Running the Maze Read Online Free PDF

the behind-the-scenes operative who kept the ship running, no matter what the obstacles. A huge man with a deep voice, he wore his uniform crisp and starched, his short hair high and tight, and was one the few men to hold the Marines’ highest enlisted rank.
    The final member of Trident was Marine Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, the never-miss trigger-puller, considered by many to be the best sniper in the deadly game.
    “You finished yet, Lizard?” General Middleton asked loudly. He was seated at his desk, with a stack of folders before him.
    “Just now, sir. We’re clean.” Freedman tapped a final key on his laptop, and the automatic sweep of the office for listening devices came to a halt. He hit one more key, and backup dead bolts slid home in the outer doors. Swanson drifted over and took the last seat in front of the desk.
    The general looked at the four of them, his big brows narrowing toward the broad nose as he laid a palm on the folders. “All right, people, let’s get down to business,” he said. “We’ve got a Green Light package.” He handed out four of the five folders, keeping one for himself and opening it to lift out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of a man in white robes, smiling through a bearded face. “Recognize this guy?”
    “It’s that fuckin’ Charlie Brown.” The gruff voice of Senior Master Sergeant Dawkins rumbled.
    “Score one for Double-Oh,” the general confirmed. “Abdullah al-Mohammed, born as Charles Peter Brown in Lawton, Oklahoma, thirty-five years ago. He’s our target. Most of the rest of the papers in your folders are a compilation of what is known about him, current locations, that sort of thing.”
    “How good is the information, sir?” Sybelle Summers asked as she fanned quickly through the pages. “They include newspaper clippings, for God’s sake. That’s not actionable information. Got to be some snip-and-paster over at CIA.”
    “It indeed is pretty sloppy work for a Green Light, but I will do a full workup.” Commander Freedman anticipated that within a few days, he would know everything possible about Charlie Brown and could put it into coherent form. His mind was already at work, and he unconsciously started to hum the old rhythm and blues song “Charlie Brown.” Fe-fe, fi-fi, fo-fo, fum.
    “Stop that,” the general snapped.
    “Sorry, sir. The Coasters, 1959. King Curtis on the tenor sax.”
    “Why is everybody always pickin’ on me?” Dawkins drawled the song’s most memorable line.
    “All of you. Shut up. You are not a doo-wop group!”
    They smiled. The tense atmosphere that usually came with an assassination assignment was broken. Now it was just a job.
    “Where is he?” asked Summers.
    “Looks like Yemen,” said the Lizard. “There’s a country that is going the wrong way in a hurry on terrorism.”
    The general leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. “The little bastard crossed the line. It was bad enough that he went through al Qaeda training and then began those broadcasts in English to try to recruit more Americans, but now he’s really gotten big in operations. Buddies up with fanatical American kids and prepares them to return to the U.S. as his moles, just waiting for his command to blow up some shopping mall and create mass casualties.”
    Summers asked, “So our leaders have decided there will be no due process or fair trials or that other stuff for him. We’re going to execute an American citizen?”
    “Yes, Colonel Summers. That is exactly what we’re going to do. Several presidents have had the authority to do so. You have a problem with not giving Charlie Brown a jury trial back in Oklahoma?”
    “Oh, none at all, sir. He forfeited that right, as far as I’m concerned. Just another terrorist bum now. Before, he was just an annoyance, but now that he wants to be a real player, he has to pay the price.” There was a murmur of agreement in the room.
    “Well, gang, he likely is not going to be coming to us,