W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 by Covert Warriors Read Free Book Online

FedEx driver had served in the Army, and knew that LTC meant “lieutenant colonel.” And he had served long enough to know that lieutenant colonels do not live in large brick homes on what was known locally as “Generals’ Row.”
    After a moment, he decided it was a simple typo; LTC was supposed to be LTG, the abbreviation for “lieutenant general.” A small wooden sign on the lawn of the house confirmed this analysis. It showed three silver stars, the rank insignia of a lieutenant general, and below that was neatly painted B. J. MCNAB.
    The driver, now convinced he was in the right place, continued up a walkway through the immaculately manicured lawn toward the house.
    He was almost at the door when a black Chevrolet Suburban came—considerably over the posted 25 mph speed limit—down Reilly Road, stopped and quickly backed up the driveway of the house. Doors opened. The driver, a young Green Beret sergeant in a camouflage-pattern battle-dress uniform, and a young Green Beret captain in dress uniform got out of the front seat. The sergeant quickly removed a cover from a red plate bearing three stars mounted on the bumper and then rushed to open the passenger door. He was too late. The door was opened by a Green Beret colonel in a dress uniform who marched purposefully toward the house with the captain trailing him.
    The driver stood beside the passenger door.
    The front door of the house opened and General McNab came through. He was in dress uniform and wearing a green beret. Both breasts of his tunic carried more ribbons and qualification badges than the driver had ever seen on one man during his military service.
    Colonel Max Caruthers, who was six foot three and weighed 225 pounds, and Captain Albert H. Walsh, who was almost as large, saluted crisply and more or less simultaneously barked, “Good morning, General.”
    General McNab returned the salute and then turned his attention to the FedEx deliveryman.
    “Far be it from me to stay a FedEx courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds, but curiosity overwhelms me,” he announced. “Dare I hope that envelope you are clutching to your breast is intended for me?”
    “It is, if you’re Bruce J. McNab,” the courier said.
    “Guilty,” General McNab said.
    The courier extended the clipboard for the addressee’s signature.
    Captain Walsh snatched the Overnight envelope from the driver, handed it to the general, and then signed the receipt on the clipboard.
    General McNab ripped open the strip at the top of the envelope and took from it an eight-by-ten-inch photograph.
    “Oh, my!” he said, in a tone similar to what a grandmother would use when her cake batter slipped from her hands and splattered over her kitchen floor. “Oh, my!”
    He handed the Overnight envelope to Captain Walsh.
    “Hold that by its edges, Al,” he ordered. “Gloves would be better. It will probably be futile, but we will have tried.”
    “Something wrong, General?” the FedEx courier asked.
    “Nothing for which you could possibly be held responsible,” General McNab said. “And now, although I would rather face a thousand deaths, I must go treat with General Naylor.”
    The courier looked confused.
    Colonel Caruthers, who recognized the remark as a paraphrase of what Confederate general Robert E. Lee had said immediately before leaving his headquarters to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia to Union general Ulysses S. Grant, failed to keep a smile off his face.
    The courier started back to his delivery truck as General McNab walked toward Staff Sergeant Robert Nellis, who was standing by the open front passenger door.
    “Bobby,” he said, “can you find Pope Air Force Base by yourself, or would you rather that I drive?”
    “I’ll drive, General,” Sergeant Nellis said, smiling.
    “It’s easy to recognize,” General McNab said as he slid onto the seat. “Just look for lots of airplanes and fat people in blue uniforms.”
    Colonel Caruthers and