrow. He desperately needed rest and made up his mind to avoid a confrontation at any cost. He decided he would simply kiss her hello on the cheek and go upstairs to bed. That should work. It didn’t. She was waiting for him in the living when he came through the door.

I didn’t expect to find you up this late, Frank said attempting lightness with just the right amount of concern in his voice.

We need to talk, she said glancing up from a book she was reading.

Is it so important it can’t wait till morning? Frank asked

Yes, she answered curtly

Please Ginny let’s not have another argument. I’m tired of it. Whatever it is, let it wait till morning. Then we can discuss it.

I’ll be leaving in the morning, she said. I’ve accepted a promotion and a transfer. The bank offered me a branch VP position it their Seattle regional office and I accepted. I’m going out there for a few weeks to get settled in.

I see, Frank said heavily taking a seat on the sofa facing her. Then what? He asked.

I’ll come back here to get my things and we’ll see.

So just like that you’ve decided to pick up and leave without even a word to me first. Frank said, strangely feeling both anger and hurt at the same time.

What would be the point, Frank? You would have never agreed, and we would end up having another shouting match. This way it’s done and it’s better for both of us. You know, Frank, for the past fifteen years I’ve followed you all around the world. I gave up my family, my career, and my friends for you. I became, and you even said so, the perfect Army wife just so I could be with you. I loved you that much. I thought when you finally retired, we would have a life together. But we don’t. This job has consumed you. It is changed you. You’re not the same person I married. It’s almost as if you’ve become somebody else. You’re cold, aloof. Everything I say you find fault with anymore. You don’t like my job, you don’t like my friends, you have no time to spend with me or visit my family. I don’t think you even like me, anymore, let alone love me, Frank. I swear there were times when I thought you were having an affair, but since you started with this company, I don’t think you ever had the time. This company has changed you. It as if they are an evil presence in our lives who stole the man I fell in love with and married and replaced him with some heartless stranger." Ginny paused. She could feel the tears starting to well up in her eyes and she promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Not this time. She had cried away too many lonely nights already.

Frank looked at her silently. He tried to find the right words. He tried to fix the hurt. He could not.

Ginny regained her composure and continued. My God, Frank, I’m a person too. I have feelings, I have wants, I have needs just like you. Can you see that? Has Global Defense changed you that much?

Frank looked at her again. He could see the hurt in her eyes but said nothing.

This is the only way, Frank, she said, finally breaking the deafening silence. It will give us both a chance to think. Perhaps the separation might even make us see that we really do love and need each other. And if it doesn’t, then at least we know. She looked at him for a few moments to see some reaction, hurt, guilt, or even anger, but there was none. He simply stared at her and watched as she rose from her chair and headed toward the upstairs bedroom.

CHAPTER 3

OFFICES OF GROUND COMBAT SYSTEMS DIVISION DETROIT, MICHIGAN

5 NOVEMBER, 1998

GROUND COMBAT SYSTEMS is a division of Global Defense (GD) one of the largest US multinational defense corporations on the planet. Turning into the Ground Combat Systems parking lot Frank mused that it didn't seem that he had been gone only two weeks. The business trip to Oman had seemed a lot longer and the flight back felt endless. Despite his numerous overseas trips as both soldier and civilian, Frank never did get used to jetlag. Every cell in his body just wanted more sleep and Ginny’s late-night revelations about her future plans didn’t help him rest any better. He would have loved to call in sick today and just stay in bed but coming in late would have to do. The Oman sale was too important to the division, and it was a success for which he and his staff could take hard-earned credit. He needed to be there today for that reason, if no other. Unlike the army's teamwork ethic of sharing successes, Frank quickly learned the importance of taking credit in the highly competitive world of corporate politics. There were always those more than willing to grab the glory if you didn’t. He remembered how naive he had been in the beginning of his corporate career. He was a team player and shared information freely with anyone. When a friend and a co-worker presented one of Frank's business plans, as his owe Frank learned a bitter lesson that day in the world of corporate politics. It was even more educational as Frank watched this former friend gain a promotion and a fat bonus for Frank’s work. Since that time, he was more careful and sensitive to the lengths to which many of the GD employees were driven by the corporate climate and their own desires for success at any price.

Frank pulled the Explorer into a reserved space near the front door to the building. He hurried inside to avoid the biting cold wind of a typical Detroit November day. The gray clouds and overcast sky promised the hint of snow the weather forecasters were predicting on the local morning news. This was something to dread for the commute home. Entering the building he flashed his access badge at the guard at the control desk in the lobby. It was an almost robotic reaction for most defense industry employees working for high tech government contractors. Once past the guard he walked rapidly through the lobby into a skylighted central atrium where a few stragglers stood exchanging the latest office gossip over a cup of vending machine coffee. Their echoed voices faded away as he rounded a carpeted corridor and stopped at a white oak door marked New Business Development. Laura Niles, his secretary, didn’t look up from behind her computers. She didn’t need to. After five years of working for Frank, she seemed to be able to sense his presence.

