TEN

The most rewarding things you do in life are often the ones that look like they cannot be done.

—ARNOLD PALMER

SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN

A SHORT TIME LATER

Whack waited until two A.M. before venturing outside via the back patio and roof of the house. He made careful scans of the area with the Tin Man suit’s millimeter-wave radar, infrared sensor, and sound amplifiers. Sure enough, there was a car parked about thirty yards east of the driveway, tucked behind a tree, with a view of the Range Rover parked at the base of the lighthouse.

“One tail on the main highway,” he radioed to Patrick McLanahan via his secure satellite transceiver built into the Tin Man armor.

“How many observers?” Patrick asked.

Through his telescopic low-light sensor he could see a lone white-skinned occupant in the vehicle, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, with what appeared to be a camera with a long lens on a monopod. “One. Distracted. Good time to leave.”

“Roger.”

Whack dropped off the house, then down the embankment to the shore. He ran until he saw lights from a fishing boat, then climbed back up the rocky ledge and scanned again. He was out of the line of sight of the surveillance car, and the way was clear, so he went south of the highway, scanned again, then started running west toward Socotra Airport. The terrain was rocky and barren, with few places to hide, but it would make it easy to spot pursuers or locals. The land rose steeply at first, then dropped into narrow crevasses and then smoothed out to vast wastelands. Running and jumping would’ve been easier closer to the ocean, but he wanted to avoid fishermen and patrols.

“It’s getting more rugged farther west,” he radioed. Northeast of the town of Qadub, he found himself running up a large plateau that rose precipitously a thousand feet above him to his left. He stopped to scan the area and check battery levels. “Damn, I’m already down to fifty percent,” he radioed, “and I’m only halfway there.”

“You got the second set of batteries?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, but I might have to risk returning via the coastline and avoid this terrain on the way back if I’m burning watts like this.”

“We might need a third set of batteries?”

“I thought of that, but I also thought it might arouse suspicion—that’s an awful lot of weights for a beefy saltwater diver. I’ll be more careful.”

From his premission target study, he knew he had to cross the highway east of Qadub, because the plateau dropped quickly south and east of town. Locals in Qadub seemed to be having some sort of festival or mass gathering. The town was actually split into three neighborhoods, divided by the highway and by the dirt road leading from the main part of town to the sea: the fishing village near the ocean, the town itself south of the highway, and a cluster of farms and orchards to the west. South of town was impassable—the town sat at the base of two sheer plateaus. The only way around was a narrow strip of sand north of the highway and south of the fishing community.

Whack knew he was in trouble the minute he scanned the area around the town. “I don’t friggin’ believe it,” he radioed.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“It looks like they’re having a fiesta or something down there,” Whack said. The townspeople were actually holding a procession from town to the fishing community along the dirt road! “I just got reminded again of the commando’s ‘Six Ps’: Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.”

“Abort and try tomorrow night,” Patrick suggested.

He was 3.4 miles to his objective and still on time. “The procession looks like it’s just getting started,” Whack radioed. “It’s the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you people sleep?”

“It’s a weekend-long party celebrating the beginning of the fishing season,” Patrick said. “I just Googled it. They’ll be out there tomorrow night, too.”

“Great.” He could see lights being carried by townspeople, but through his infrared sensors he could see that not everyone was carrying lights, so the procession was quite long—probably a couple hundred people in all. There was absolutely no place to hide north of the highway.

“I’m going to go for it,” Whack said. “I’ll pick a gap in the procession, jump over the dirt road, and hope to get lost in the darkness.”

“Too risky, Whack,” Patrick said. “If someone sees you, they’ll certainly alert the police, who would alert the Yemeni army border patrol, who would undoubtedly alert the Russians. Better off not pushing a bad situation. You got a couple more nights to—”

“Wait!” Whack exclaimed. At that moment the skies to his right over the ocean erupted in a shower of rockets and sparkles. “Fireworks! They’re having a friggin’ late-night fireworks show at the fishing village!” The people on the dirt road began running toward the sea, and in minutes the road was clear. A quick scan showed the area clear for two hundred yards in all directions. “How about that, boss? Looks like it’s clear.” He didn’t even need to jump the highway—that would have highlighted him against the fireworks in the sky. He simply sprinted across the sandy marsh, across the road, and straight ahead north of the highway, halfway up a gentle sandy dune leading to the highway. There were a few homes on the crest of the dune overlooking the ocean, but if anybody was home, they’d probably—hopefully—be looking up at the fireworks, not down toward the beach.

