1 BARCELONA, SPAIN T HEIR CAREERS pushed Swanson and Dodge in different directions after that. Mike Dodge, with a wife, chose a more conventional path, while the single Kyle Swanson was swept up in special operations. Two years later, when Marine Corps Brigadier General Bradley Middleton was kidnapped by mercenaries and terrorists in Syria after the first Iraq War, Swanson went in and got him back but was mortally wounded in the fight, buried in Arlington, and posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. It was huge news throughout the nation and the Corps, and Mike and Becky mourned the loss of their friend. However, things are not always as they seem, and three years later, Mike was shocked one evening to answer the front door of his two-bedroom home in Oceanside and find Kyle standing there, alive and well, beer in hand, ready to regale Becky with wild stories. It had all really been a major league Pentagon paperwork mistake, he said, and they couldn't very well take back the medal, nor unbury him. Instead, they had bounced him around on special assignments until someone could figure out an appropriate job for a dead guy. The surprise reunion became a party that continued at a seafood restaurant on the Coast Highway just south of Del Mar.
Back home about midnight, Kyle got down to the business part of his resurrection and the surprise visit. First, he swore them both to secrecy, making them put their hands on the family Bible. "Everything I told you earlier was bullshit," he admitted. "I'm sorry, but I had to see how you were both doing before I divulge the actual story. Tell no one what you are about to hear, not tomorrow or ever." Swanson then confessed to Mike and Becky how he had been officially washed from the records to help create a totally black spec ops organization that was known as Task Force Trident. It was a handful of specialists who answered only to the president and was turning the War on Terror on its head by taking the fight right to the enemy's doorstep. Some really bad people had been learning there was no safe place to hide if they attacked America and its allies, and that there would be no martyrdom awaiting them, nothing but a bloody end.
Trident could access any and all assets of the U.S. government to accomplish its missions; drones and SEALs and Delta Force and B-52s and computer geeks and federal agents and local cops and forensic psychologists could be called as needed for support. There were no paper trails to backtrack, and no punishment for carrying out the strikes, which were cleared personally by the president of the United States. Kyle said that Trident had reached a stage where he really needed a partner he could trust out there in the boonies, and who was better at this game than Mike Dodge? Mike looked ready to sign up on the spot. Becky pulled back. Think about it and talk it over, Swanson urged. Let me know tomorrow.
Bumps could be expected in both pay grade and expenses. Big bumps, Kyle said. The Dodges talked all night before turning down the offer. It was the right move for them, Swanson admitted, but he at least had to try. * * * I NSTEAD OF RUNNING and gunning in dangerous special operations, at the end of another five years, in 2014, Gunnery Sergeant Mike Dodge found himself in command of the Marine security detachment at the U.S. Consulate in the peaceful diplomatic backwater of Barcelona, Spain. He wore a coat and tie to work, commuting from the two-bedroom apartment where he lived with Becky and their one-year-old son, Timmy.
The place was all the way to the Reina Elsinda station, last stop on the Metro's L-6 line, and it was a quiet life, a good life for a man with both a sense of duty and a family. On a bright Monday morning, when Dodge stepped from the train station, he immediately had a prickly feeling along his arms and neck that sent him into a state of alert. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but the gunny had often felt that special tingling just before trouble broke out back during his combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. At least on the surface, everything seemed fine. A line of Spanish locals and citizens of other nations wanting to obtain visas and process business permits had been forming for the past hour at the main gate to the consulate. All were orderly, standing there for a specific purpose, reading newspapers and drinking coffee. Four Spanish cops were in front at the barrier that controlled vehicle entry. Dodge walked over to exchange greetings, and they confirmed that there was just the usual morning traffic and pedestrians.