Where in the hell have you been? she said. "Just about every VP in this damn building has been either calling for you or sending people down here looking for you.

Over the years they had worked together Laura and Frank developed a special relationship that, although strictly business, was less formal than most secretaries and their bosses. Frank allowed this because Laura was truly an exceptional secretary with common sense and organizational skills that were rare. Unlike some secretaries who looked at their jobs in the corporate world as either a second career to being a housewife or as the quickest ticket to a wedding band, for Laura her job was an important part of her life. It was also her means to remain independent. She was a true professional and at times could be more demanding than Ginny, Frank’s wife. Yet, she was always supportive, unquestionably loyal and at times, Frank felt she was the only true friend he had in the office. For these reasons, Frank permitted Laura more latitude in their office relationship than he did anyone else. Despite their close working relationship, Frank truly didn’t know her. Laura’s private life was a mystery to Frank. He knew she had been married once and sensed it must have been an unpleasant experience from a passing comment she made at an office Christmas party about never having to worry again about coming home late to an abusive husband. She only spoke of it that one time and Frank wasn’t the type to pry. He sensed it left her permanently turned off to marriage. This seemed a shame in Frank’s mind because he thought she would make the right man a great wife. She was so bright and still a very attractive woman who didn’t look her forty-three years. Most especially he admired how she managed, alone, the burden of rearing three children, two of whom were in college. To Frank she was both indispensable and admirable. At times she was his only port in the sea of devious, backstabbing, Machiavellian schemers that permeated the entire GD organization. That made her even more important to him than her administrative skills.

Frank walked past Laura toward his inner private office. Putting his hand on the doorknob he hesitated and glanced back down at her. OK, first things first. Give me two hours to get caught up. Unless it’s Mike Houston or the old man himself, hold off everyone else.

And what am I supposed to tell’em when they call again? Laura asked still banging away at her keyboard with her gaze fixed on the computer screen.

Tell’em, Frank paused while he thought a moment. Tell’em that I’ve got to finish up some critical work on the Oman deal or we may lose it. Nobody in this corporation is going to take the chance of being tagged as the guy who screwed-up a multi-million-dollar contract. They’ll leave me alone.

Frank walked into his office and settled down behind a well-organized walnut desk. He reached for the large stack of papers in his in-box and quickly began to skim through them, separating them into stacks and prioritizing them according to their importance and the actions they required. His office was well furnished with walnut furniture, burgundy carpet, and matching drapes. That was one of the perks of working for a Fortune 500 Company—they did go first class on all the amenities. This was quite a contrasted to the dented gray metal furniture and tile floors of the Army offices where he spent much of his early working years. Now in his prime he felt he earned this office and took great pride in decorated with personal memorabilia that included pictures of family ski trips in Colorado, white water rafting trips in Utah, and horse racing with his wife's family in Kentucky. Frank worked for almost an hour before the combination of jet lag and the lack of rest began to take its toll. He badly needed a cup of coffee and rummaged through his desk drawers looking for his favorite cup, bearing the unit crest of the last unit he had served with before retiring from the Army. Having washed it and put it away before leaving for Oman he couldn’t locate it where he thought he put it. He finally found it in his bottom draw along with some papers that he thought were in his filing cabinet when he left on his trip. Strange, Frank mused aloud, but chalked his bad memory up to jet lag and the need for a cup of coffee to shake the cobwebs loose. Cup in hand, he headed out of his office back toward Laura’s desk and the coffee pot located in one corner of the larger outer office. He looked down at Laura as he passed her desk and paused. I'm still half asleep, I need a cup of coffee.

Yeah, you look like you could use two. I’ll get one for you but don’t get the idea this is going to be a routine thing.

Who has called? Frank asked grinning, while Laura poured a fresh cup of coffee from the office pot.

Just about everybody. Most important was Mike Houston. He called about five minutes ago. I offered to get you, but he said not to bother, he’d see you later when you had a minute to spare.

Did he say what he wanted?

No, just that for you give him a call when you could. He was going to see the General Manager later this morning and thought you might be able to update him on the Oman job before he went in but said if you couldn’t he’d catch you later. Laura said.

I’ll go up and see him in a few minutes, but first, get Chuck Gorman on the phone down in the logistics department.

Please. Laura said.

Pretty please. Frank responded.