Another three-mile run, and soon he was at Socotra Airport. “I made it, boss,” he radioed. He made his way east of the airport and up a gentle rise to just outside a very large rectangular fenced compound situated on a rocky plateau overlooking the airport. During World War II, this compound had been a British prisoner-of-war camp, and then became a British military headquarters and radar site after the war until they withdrew from Yemen in the late 1960s. When the Soviet Union was invited by the Communist Democratic People’s Republic of Yemen to use port facilities in Aden in the 1970s, the Soviets took over the Socotra facility, enlarged and modernized it, and turned it into first an observation post, then a sea-and air-scanning radar facility, and finally into a combined space tracking facility and intelligence-gathering site, listening in on transmissions from space and from ships transiting the Gulf of Aden and Indian Ocean. It was again modernized and enlarged two years ago, when the United States started expanding its Space Defense Force satellite network.

The twelve-foot-tall perimeter fence was brightly illuminated. “Just as our intel said,” Whack radioed. “Roving patrol on the west side, guard towers at the corners. The objective is in sight.” It was right in the center of the compound, mounted near and below a large radome: a 150-foot-diameter steerable open latticework dish antenna, pointed almost straight up.

A lot of times, the first sight of the objective made commandos anxious and excited, and it was vital to squelch that feeling and stick with the plan. The most important thing was not to alert the Russians to the point where they would shut down the transmitter or inspect the antenna. They were already alerted to Whack’s presence by the inspector at the airport, and they had probably assumed this was his objective.

He moved to his planned entry point on the east side of the facility, the farthest away from the airport, then took a few moments to study the guard towers on the corners. They were the farthest apart here and, being away from the airport and the highway, the least busy. His telescopic TV sensor showed two men in one cab and one in the other, so he chose the area closer to the tower with two men—the odds were better that the one guard in the other tower wouldn’t be looking in his direction. Whack also changed batteries—the first set was down to 15 percent. He would enter the facility with fresh power in case he needed to bug out fast.

“Here goes nothin’, boss,” he radioed.

“Good luck, Whack,” Patrick said.

Taking a running start, he jumped just at the very edge of the illuminated area outside the fence, clearing it with ease. He rolled as he hit the sandy hard-packed dirt inside the compound, leaped to his feet, and dashed as fast as he could to the closest spot of darkness at the inner edge of the illumination area he could find. He stopped and listened for any sound of alarm or pursuit. His escape plan was to jump out of the compound to the north, run downhill toward a riverbed about a mile away, then hide in a small cluster of farms if necessary. But so far he didn’t need that plan.

“Made it, Muck,” he radioed. “No sign of alarm.”

“Don’t get cocky, Whack,” Patrick said.

“I know, I know,” but he knew that, except for the exit jump, the hard part was over.

The inside of the compound was almost completely dark except for pole lights mounted near fire hydrants or outside entrances to some of the buildings, and it was easy enough to avoid those areas. His sensors tipped him off to any personnel or patrols nearby in plenty of time to take cover. There were guards everywhere, but no one seemed especially vigilant. That was often the case: When the number of guards increased, everyone tended to relax a bit more, assuming that the added numbers made everyone more secure.

Whack reached the antenna within two minutes of jumping the fence and found the service ladder. He carefully and quietly popped the lock off the protective gate, opened it, extended the ladder, and started climbing. His armored feet barely fit between the rungs, so he just used his arms to crawl up the ladder, going about three times the normal climbing rate. He made the twenty-story climb in about sixty seconds. Once on the bottom of the dish, he identified the framework structure that also attached to the transmitter-receiver module in the center of the dish, climbed onto it, and was on the rim of the antenna dish in no time.

The antenna had four long arms holding the large transmitter-receiver module in the center of the dish. In the Tin Man armor, it was easy to climb across the arm to the module. Hanging by one arm, he retrieved the signal analyzer-transmitter box from his backpack and attached it to the side of the center module. It would pick up any signals broadcast by the antenna, store them in digital memory, and then burst-send them to a waiting CIA satellite for downloading and analysis.

He reversed his direction, climbing back down the pedestal service ladder. He closed the gate, then pressed the hasp of the broken lock down into the lock with his microhydraulically powered fingers until the hasp jammed in place. Hopefully no one would notice the deformed lock until many days and at least one netrusion attempt from now—the first flyby of a Kingfisher weapon garage was in just eighteen hours.

