mesh but function at the highest possible efficiency. And that is what happened to Riggleman, mostly because his mind was as quick and agile as those sleek jets he had once hoped to pilot.
He first showed promise as an Infowar “aggressors” trainer, by thoroughly disrobing the operational secrets of visiting units in war game after war game. From there he worked his way into the good graces of self-interested brass, up-and-coming generals forever hoping to pry loose their rivals’ deeper secrets. Although his current title didn’t sound like much—special assistant for logistics to the commander, 57th Wing—his duties had evolved to the point that he was now a sort of informational sniper on call, an ace handler of assignments bothon and off the books. His particular specialty: Sniffing out any sort of trail—paper, telephonic, or virtual—that even a government auditor or trained investigator might not find.
Riggleman looked perfectly engineered for such duties. He was built low to the ground, a hard man to budge. Having wrestled in college, he was well versed in takedowns and escapes, the best ways to leverage bigger opponents to the mat. He knew never to loosen his grip until he was ready to employ the next move. He also knew to keep his mouth shut, especially when carrying out special assignments for his boss and wing commander, Brigadier General Mitchell Hagan.
That was the relationship that gave his talents their special potency. Hagan, a power in his own right, had a direct pipeline to Major General Salvador Shorter, whose command of the U.S. Air Force Warfare Center made him king of the mountain at Nellis Air Force Base.
Moments ago, Hagan had called Riggleman into his office. The general closed the door, shut the blinds, and instructed his secretary to hold all calls. Riggleman found it a bit theatrical, but also thrilling. Like some old scene out of film noir, he thought—Sam Spade preparing to deliver the goods to his top client. He sensed he was about to be asked to do something marginal, which meant something interesting. All that was missing was cigarette smoke, although Hagan reputedly kept a bottle of bourbon stashed in a drawer. Riggleman, wanting to maintain a military bearing, had to fight off an urge to lean forward in his chair.
“Captain,” Hagan began, “I want you to drop whatever you’re working on in order to give your full attention to a matter of the highest urgency.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Hagan nodded, a barely perceptible gesture for a man whose head sat so low on his shoulders that it looked as if it had been mashed into place by a hydraulic press. Riggleman had always wondered what sort of opponent the general would have been on a wrestling mat. The kind who might bite in a clinch, perhaps, especially if he thought the referee wasn’t looking.
“We have a pilot who’s gone missing,” Hagan said. “We’d like you to locate him for us.”
“AWOL, sir?”
“Ex-pilot, actually. Ex–Air Force, when you get right down to it. So, not AWOL in the technical sense. But one of ours, all the same. A dishonorable discharge who was under orders, per his plea agreement, to keep us apprised of his movements. Given the sensitive nature of his previous duties, as well as his access to certain other information, we’d like to know his whereabouts as soon as possible.”
Hagan slapped onto the desk a glossy photo of a clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties with the hint of a smirk hiding just beneath a casual smile.
“Darwin Cole. You may have crossed paths when he did his Infowar training.”
“I don’t recall the name, sir.”
Hagan launched into a brief bio and slid forward a file folder. The moment Riggleman heard that Cole used to fly F-16s, his interest was piqued further. Cole was the very sort of fellow who had once lorded it over him on the flight line, back when Riggleman was a mere washout grunt. In those days, jocks ruled the clouds and everyone else got rained
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