Mark lounged against the kitchen counter in the White House’s third floor kitchen. He hated waiting. It was the worst part of any assignment. Get into position and wait for the blockheads in the Pentagon or the White House to get off their damn butts and give a “go” clearance. Nine operations out of ten were never authorized when that last second finally reared its ugly head.
He looked over his shoulder toward the West Wing. This was where those “blockheads” lived. He’d never thought about that before, probably because he’d never been in the building. Only a few hundred feet and about eighteen layers of security over that way, men were planning which missions he flew and which he didn’t. Were planning the fate of his squad: their missions, their lives…
And here Beale was tap-dancing arou