Almost home free. He made his way carefully to his planned exit point on the north side. The terrain dropped away on the other side of the fence a bit more steeply, which might make it harder for pursuers to locate him. He also knew that there were probably motion or vibration sensors on the ground outside the fence, so he had to jump as far as he could past the fence and hope he didn’t set anything off. He lined up, took one last scan around for any sign of guards, dashed for the fence…

…and cleared it with plenty of room to spare. He landed a little inside the illumination zone, but he quickly rolled away, got to his feet, and dashed for the ravine. He ran all the way down the slope for about a half mile before he dove behind the biggest rock he could find and lay still, scanning for any sign of alarm or pursuit.

Nothing. Dead quiet. “Holy cowbells, boss, I think I friggin’ made it,” he radioed.

“Congrats, Whack,” Patrick radioed back. “Now concentrate on getting back to the lighthouse. Check your power level—it looks low from here.”

Whack checked and was surprised to find the second and last set of batteries already down to 40 percent. “There might be a glitch in the armor,” he radioed. “I think I’ll try staying nearer the shoreline to avoid all the steeper terrain.”

“Take time to do more scans,” Patrick suggested.

“Roger. On the move.” Whack made his way down the ravine to the freshwater stream that led to the Gulf of Aden, then started heading east.

It was easy going until Qadub. The fiesta and fireworks were over, but now the fishermen were working on their boats, getting ready to put to sea. Staying away from the lights from the wharves and piers meant moving closer to the highway, and it was getting a bit busier as dawn neared. Whack had to drop prone several times to avoid what he thought were people staring in his direction, and he considered digging a hole in the marshy sand a few times because he thought someone might come out for a closer look at what they thought they saw.

It took much longer than during the fireworks show, but soon he was at the eastern edge of the fishing community, almost clear. He was in a prone position once again. He listened, heard nothing, and then raised his head a few inches to let his sensors get a better look. Still nothing. He was at the edge of a baby-powder-soft sand beach at the eastern end of the fishing community. The highway curved rather close to the beach here, but it was empty right now. All he had to do was run about five hundred feet across the beach to the other side to a formation of huge boulders right at the ocean’s edge and he would be home free—after that, just an easy four-mile jog back to the lighthouse. Like a sprinter in the starting block, he crouched low, gave himself a countdown, yelled “Go!” to himself, and dashed off…

…and after four steps, he tripped over something lying in the sand.

“Ahhh!” a man shouted. Whack hadn’t seen the guy, sleeping nestled in the sand, covered in a rug, a bottle of something lying beside him. The man sat up, and Whack could see his eyes grow as wide as dinner plates. “Ma bifham la afham!” he shouted. He started to crawl away, still staring at the apparition in front of him in absolute terror. “Imshi! Imshi! Al-bolis! Al-bolis! Sa-iduni!”

“Crap!” Whack swore, and he sprinted away down the beach as fast as he could. He didn’t stop for about a half mile until he heard an approaching car on the highway, then found a good hiding place.

“You okay, Whack?” Patrick radioed.

“I tripped over some guy sleeping on the beach,” Whack said.

“Did he see you?”

“Yes. He looked like he was sleeping one off, and it’s real dark out, so maybe he’ll think it was the booze.”

Whack took his time making his way back along the shoreline, and was extra careful as he approached the lighthouse. A different surveillance car was in the same spot as the first. He hadn’t received any warnings from the motion detector, so no one had approached the house since he left it. He climbed back up the escarpment onto the patio and went inside.

Carefully and quietly, without using any lights, he signed off with McLanahan, undressed, cleaned the Tin Man armor and exoskeleton as best he could, and repacked it. The signals analyzer, disguised as a spare laptop AC adapter, was missing now, but hopefully the customs inspectors wouldn’t notice, or he could say it was lost or forgotten somewhere. Whack set all the Tin Man armor’s batteries in chargers in case he needed it again for an escape. He checked his path to make sure he hadn’t dragged in anything from the beach, took a sip of Scotch whiskey to settle himself down, and then went to bed about an hour before dawn. Mission successfully accomplished.