A few minutes later Laura buzzed Frank over the intercom to tell him Chuck Gorman was holding on line 1.

Frank and Chuck had been friends for years so Frank had no doubt that if Chuck had the time and even if he didn’t have the time, he would make time for Frank. There wasn't much about this business Chuck didn't know. From a technical perspective, he was known as the resident expert. But Chuck refused to be a company man. He detested corporate politics and was noted for his forthrightness and tell-it-like-it-is attitude, which was not exactly the way to make it to the top in a large corporation like Global Defense. It was for this reason he had seen his last promotion. To Frank, Chuck was a valuable asset, and he didn't care who knew it. While not quite as abrupt as Chuck, Frank was much like him. Neither were typical corporate men, and each valued the other's friendship and knowledge. He felt sure that for this particular job Chuck would be a useful addition to the team.

Hi Chuck. Frank said. I have a little job I need you to handle for me if you’ve got the time. Do you know Samath Sumner? Frank asked.

Sure, she’s a fast mover in this company, even if her old man didn’t own most of the business. Chuck answered.

Well, Sam here is one hell of a business analyst, but I think it’s about time for her to learn the hardware end of this business. I’ll get to the point. She needs to learn the tank. Is Mac Baxter still our technical chief at Fort Knox?

Yeah, I think so. Chuck said.

Do we still have an agreement with the Army that allows us to train our personnel on their equipment? Frank asked.

I think so. Believe it's part of our technical support contract, so we can train new employees, Chuck said.

Good, get hold of Mac and tell him I have a new student for him. I want her back a tanker, a real tanker, and he has got about two weeks to make it happen. Got it?

Sure, Frank, just let me know when to set it up with Mac.

Set it up for the beginning of next week. Meanwhile you head to Knox, get with Mac, and between the two of you figure out a short course for Sam. I’ll give you a charge number from my department to cover your travel expenses.

I’m on it. Chuck replied.

Good. Frank answered hanging up the phone and punching the intercom button for Laura.

"Laura. I’m on to brief the GM and the staff VPs on this deal on the 19th. I’m sure Mike wants to be pre briefed he doesn’t like surprises. Call his secretary and see if he’s free now. Also check with the GM's secretary to be sure the three o'clock presentation on the 19th is still a go.

Mike Houston was the closest thing at Global Defense to a Chief of Staff and was often referred to as Chief instead of his name. His office was located on the third floor of the division's headquarters. This third floor represented the very heart of the division. It was the stronghold for the division's senior management. Here the General Manager, surrounded by his staff of division Vice Presidents, made the policies and daily operating decisions that guided this large business enterprise through the often convoluted world of the US defense industry. From these offices multi-million-dollar business endeavors were schemed, analyzed and, if thought profitable, executed, with far reaching effects that impacted the stockholders, the employees and even the US Government and its foreign policy. With such power also came the trappings of office, carefully rank ordered according to position and seniority. The largest office, which also happened to be a corner office, was reserved for the General Manager. The various staff VP offices were arranged by rank of importance down the plush carpet lined corridor toward the executive conference room at the end of the hallway. Seniority also dictated office size, secretarial staff, furniture appointments, and even the view. Each of these chosen few, even the offices of the junior ranking VP's, were envied and sought after by the work force on the other floors. A move up to the third floor, more commonly referred to as mahogany row, meant if nothing else a six-figure income and a title that said, I’ve arrived.

Mike Houston, not unlike his last name, was pure Texan. Mike was, in fact, the personification of the stereotype Texan, tall, weathered and, what some would call, a little too unfinished for the polished plastic pleasantries of the corporate world. He had a simple direct approach to most things that brought him more enemies than friends in a corporate atmosphere which valued twisting the truth more than telling it. But the fact that J.W. Porter, the GM, liked Mike’s style was all that really mattered. Frank admired Mike's in your face upfront demeanor and Mike counted Frank among his few friends. This was partly because they were both retired Army officers and because they had a mutual respect for each other’s accomplishments. While many on the third floor would like to see Mike fall from the position of respect he enjoyed with Porter, the fact was that the GM liked him because he earned the respect. He had proven himself in several difficult assignments overseas, where he was often given the job of turning around a money losing project after one of the fair haired boys from a top MBA school failed. So, while many on the third floor may have scoffed about his cowboy boots and western business suit appearance, none could challenge his special position of trust with the General Manager. In this business, Mike could deliver, and Porter knew it.

