Weaponized by Nicholas Mennuti, David Guggenheim Page B

fly below the congressional radar.
    After he graduates from the program, Fowler gets his next war, gets his marching orders to Angola.
    And Victoria Rose calls him a fucking fascist while he’s packing his bags to go.
    But what she doesn’t get is this: It’s not that Fowler blindly follows orders. It’s not that he doesn’t question orders.
    It’s that he likes the orders.
    He does four years in Angola and enhances his reputation for being one of the Agency’s prime go-to guys for smash-and-grab ops. And just when he’s turning the tide in Africa, he gets a call to take a night flight to Afghanistan.
    Fowler’s close to Bill Casey, Reagan’s controversial CIA head. Casey picks Fowler up personally in Angola, waits with him on a hot tarmac, and says:
    “This isn’t ’Nam, Tommy. We’re doing this one right. We’re going over to win.”
    So Fowler’s in Afghanistan, but he gets kicked out. Everyone around Fowler wonders the same thing—and with good reason: How in the fuck do you get kicked out of Afghanistan, Tom? I mean, really.
    Here’s how. He notices a certain disquieting trend in the makeup of his mujahideen. He notices that Egyptian intelligence is looking at the anti-Soviet jihad as the best news they’ve had in years. The bulk of Egyptian jihadists—the militant radicals who tried to whack Mubarak—are rotting in jail, and they’re pissed. Pissed right the fuck off. ’Cause they’re missing the big jihad, missing the chance to martyr themselves. Then the Egyptians get a bright idea: Let’s let them out. Fuck it. Let these lunatics go out and die. Let them be someone else’s problem.
    Fowler’s fucking problem.
    So a wave of militant Islamists, the real deal, the sons of Sayyid Qutb, arrive and start radicalizing Fowler’s troops. His freedom fighters weren’t exactly secularists before, but after the Egyptians arrive, the troops start praying five times a day and stop listening to Fowler because they’ve been told he’s an infidel.
    So Fowler goes to the CIA director and gives him the frontline scoop: We’ve got to do something about these fucking Egyptians. I’m losing control of my troops. And Fowler’s told to let it go, that they’re all on the same side. And Fowler says, We’re all on the same side right now, but wait. The director doesn’t like Fowler’s tone. And Fowler doesn’t like this simple-minded anti-Communist who has never seen a day of frontline fire and doesn’t know shit about radical Islam. And, well, words are exchanged, there’s a hard shove against a filing cabinet, and Fowler’s given his walking papers.
    But thank God things are really heating up in Nicaragua, because there’s no hard feelings, and Bill Casey puts Fowler on a plane that evening—to go train Contras.
    And while Fowler’s camped out in Nicaragua with wife number two, the unthinkable happens: The Soviet Union implodes. (Another historical game changer the CIA never saw coming, just like the Berlin Wall and Pakistan going nuclear and, hell, let’s go there—9/11. Fowler always thought the Agency’s analysts were using a crystal ball covered in cobwebs.)
    So the Cold War is over and Fowler gets called back home and that’s okay. He won’t miss Nicaragua, and wife number two elects to stay behind, and he’s okay with that too. Fowler doesn’t go native wherever he’s stationed. He knows the way the Agency works: the guy who’s your best friend today may be the guy you have to kill tomorrow. He keeps to himself, keeps his attachments loose.
    But Fowler’s not someone who does well with peace.
    When he gets back to DC, he’s beached behind a desk, and he panics. He’s been running hostile ops for almost twenty-five years and now he’s counting paper clips. Not a promising career trajectory. But thankfully—Fowler’s particular luck—the Balkans start acting like the Balkans again after a fifty-year nap. Clinton’s administration wants to help the Bosnian Muslims but doesn’t