Whack was awakened by the sounds of low, hushed female voices outside in the kitchen. He looked at his watch—a little before seven A.M., right on time. The voices seemed to be getting nearer his door. The note from al-Jufri had said that if the lantern was still on, he wouldn’t be disturbed by his family preparing the house for the day, and he hadn’t extinguished it, so he wondered if it had blown out or was—

Suddenly the bedroom door splintered apart from its hinges and flew across the room. Whack had already thought about what he would do: He rolled away from the door onto the floor, lifted the bed up, and flipped it toward the door to screen his next move. But just before he was going to leap through the window, it exploded as a three-round burst of bullets fired upward into the ceiling…from the outside. Whoever it was, they had anticipated his attempt to jump out the window and were waiting for him.

“Stay where you are and raise your hands, Mr. Coulter,” a man with a thick accent—a Russian accent—said in English. Whack looked out the window and saw two men in black combat suits, helmet, web gear, and balaclavas, with AK-74 submachine guns aimed at him. The mattress and bed were pushed aside, and two more men similarly outfitted had weapons trained on him. They pulled him out of the bedroom into the living room, shoved him to the floor facedown, yanked his arms behind his back, secured his wrists with plastic handcuffs, then sat him up.

“What the hell is going on?” Whack yelled.

The toe of a boot came out of nowhere and landed on the left side of his head. Whack hit the floor hard, his vision completely blurred out, and he tasted blood and felt a loose tooth in his mouth.

“That will happen every time you speak out of order, Mr. Coulter,” the voice said. He was pulled upright by his neck. “Nod if you understand.” Whack nodded, slowly and carefully, fighting off nausea. “Very good. We were planning on meeting with you later today to ask some questions, but we received a curious report this morning from a local citizen about a sea creature that came out of the sea and tried to eat him. The police dismissed the citizen as a hallucinating drunk, but then I remembered something.”

Whack looked up and focused through the pain. The Russian, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, black tie, and light brown trousers, was holding his Tin Man helmet. “An American carrying unusual scuba-diving equipment came through customs yesterday afternoon. Could this be what the man saw?” He paused, then gave the helmet back to one of his men. “You may answer now, Mr. Coulter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Whack murmured.

“So you are saying it was not you, Mr. Coulter?” the man asked. “You are saying you did not go out for a swim in your fancy diving gear last night?” Whack said nothing. “Mr. Coulter? You may answer now.”

“I wasn’t out swimming last night,” Whack murmured. “I’m hurt. I can’t see straight, and I feel dizzy. I think I need a doctor.”

“You were not?” the Russian asked. “Now I am confused. You are an engineer and builder of undersea robots, according to your Web site. You are scheduled to demonstrate a robot to the Yemeni Fish Company tomorrow afternoon. If you decided to go for a swim in your gear, I completely understand, and it makes perfect sense. All you need to do is tell me you went for a midnight swim, and this whole unfortunate matter can be cleared up immediately.”

“But I didn’t go for a swim,” Whack said. “I didn’t do anything. I need a doctor. Help me, please.”

“We will take you to a doctor right away, Mr. Coulter,” the Russian said, “but this matter must be cleared up first. A citizen reported seeing a man dressed in this outfit on a beach not far from here. It is, of course, not a crime to be out on the beach late at night. I believe the man saw you dressed in your fancy diving gear. All we want to do is straighten this matter out. There has been no crime committed. You can clear all this up by admitting that it was you that the man saw on the beach. Does this make sense to you, Mr. Coulter?”

“I swear to you, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking—”

Whack saw the boot coming this time, but he couldn’t move anywhere near fast enough to dodge it. Another tooth came loose, and he choked on a fresh mouthful of blood.

When he could see again, he was sitting upright, looking into the face of the English-speaking Russian with the nerdy-looking black tie. He shook his head. “You do not look so well, Mr. Coulter. I will summon a doctor for you right away, but first you must tell me that it was you that was on the beach early this morning. If you tell me this is so, you will be treated by a physician and released. If you do not, we may be at this for quite some time.”

Whack’s vision blurred. He didn’t try to clear it, but instead let his mind drift. His vision, and then his conscious mind, went dark. To Wayne Macomber, darkness meant solitude, escape, rest, superiority over an adversary, and safety, and so he allowed his subconscious mind to expand and embrace the darkness. The pain was still there, but it was now tolerable, as if he were falling asleep on rocky ground.

“Mr. Coulter, are you still with us?” he faintly heard the Russian ask him. Whack could feel an eyelid pulled open, but his consciousness remained dark. The Russian said something in Russian, sounded like a curse; then, in English: “I have seen this before, Mr. Coulter. It is a technique that only the best field intelligence operatives and special forces commandos have mastered. Some men are able to shut down their conscious minds to such an extent as to block out pain and fear and thus make the muscles almost impervious to physical torture. So which are you, Mr. Coulter—an intelligence operative, or special forces commando?” Whack chose not to answer.