Mike's office was near the seat of power for Global Defense. Although not a Vice President yet, he had made it to mahogany row and was the heir apparent to the VP of International Business Development. With the current title of Director of Special Projects, he was unofficially Porter's right hand man. His office reflected this special status, complete with judges' paneling, plush wall to wall carpeting, and beautifully handcrafted mahogany office furniture. Like the man, the office decor reflected Mike's proud Texas heritage. In some ways it looked more like a Texas shrine than an office with the mandatory Texas memorabilia to include flags, posters, and mementos of his life at the only place Mike would ever call home, his ranch in Texas. A ranch he now felt he saw too infrequently as an absentee owner.

Mike was on an overseas call when Frank got to his office, but since his secretary knew that her boss wanted to see him, she quietly interrupted Mike and announced Frank’s arrival. Mike hurriedly began to complete the call and still seated behind the large executive mahogany desk, beckoned through the open door to his private office for his friend to come in and take a seat. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone mouthing the words I’ll only be a minute. He terminated the conversation by telling the caller he’d get back to him that afternoon. Replacing the receiver in the phone cradle, Mike rose and heartily shook Frank’s hand.

About God-damn time you got your ass home, Mike said. Heard you turned around the Oman deal. Nice job.

You know as long as I’ve worked here and as many screw-ups as I’ve seen this company make, for the life of me I can't believe that the strategic business planning boys and those idiots we pay to develop proposals could fuck anything up like they did this one. Frank said.

Oh, I could Mike said. Knowing the guys that our old friend, Winfield, had working it, I’m not surprised in the least. I tried to talk the old man out of giving it to that bunch. I wanted you on it from the start, but he thought Winfield's group could handle it and that would free you up for some other things he had planned. I lost that first battle with the boss but when he finally realized they had screwed it up I convinced him you were the only one who had half a chance in hell of fixing it with the Omanis. How did ya pull it off?

It took some real creative marketing to convince the Commander of the Omani Army that we weren't trying to screw him. After he received the final estimates and work scope from Winfield and his boys, I wasn’t even sure he would see Sam or me. I was told by our military attaché in the embassy there that he was pretty pissed at Global Defense. In fact, we owe that young major a debt of thanks. Seems he plays tennis every Sunday with the Omani Army Commander and has a good relationship with him. So, he asked him as a favor to see Sam and me. Fact is without his help we never would have gotten an appointment. Do you ever suppose the great thinkers in this company are going to realize the first rule of this business is to listen to the customer. Frank asked. We had the sale done. The Omanis wanted two battalions of old M60’s. They even were willing to let us procure the tanks from surplus US Government stocks, repair them and train their army to use them for a straight cash deal that yielded a sweet twenty percent fee. The way Sam and I had it laid out before Winfield got hold of it, GD would have made money on brokering the tanks, fixing’em and then on the training piece. All told we’d be looking at about a 95 million dollar deal with almost twenty percent of that straight profit. And it was all well within their army’s budget. Not too shabby in my book, Mike. Frank said.

Mine either. Mike replied.

Now you tell me how in God's green earth can a deal like that get back here and get turned around into a proposal that involved building an entire support depot at a cost of sixty-five million beyond what the Omanis had in their original budget? Sometimes I think some of the overpaid VPs in this place are starting to believe their own bullshit.

You mean like Winfield? Mike asked.

He’s one, but there are a whole lot of others that fit that bill. Frank said a hint of frustration in his voice.

Relax, Frank, you got it turned around and that's what counts. In fact, that's all that counts with Porter. Are you ready to pitch the deal to him tomorrow or do you want me to buy you some more time? You look like you could use some sleep

Are we still on for three o'clock on the 19th? Frank asked settling himself back in the overstuffed chair to get more comfortable.

Mike nodded with an affirmative yeah.

Three it is then. I'm good to go. I'll crash later. Sam and I prepared the briefing before we left Oman. But you need to take a look at it before we go into the meeting. I could use a second set of friendly eyes to look it over before we meet the lions tomorrow. I’m sure Winfield and his boys will try to pick us to pieces, since our turning this deal around doesn’t exactly cover him with glory. Sam, by the way, was great. I really couldn't have turned this mess around without her.

Mike looked at Frank with a certain knowing hint in his eye. I'll bet she was great. You know there is some talk about you two.

Mike, if what you are getting at is anything other than a professional relationship than that’s bullshit. Hell, you know me. You’ve known me for almost thirty years. You brought me into this company. In all those years have you ever known me to be unfaithful to Ginny?

No, Frank. I haven’t. But it’s no secret that lately you and Ginny have, uh...., Mike paused looking for the right words.

Been having some problems. Frank said finishing Mike’s thought. I guess that’s no secret. But then I guess there are no secrets around this place"

Look Frank, shit like this happens. Mike said. "You know me better than anybody in this place and you also know that I’m no one to judge anybody on this score. Hell, I’ve been married three times and