Headquarters, U.S. Southern CommandM
arine Lieutenant General Gordon Fowler was stuffing paper into his briefcase with one hand and holding his personal cell phone to his ear with the other. His aide sat at a nearby desk pouring over their trip itinerary. He made it a point not to listen too closely when the general was talking on his private line.
“You think this is for real, Bob? They snatched a DIA guy and they’re gonna try and sell him to the Russians?”
“Everything I’ve got points that way, Gordo. I wouldn’t be asking unless I was fairly sure. I can’t shoot it up the chain for support because the White House has got the clamps on tight. I need an unofficial hand here.”
“Yeah, I know all about that kind of s**t. We got a blazer from the Pentagon last week reminding all hands we are