“Of course,” the Russian went on, “if the mind is even partially conscious, eventually a combination of physical and chemical torture will break down even the most disciplined and well-trained mind—break it, or destroy it, in a most painful and twisted manner. Can you hear me, Mr. Coulter? If you can, you are minutes away from the worst pain any man has ever experienced. You can save yourself the agony, Mr. Coulter, by telling me who you really are, and what this equipment really does, and what you were really doing out there last night.”

Whack’s eyes were partially open and partially rolled back in his head, his blue tongue hung loosely out of his mouth between partially clenched bloodstained teeth, and his breathing looked as if it had stopped. Antonov stood up and shook his head. “A real old-style warhorse, this one,” he mused. He opened his cellular phone, dialed a number, waited, then spoke in Russian: “It is me, Gennadiy. We found him; he tried to run, but we got him. He can hear us, but he shut down his body to resist interrogation…no…just shut up for a minute…yes, I said he shut down his body to resist physical interrogation…no, I am not making up a story, it can be done, and this one has done it. I have done all I can here. He will have to be evacuated to headquarters in Sana’a or to the carrier Putin to continue chemical interrogation.”

He noticed a splotch of blood on his boots, knelt down, and began to rub it off as he went on: “Oh, and one more thing, Gennadiy: Go over and talk to the commander of that new Strategic Defense Force unit at the radar facility…yes, you need to go over there and talk with him in person, because you need to impress upon him the importance of shutting his operation down and doing a thorough security sweep before…I know those bastards do not like the GRU and do not allow us routine access to do proper security checks. That is why you must convince them to do their own sweep to be sure everything is normal. I will…yes, I will call him first, but you must go over there and…just do it, Gennadiy. I do not care how stuck-up you think those Strategic Defense Force guys are…Me? I will be analyzing this man’s equipment. If it is who I think it might be, we may have stumbled upon the espionage event of the decade.”

IN THE GULF OF ADEN

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

Seventy-five miles west of its nest, the Arleigh Burke–class destroyer USS Rourke, the SH-60 Seahawk helicopter continued its search grid for the downed bomber crew. The Rourke had been detached from its duties escorting the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan, which was about two hundred miles to the east, to help in the search. At the beginning of its third full day of searching, the outlook was not promising, although the weather was cooperative and the seas rather benign.

For the surface search-and-rescue mission, the Seahawk was equipped with a forward-looking infrared sensor on the nose and a rescue hoist on the starboard door, along with its usual APS-124 search radar. The enlisted aviation-systems warfare officer, trained in searching the surface of the ocean, was in the starboard-side-door station, while a rescue swimmer manned the port-side door. Since there had been no radar contact with the bomber except for an approximate position given by Armstrong Space Station operators, and the bomber had skipped through the sky uncontrollably after being hit, there was no precise location for the crew, so it was a hit-or-miss job, and so far the results had been a miss.

“Coming up on bingo fuel, guys,” the Seahawk’s copilot/airborne tactical officer reported. He entered instructions into the flight computer, which would catalog their grid pattern search and automatically relay updated grid-search instructions to the follow-on crew. “Station check, secure your gear, and—”

“Contact, port side, nine o’clock, one mile!” the rescue swimmer in the port-side door shouted on intercom. He immediately formed a gunsight with his left hand around what he saw so he wouldn’t lose contact as the pilot turned. “Clear to turn.” The pilot didn’t turn the full ninety degrees, but only forty-five degrees left, so the observer could maintain contact with what he saw out the door while giving himself a chance to spot it, too.

As they closed in, they could see why it had been so hard to spot: The orange life raft was covered with oil, obscuring the bright color, and it was partially submerged because it appeared both crewmembers were aboard a single one-person raft. That was not a good sign.

“I’ve got contact,” the pilot reported. “Swimmer, get ready.” The rescue diver began donning mask, snorkel, and fins.

“We’re coming up on emergency fuel, boss,” the copilot said. “Not enough fuel for a hoist. The destroyer’s too far away.”

The pilot thought he was going to go for it anyway—bingo and emergency fuel figures always had an extra margin included “for the wife and kids”—but there was another helicopter already en route, so why risk losing a helicopter if they screwed up the fuel flow and quantity numbers? “Paul, looks like you’re going to go swimming for a while,” the pilot said. “Feel up to it? Three-Two is only thirty minutes out. Last water temp was sixty-seven.”

