thang confuses me. What was this Special Lo-gistical Support Dee-tachment you headed up in Afghanistan? Ah cain’t find any reference to any sech unit in any of the military’s Tables of Organization. Ah’m jest kinda curious.”
“Mr. Chairman, Senator Birdsong, the Special Logistical Support Detachment’s mission was to match up field units’ needs with supplies, equipment, and materiel that was shipped to Afghanistan. It was our job to ensure no unnecessary delays occurred in putting much-needed equipment, food, ammunition, etc., into the hands of our men and women in the field. I commanded the unit for about a year-and-a-half. It was standard Quartermaster Corps procedure.”
“What a bunch of crap!” David said.
“What’s that, son?” Peter asked as he entered the room.
“Oh, nothing, Dad,” David replied. “Just reacting to the crap that flows from Washington, D.C. This guy on the hot seat commanded the last unit I served with in Afghanistan. He’s up for one of the top CIA jobs. He just lied to the Senate Intelligence Committee.”
Peter sat on the couch and looked at the television screen while the camera moved in for a close up shot of Bishop. “I wouldn’t trust that guy as far as I could throw him,” he said. “Look at his eyes. They’re dead—like shark eyes.”
It was a relatively slow day for Dennis O’Neil. He needed to be in court to testify in a homicide trial in two hours, so he’d decided to stay in the squad room to review his case notes. He took a break for a moment and stretched his sore back muscles. He looked down, took his spare tire-of-a-belly in both hands, shook it, and grunted. He’d have to go on a crash diet before the Marine reunion. He didn’t want his old buddies to see him like this. There wasn’t much he could do about his gray hair and white mustache, short of hair dye, and that wasn’t his style. At six feet, three inches, he knew he still made a good first impression—except he had to do something about the extra twenty pounds he carried.
Detective Joji Kimura sat across the room and watched the small color TV set on the middle of an empty desk.
“What the hell are you watching?” O’Neil asked.
“The confirmation hearing on the new CIA Deputy Director, Rolf Bishop.”
O’Neil laughed. Kimura, the squad’s resident conspiracy theorist, always fixated on anything to do with the CIA. Dennis paid no attention to the TV and returned to his notes about the trial, until he heard someone mention “Special Logistical Support Detachment.”
The odd feeling in his gut that occurred when coincidences happened suddenly returned. He scribbled in his notebook a reminder to call his Pentagon contact, Sam Collins. Then he wrote: “What is or was the SLSD?” and “Get names of all persons ever assigned to SLSD, and names of all men who served with three dead Marines.”
O’Neil left his chair and walked over to where Kimura sat transfixed by the television screen. While he watched, O’Neil zeroed in on Bishop’s face. He thought, at first, he recognized the man. But, after a moment, he realized it wasn’t Bishop’s face he found familiar. It was the look in the man’s eyes, the set of his mouth, and the overall impression he left. O’Neil had seen other men with the same sort of “look.” Some had been well dressed, some were criminals, some were cops. But they all had one thing in common: an inhuman, sociopathic coldness in their eyes.
When the hearing ended, O’Neil watched Bishop move to the raised platform where the senators sat and chatted them up. O’Neil noted that the retired Army officer had some of the most influential and powerful men in the country eating out of his hands.
“That dude is smooth,” he said.
“What was that, Dennis?” Kimura asked.
“Nothing, Joji. Just thinking out loud.”
While O’Neil drove cross-town to the courthouse, he pushed all thoughts of his testimony in the homicide trial to the
“Mr. Chairman, Senator Birdsong, the Special Logistical Support Detachment’s mission was to match up field units’ needs with supplies, equipment, and materiel that was shipped to Afghanistan. It was our job to ensure no unnecessary delays occurred in putting much-needed equipment, food, ammunition, etc., into the hands of our men and women in the field. I commanded the unit for about a year-and-a-half. It was standard Quartermaster Corps procedure.”
“What a bunch of crap!” David said.
“What’s that, son?” Peter asked as he entered the room.
“Oh, nothing, Dad,” David replied. “Just reacting to the crap that flows from Washington, D.C. This guy on the hot seat commanded the last unit I served with in Afghanistan. He’s up for one of the top CIA jobs. He just lied to the Senate Intelligence Committee.”
Peter sat on the couch and looked at the television screen while the camera moved in for a close up shot of Bishop. “I wouldn’t trust that guy as far as I could throw him,” he said. “Look at his eyes. They’re dead—like shark eyes.”
It was a relatively slow day for Dennis O’Neil. He needed to be in court to testify in a homicide trial in two hours, so he’d decided to stay in the squad room to review his case notes. He took a break for a moment and stretched his sore back muscles. He looked down, took his spare tire-of-a-belly in both hands, shook it, and grunted. He’d have to go on a crash diet before the Marine reunion. He didn’t want his old buddies to see him like this. There wasn’t much he could do about his gray hair and white mustache, short of hair dye, and that wasn’t his style. At six feet, three inches, he knew he still made a good first impression—except he had to do something about the extra twenty pounds he carried.
Detective Joji Kimura sat across the room and watched the small color TV set on the middle of an empty desk.
“What the hell are you watching?” O’Neil asked.
“The confirmation hearing on the new CIA Deputy Director, Rolf Bishop.”
O’Neil laughed. Kimura, the squad’s resident conspiracy theorist, always fixated on anything to do with the CIA. Dennis paid no attention to the TV and returned to his notes about the trial, until he heard someone mention “Special Logistical Support Detachment.”
The odd feeling in his gut that occurred when coincidences happened suddenly returned. He scribbled in his notebook a reminder to call his Pentagon contact, Sam Collins. Then he wrote: “What is or was the SLSD?” and “Get names of all persons ever assigned to SLSD, and names of all men who served with three dead Marines.”
O’Neil left his chair and walked over to where Kimura sat transfixed by the television screen. While he watched, O’Neil zeroed in on Bishop’s face. He thought, at first, he recognized the man. But, after a moment, he realized it wasn’t Bishop’s face he found familiar. It was the look in the man’s eyes, the set of his mouth, and the overall impression he left. O’Neil had seen other men with the same sort of “look.” Some had been well dressed, some were criminals, some were cops. But they all had one thing in common: an inhuman, sociopathic coldness in their eyes.
When the hearing ended, O’Neil watched Bishop move to the raised platform where the senators sat and chatted them up. O’Neil noted that the retired Army officer had some of the most influential and powerful men in the country eating out of his hands.
“That dude is smooth,” he said.
“What was that, Dennis?” Kimura asked.
“Nothing, Joji. Just thinking out loud.”
While O’Neil drove cross-town to the courthouse, he pushed all thoughts of his testimony in the homicide trial to the
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