Echo of War Read Free Page B

see your Rudbeckia Hirta is coming in well. I think Bev’s got some of them planted somewhere.”
    Tanner smiled. Only Walt, a man who wouldn’t stick his hands in the soil on a bet, would be able to name black-eyed Susans by their scientific name. “I transplanted them in May; they were getting a little too much sun. How’s Charlie?”
    â€œHairy and loud.”
    Charlie, a yellow labrador puppy, which had been rescued from the pound, had been Oaken’s Christmas gift to his daughters. The idea of Oaken, avid indoorsman that he was, dealing with a rambunctious puppy never failed to amuse Tanner. “Admit it: You love him.”
    â€œI like him.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Tanner sipped his coffee. “So, what can I do for you?”
    â€œYeah, well …,” Oaken started. “Bev and the girls want to go camping.”
    Tanner did his best to suppress his smile. “I see. With you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd Charlie.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCamping.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan I come watch?”
    â€œVery funny. What am I gonna do? Camping … Jesus, I’ll probably kill myself setting up the tent.”
    â€œNo problem,” Tanner said. “I’ll give you a list. Have you got a notebook?”
    â€œSure.” Excited at the idea of having something to pigeonhole, Oaken took out his notebook, uncapped his pen, and nodded. “Ready.”
    â€œFirst—and this is crucial—”
    â€œOkay …”
    â€œYou’re going to need a flannel shirt.”
    Oaken started scribbling.
    â€œSomething checkered … red and black. And a hat—coonskin, preferably, with earflaps.”
    Oaken stopped writing and glanced sideways at him. “That’s not funny.”
    Tanner clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I have everything you need. A couple hours from now you’ll be a regular Danger Don.”
    â€œYou mean the guy on TV? The adventure nut with the death wish?”
    â€œThat’s him.” Tanner’s cell phone trilled and he answered. “Hello.”
    â€œBriggs, it’s Gill.”
    Gillman Vetsch was a friend from Tanner’s precivilian days. Once a month they got together for coffee or lunch. “Gill, how are you?”
    â€œI need to see you.”
    Something’s wrong, Tanner thought. Despite the tragic turns Vetsch’s life had taken, he was one of the most upbeat people Briggs had ever known. The tone in Gill’s voice was anything but upbeat now. “Sure, give me an hour. Can you give me a clue?”
    â€œNot over the phone.”
    The line went dead. Tanner disconnected.
    Oaken said, “Bad news?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Tanner replied. Yes, definitely bad.
    Gill Vetsch and Tanner had been two of the original members of ISAG, or the Intelligence Support Activity Group, Vetsch having been recruited from the Secret Service, Tanner from the Naval Special Warfare community. Founded by the CIA, ISAG was an experimental program designed to address what was seen as a gap in the U.S. intelligence community—namely, special operators who could act not only as commandos, but also as hands-on intelligence gatherers.
    Culled from all branches’ military and civilian elite units, ISAG operators were put through a grueling two-year course that turned them into what insiders called “warrior spies,” men and women as comfortable hunting terrorists through the jungles of South America as they were running agents in Bratislava. Disbanded due to Pentagon politics shortly after its conception, ISAG produced only sixty graduates—the only sixty to survive the program’s 90 percent attrition rate.
    Shortly before the ax fell, Tanner was prepping for an overwatch job—ISAG’s term for a standoff bodyguarding assignment—when his late wife, Elle, fell ill and miscarried their baby. Vetsch stepped in, took