“No sweat, Lieutenant,” the rescue swimmer, Petty Officer Paul Malkin, said. He wore a twelve-millimeter one-piece cold-water wet suit, which would keep him safe in water down to forty degrees. He sat on the open door’s sill, removed his headset, put his mask and snorkel in place, and gave the copilot a thumbs-up.

“Stand by on the rescue container,” the pilot said. He maneuvered over to the raft. “Now!” The sensor operator threw the orange-and-white fiberglass container overboard out the starboard door. When it hit the water, it automatically opened and deployed a four-person covered life raft with water, survival, and medical equipment secured inside. The pilot translated slightly, getting as close as possible to the survivors without flipping their raft or the rescue raft over with his rotor wash. When he was sure he was clear of both rafts, the rescue swimmer jumped out the door, holding his mask firmly in place.

“Swimmer in the water,” the sensor operator reported on intercom. A moment later: “Swimmer signaling okay, heading for the survivors.”

“Emergency fuel,” the copilot reported.

“We are outta here,” the pilot said. “Radio the Rourke, have them make a ready deck, we’re going to be on fumes.”

 

The rescue swimmer Australian-crawled over to the buoy attached to the lanyard of the four-man rescue raft, attached the ring to his waist, then swam over to the survivors, towing the bigger raft behind him. One crewman was atop the other, and the one on top looked pretty messed up—maybe a broken neck. He felt for a pulse and didn’t feel anything, but survivors’ bodies immersed in seawater for long periods of time were known to shut down so much that a pulse was undetectable, only to be revived later. He rolled the crewman on top off the other one, letting him float by himself faceup using his own still-inflated personal flotation vest.

The one on bottom definitely had a pulse. He still wore his flight helmet, gloves, and survival vest, but he was sitting in seawater that had mostly filled the little raft. “Sir, this is Petty Officer Malkin, USS Rourke, United States Navy,” the rescue swimmer shouted. “Can you hear me?” The crewman’s head moved, he coughed, and his eyes fluttered. “If you can hear me, sir, listen up, I’m here to rescue you,” Malkin said. “You’re going to be okay, buddy. I’m going to get you and the other guy in my raft. My chopper will be back in no time. Hang tough and do what I tell you, okay? Are you hurt? Any broken bones? Do you feel any pain?”

The survivor coughed, spitting up a mouthful of water, then actually tried to sit up. He looked at Malkin…and it wasn’t until then that he could see that the he was really a she! Not only that, but she was an Air Force colonel, the equivalent of a captain in the Navy! She was by far the highest-ranking person he had ever rescued! The name on her badge below her command pilot’s wings read CAZZOTTA. “Can you hear me, Colonel Cazzotta?” he shouted.

Cazzotta coughed again, rolled to one side, then looked at him. “Thank you for rescuing us, Petty Officer Malkin,” she said, “but can you please stop yelling now?” Malkin couldn’t help but chuckle—here they were, bobbing in the Gulf of Aden hundreds of miles from help, and this zoomie colonel was cracking wise. She looked around. “Where’s Frodo?”

“Frodo?”

“The other crewmember—Major Alan Friel.”

Malkin looked at the other crewmember’s flight suit and verified the name. “He’s right here,” he said, “but he looks like he’s hurt bad. Let’s get you into the big raft first. Can you move? Are you hurt anywhere?”

“My neck and back are killing me,” Boxer said, “but I think I can move.” As Malkin pulled the big raft over, she tried to sit up and was rewarded with a shot of pain that sped through her neck and zapped her all the way down to her legs. But she was still able to get up far enough to grab the other raft, and with Malkin’s help she rolled herself off her raft and into the other, suppressing a cry of pain but thankful not to be lying in a raft full of water.

“Those cases on the side of the raft have bottles of water and survival blankets, ma’am,” Malkin shouted. “Can you reach them?”

“Get Frodo,” Boxer said. “I’m okay.”

Malkin returned to the second crewmember to do a more thorough examination. “I’m afraid he’s dead, Colonel,” he said a few minutes later. He brought the body over to the raft, climbed aboard, pulled him inside, then pointed out his injuries to Boxer. “I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he said. Boxer was too exhausted and dehydrated to cry anymore. Malkin had her drink a tiny bit of water, checked her over carefully for any injuries, wrapped her in a survival blanket, then covered the body with another survival blanket.

