Open Season Cameron Curtis (top 10 novels to read .txt) 📖

“He was Chief Warrant Officer Breed,” Koenig informs her. “Now a civilian consultant.”

The O-2 lifts her phone. “General, Mr Breed is here.”

She replaces the phone in its cradle and rises to usher me into the office. Her dress uniform is hand-tailored. Expensive woman, a West Pointer. Class ring on her right hand. Polished heels. Her thighs and calves are cut like she spends four hours a day doing CrossFit. The general must be a masochist.

I enter the inner sanctum and the O-2 closes the door behind me. The temptation to salute is overpowering. I remind myself I am no longer part of the green machine.

“Sit down, Breed.” The general is exactly as I remember him. “It’s been a while.”

Digital camouflage, three stars. The Old Man is in his fifties, lean and hard. His face is craggy, like the mountains of the Hindu Kush. He’s standing in front of a picture window that overlooks the airstrip and a good part of the base. Two A-10 Warthog close-support aircraft accelerate down the runway, lift into the sky, and bank toward the mountains.

I sit in one of the hard-backed chairs that face the general’s desk. Anthony remains standing, hands on his hips. He picks up where we left off years ago. Without interruption. The difference is I’m no longer a W-5. I’m no longer in the army.

A file sits in the precise geometric center of the desktop. The general flips it open. Spreads two eight-by-ten photographs on his desk. One of a man in his forties wearing the uniform of a full colonel. The other of a pretty girl in her twenties, wearing digital camouflage, the three stripes of a buck sergeant. The man looks like a senior executive at a Fortune 500 corporation. The sergeant is a girl next door.

“Principal One is Colonel Robert Grissom. Principal Two is Sergeant Robyn Trainor.”

General Anthony paces. Gives me the same briefing Stein gave me at Clark. I compare the two briefings. Test and probe for differences. There are none. The two stories are consistent.

“I need you to bring Grissom out of the Hindu Kush.” The general steps back to the picture windows. The particular mountains he is staring at are the Koh-i-Baba, but I forgive him. “There’s no one left who knows that country like you.”

“That was years ago, General.”

“No one else has been on the ground that far north.”

Stein is worried about General Anthony’s commitment. Let’s test him further.

“General, I’ve spent the last year lying on a beach. I’m not in shape for those mountains.”

“You’ll be finished in two days. We’ll buy out your current contract and pay you a hundred thousand for two days work. That’s over two hundred thousand dollars. Then you can lie on a beach.”

“I could take your money, General. But I’d be a liability.”

General Anthony leans on his desk, looks me in the eye. “You’ll take the job, Breed. Not for the money.”

“With all respect, Sir. I’m not thrilled with a country that wanted to court-martial me for doing my job.”

“You’re a patriot, Breed. You won’t hold the mistakes of the last administration against the country.”

I agree to the mission. The general and Stein think they have my number, but they’re only half right. The mountains beckon. Their harsh beauty, the hot days and freezing nights, the crisp air at ten or twelve thousand feet. The challenge of natural danger combined with a vicious enemy is irresistible.

General Anthony leads me out of his office, past the O-2 with the worked-out body. She looks ready to devour us both. We stride down the hall and step into a big conference room. The blinds have been drawn and a projection screen has been lit on one wall. Koenig, Takigawa, Lopez, Ballard, and Hubble are seated around a long table.

A sixth man occupies a corner seat. Unlike the rest of us, he wears dress blues, and the insignia of a bird colonel. On the table in front of him sit a black leather folio, a notebook, and a Montblanc pen.

“I believe you know my adjutant, Colonel Tristan,” the general says.

How could I forget the colonel. He walked me to Personnel the day I was discharged. Looked at me like I was a bug. He wears jump wings and a green beret, but he is not a Tier 1 operator. He’s a staff officer, lapping at the general’s heels.

Six faces around a table. An opportunity to take a closer look at the team I’ll be working with. My first impressions are usually accurate. I see no reason to change them. Only Hubble escaped scrutiny at the barracks.

The last time I saw Hubble, he was buried in his rack. I have a better view now. Big guy, at least six-two. Late twenties. A boyish face, hardened by the job.

“I assume you have all met Mr Breed,” General Anthony says. “Captain Koenig, the floor is yours.”

The image of a high-level super-planner is a myth. Most missions are planned by the men who have been assigned to execute them. If I’m here to test General Anthony’s commitment, Koenig is the first red flag I’ve seen. Koenig told me the team was hand-picked. I don’t know any of the other men personally, so I can’t comment. But—having served with Koenig on several missions, I do know he is not top-shelf. The choice of Koenig as mission commander does not reflect well on Anthony.

Maps and photographs have been spread on the table. Koenig manipulates a remote control, and an image from Magellan Voyager fills the screen. Voyager is a popular software tool. It combines satellite photo imagery with GPS and map technology. Creates realistic 3D images of the Earth’s surface. It covers everything from urban areas to the north pole. The software is available commercially. The difference between the commercial and military versions lies in the resolution achieved and the frequency of update. The difference is top secret.

The general and I take seats.

“Thank you, Sir.” Koenig darkens the room and flicks on a