Dodge walked into the consulate through the heavy main door, crossed the polished stone lobby floor, and was greeted by the day-shift guy, Corporal J. V. Harris, in uniform at Post One behind the bulletproof glass wall. Dodge eyeballed him to be sure he was squared away. J. V. stood six-two, with a square chin and broad shoulders, and was an imposing figure although he was only twenty years old. Buttons on the short-sleeve khaki shirt and the buckle of the white web belt were in exact alignment.
A holstered pistol rode on the hip of his dress blue trousers, and the white cover was perched firmly on a high-and-tight haircut. "Top of the morning, Gunny," Harris called out, buzzing him through the reinforced transparent entrance to the business area. "Another excellent damned day in our beloved Marine Corps. Sergeant Martinez is in the back." Rico Martinez had been the night man and would be changing into his civvies to go home. "What's the threat assessment?" Dodge asked. "Low. Martinez reports things were quiet all night.
Nothing since I came aboard." Dodge's eyes studied the young Marine. "Are you sober?" "Of course, Gunny." "And the guys at the House?" "Absolutely. It was sort of a rough night in Barcelona, but if you want them, they can be on deck quick enough." Dodge shook his head. That meant they were probably as hungover as sheets flapping on a clothesline. He couldn't shake the itchy warning feeling.
"Matter of fact, I do want them. Call over there and get them up. And you stay sharp." The big door hissed closed and locked. Harris added, "The RSO and the consul general are already back there." The RSO was the regional security officer for the Department of State's Diplomatic Security Service and technically in charge of overall consulate safety. Dodge walked down the hallway, his eyes flicking to every door. Several consulate workers were at their computers at the front counter, getting ready to deal with the morning line.
I'll keep Martinez around for another hour, he decided. It was less than a minute before eight o'clock when J. V. Harris picked up a secure telephone and dialed the House. The telephone rang once, twice, three times, but no one answered. He hung up, planning to wait a few minutes and give them one more try before reporting to the gunny, who would rip them all a new one if they didn't answer. Corporal Harris hung up and buzzed the security lock again, to allow a consulate worker with a big ring of keys to exit through the barrier so he could open the heavy, bulletproof main door. The business day was about to begin.
* * * T HE M ARINE H OUSE , a spacious Spanish-style structure of white stucco with a traditional red tile roof, was the official living quarters for five U.S. Marine Corps consulate guards in Barcelona. It was also a party place. When the large main room and manicured garden were not in use for diplomatic functions, it was one of the more popular nightlife addresses in the Sarrià/Sant Gervasi district. Off duty, the Marines knew how to have a good time. Early on Monday morning, Sergeant John Dale was on his knees in the bathroom, paying due homage to the porcelain god after the latest Sunday night party. "I think my brain is broken," he moaned, then his stomach seized and he retched again into the toilet.
The feast of paella, roast pig, beer, and red Rioja wine had tasted much better going down than it did coming up. He flushed and slumped back against the chill finish of the tub, awaiting the next upheaval from his protesting stomach. The two other Marines in the House were Sergeant Pete Palmer and Corporal Chet Morrison, both sleeping off their own hangovers. Palmer had a girl with him. The large house was laid out along a central hallway, with a big living room and dining area flanking the curved entrance alcove. Kitchen, bedrooms, and two full baths were lined down a central hallway that emptied into the manicured backyard, which had an enclosed swimming pool. It was the best place that the twenty-year-old Dale had ever lived, far beyond his dreams growing up in his small town in Indiana. A hell of a lot nicer than his last posting in Afghanistan.
A dry and aching spasm clutched his stomach and he barfed again, and this time knew he was finally empty. There just can't be anything left down there. Sick as a skunk with an exploding skull, but finally empty. Staring into the mirror as he washed his face and brushed his teeth, Dale promised to pace himself next time. Someday. Maybe. Wearing just his boxer shorts, he headed barefoot for the kitchen and a big glass of water while the coffee brewed. The living room was a wreck, but by noon the maid would clean it, the gardener would fix the flower beds, and the handyman would repair any damage, all on the government dime.
Dale drank deeply and l.