About twenty minutes later he heard on his radio: “Sierra, Trident Seven-One, standing by to authenticate.”

“This is Sierra,” Malkin responded. He looked at the code card secured to the radio and mentally computed the proper challenge based on the current time and the daily authentication code. This was a standard challenge-and-response security procedure for communications on an unsecure channel. “Authenticate tango-mike.”

“Seven-One authenticates ‘charlie.’”

Malkin computed the response on his card and came up with a matching answer. “Good copy, Seven-One.”

“Roger,” the helicopter copilot replied. “Sierra, authenticate yankee-hotel.”

Malkin did the reverse on his card and responded, “Sierra authenticates ‘bravo.’”

“Good copy, Paul,” the copilot of the second Seahawk radioed. “We’ve got a good DF steer and it checks with the GPS coordinates, about two minutes…”

Suddenly Malkin saw two streaks of white flash across the sky overhead…and a second later he saw a bright burst of fire in the sky to the east. “What the hell…?”

“That was a missile!” Boxer croaked through salt water–coarse lips. “Someone fired a missile!”

“I think the helicopter got hit!” Malkin shouted. “For God’s sake, who would shoot down a rescue helicopter?” Seconds later he saw a jet fighter fly high overhead, but he couldn’t identify it. With shaking fingers he keyed the microphone button on his radio: “Seven-One, Seven-One, this is Sierra, how copy?” No response, even after several more tries. His face was a frozen stunned mask of confusion. “Holy crap…!” He keyed the mike again: “Mayday, mayday, mayday, any radio, any radio, any radio, rescue helicopter down, possible hostile antiaircraft fire, any radio, please respond.” He then reached over and activated the raft’s satellite EPIRB, or Emergency Position-Indicating Rescue Beacon, which would broadcast location information via satellite to rescue coordination centers around the world.

“I think we’re going to have company, Petty Officer,” Boxer said. “Keep trying to raise someone on the radio.” Boxer found her personal satellite locator in her harness and saw that it had not automatically activated upon ejection—because she’d been flying near possibly hostile forces, she did not want it to automatically activate—so she activated it now, and activated the beacon on Friel’s vest as well. She then started to drink as much of the water as she could without throwing up, and she stuffed nutrient bars from the survival rations into her flight suit.

The thing she feared showed up about fifteen minutes later: a Russian-made Ka-27 naval helicopter. This one was fitted with pylons carrying antiship missiles, a machine gun in a turret in the nose, and machine gunners in the side doors. Neither Malkin nor Boxer could see any other flags or markings. With guns trained on the Americans in the raft, two black-suited divers dropped into the water, swam over to the raft, and climbed inside. They wore black balaclavas; neither could tell if the men were black or wore black camo paint on their faces. They motioned for Malkin to raise his hands.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Malkin shouted. He raised his hands but kept the mike button on the portable radio keyed. “Who are you?”

“Don’t resist, Petty Officer,” Boxer said. “They’ll gun you down just to save weight.” Again, neither American could see any insignia on the uniforms, and they said nothing so it was impossible to identify them by their voices or accents. While the first commando pushed Malkin over on his front and secured his arms behind his back with plastic handcuffs, the second removed Boxer’s survival harness, ignoring her cries of pain, wrapped Malkin’s radio and the EPIRB in the harness, and dropped it into the ocean; the weight of the radio pulled everything underwater. A rescue basket was lowered, and in just a few minutes both Americans were aboard the Ka-27.

Before being hoisted back aboard the helicopter, the last commando punctured all of the air chambers of both rafts and Friel’s life vest with a knife, and in seconds Frodo had disappeared beneath the waves of the Gulf of Aden.

RUSSIAN MILITARY HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

THAT SAME TIME, EARLY MORNING

“General Darzov here.” The chief of staff of Russian defense forces spoke.

“General, the site is ready to radiate,” the commander of the special intelligence unit on Socotra Island, Yemen, said. “Overflight will be in five minutes.”

“I received a message from the GRU, reporting a possible security breach of the facility,” Darzov said. “But I found nothing in your daily reports about it. Explain.”

“Sir, the military intelligence branch from Sana’a detached to Socotra Island arrested an American engineer here, claiming he was a spy,” the commander said. “They advised us to shut down all special intelligence operations and do a complete search of the facility.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir. We found nothing.”

