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know about you officer types, but us enlisted men are always planning for our retirement."
     
    Gaucho nodded in agreement.
     
    “Thirty seconds," Daniel announced, walking over to the TV and turning it on. When the screen flickered to life, he ensured the camera had them all in the picture.
     
    Cal hadn't even shared his concernswith Daniel. Earlier when he had called the president, his friend had politely put him off, seemingly unconcerned—no not unconcerned—guarded. That wasn't like Brandon Zimmer. The transparent relationship Cal shared with him was based on keeping no secrets from one another. Of course Cal didn't expect to know everything he was doing, but if he asked Zimmer a question, he expected an honest answer.
     
    Then there was the problem with Delta. Gaucho had made discreet inquiries to his former unit, and at every angle he approached, he’d been quietly rebuffed. However, that could have to do with the fact that Gaucho was technically no longer a member of the elite counter-terrorism force. Once you were out, you were out.
     
    But Cal couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something else was going on. When an operation goes bad, everything gets compartmentalized. Doors get shut, windows slammed, and either you're barricaded in or out. He felt like his team had been left out.
     
    In addition to the president’s uncharacteristic aloof response to Cal's concerns, the first levels of tripwires in his brain were starting to make imaginative leaps. He hoped those concerns would disappear once they talked to President Zimmer.
     
    The flat screen on the bureau flickered again. In the next moment, the president's face appeared, then the sound settled. The president was on Air Force One, and alone. He wasn't wearing a tie, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
     
    "Cal. Gentlemen," he said formally. Cal detected a hint of disapproval from Zimmer, like he’d expected Cal to be the only one on the call, but instead he got the entire team. What the hell was going on? "I'm sorry I couldn't talk before, Cal. I had forgotten how election years wreak havoc on schedules."
     
    The lame excuse fell with a thud on Cal's deaf ears. "Mr. President, I'd like to know what happened to Vince Sweeney.”
     
    There was a moment of hesitation, and then the president asked conversationally, "Since when am I Mr. President to you, Cal?"
     
    "Since you started dodging my questions about two men who, for all we know, might be dead right now."
     
    Zimmer's eyes hardened. There were a few beats of awkward silence. Then Zimmer exhaled like he was suddenly tired, and rubbed a hand over his face. "How did you hear about them?" Zimmer asked.
     
    "Does it matter?" Cal said.
     
    Zimmer shook his head no and disclosed, "Look, this was supposed to be a discreet operation. That's why I called him in for the op personally. You, of all people, should understand that. How would you feel if you got called out of the blue, asking me about some secret operation?"
     
    "Oh, I don't know. Maybe about as uncomfortable as we feel, finding out that two of our friends disappeared and could be getting chopped to bits at this very second."
     
    Another awkward pause while the two men glared at each other; then Trent spoke up, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why don't we all start from the beginning? Let's not forget we're on the same team here."
     
    Still the glare continued between Zimmer and Cal. Daniel stepped forward and addressed the president, “Here’s what we know. Vince made a distress call. He said they might have gotten shot down and were on the run. Neil thought it came from somewhere in Africa, maybe Somalia or Ethiopia. He can't get a precise location.”
     
    The president nodded, "Cal, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get into this with you, and you're right, they are our friends. We all deserve to know the truth."
     
    "I'm sorry, too," Cal said, "Now can you tell us what's going on?"
     
    There was no hesitation now, like Zimmer figured