“Did you interview the suspect?”

“We could not, sir—the GRU beat the man senseless. He is probably a vegetable.”

“Where is he?”

“They said he was to be transferred to GRU headquarters in Sana’a or to the Putin for further medical tests.”

Darzov knew full well that meant chemical-induced torture—the guy was certainly going to disappear after the GRU was through with him. “Did you look at the files on the suspect?”

“I did, sir. He checked out. He builds robots. He was scheduled to demonstrate some sort of robotic fishing device to the local fish company here. We looked at the device—it’s a robot that walks in the ocean and checks fish traps. All his other papers were in order. He flew in the day before on Felix Air from Sana’a. We checked his entire itinerary and background. Clean.”

“So what was the GRU suspicious about?”

“I do not know, sir,” the commander said. “They said his dive suit was unusual. I looked at it: It was fancy, very high-tech, made for long and deep underwater missions, but it was a dive suit. I think the GRU mouth-breathers got a little too overexcited on this guy and beat the hell out of him, and now they want to deflect attention from themselves.”

“And your facility checked out?”

“Completely, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Darzov thought for a moment. Something was not right. The GRU regularly used a heavy hand in their operations, but they did not target foreign civilians without plenty of reason. But there was no time to waste on this matter now. “Very well, Commander,” he said. “Proceed with the operation.”

“Yes, sir,” the commander said, and the connection was broken. He turned to his operations officer. “We are cleared to radiate, Major.”

Minutes later, 260 miles above Earth, the Kingfisher-3 orbiting interceptor spacecraft rose above Socotra Island’s horizon. The space tracking facility immediately locked onto it, and steering signals were transmitted to the adjacent parabolic antenna, which also began to track it. When the spacecraft was thirty seconds from its highest point above Socotra Island, sensors detected digital radar emissions from the satellite, and the special intelligence unit’s computers synchronized on the digital data stream and began transmitting corrupt digital data instructions that would be received and processed simultaneously with the radar returns.

The corrupt data stream lasted only tenths of a second, but in that span of time Kingfisher-3’s targeting and identification computers received millions of lines of computer code from the Russian computers on Socotra Island. Ninety percent of the code was rejected as corrupt or irrelevant data, but 10 percent was accepted and processed as valid commands. The commands ran the gamut: Some were orders to shut down, power up, reboot, or do all three at the same time; others were for repositioning and realignment with unrecognizable or illogical references such as the moon or some other celestial body instead of with Earth; others were for immediate engagement of nonexistent targets.

Within minutes of trying to sort out all of the contrary or unexpected commands, the spacecraft simply rejected all commands, safed and locked all of its weapons, reported itself as out of service, and shut itself down.

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE

A SHORT TIME LATER, EARLY EVENING WASHINGTON TIME

“What the hell is it now?” the president asked as he strode into the Oval Office. He drank a full glass of water—he had been in a dinner meeting with his reelection campaign staff, celebrating another primary win, and had a couple glasses of wine, and he hoped the water would dilute some of the alcohol.

“The Reagan carrier group went on battle stations in the Gulf of Aden, sir,” National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. “One of its escort ships, the destroyer Rourke, was participating in a search and rescue for the bomber that was shot down a couple days ago. They found a survivor, but couldn’t pick him up because of low fuel, so they put a rescue swimmer in the water and dispatched another helicopter. The destroyer lost contact with the second helicopter shortly after detecting an unidentified high-speed aircraft heading east toward it.”

The president shook his head in confusion. “So the carrier came under attack?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Turner said. “They lost contact with the second rescue helicopter. The captain of the Reagan must have assumed the helicopter was shot down or collided with the unidentified aircraft and went to battle stations.”

“Did they see this plane attack the helicopter?”

“No, sir. They were out of range. The carrier’s Hawkeye AWACS radar plane detected both the aircraft and the helicopter but did not pick up any distress or warning calls and can’t say for certain what happened. The Hawkeye did pick up some radio traffic between the second chopper and the rescue swimmer, and also detected another helicopter from the west of where the survivor was located.”

“One of ours?”

“No, sir, but by the time a patrol plane from the carrier Reagan got on station, it was gone. The patrol plane searched for it until it got within a hundred miles of the Russian carrier battle group, then turned around.”

“Thank God for that,” the president said. “The last thing we need is for the Russians to shoot down another of our planes. But I still don’t see what the emergency is about. A rescue helicopter went down, and the carrier’s captain suspects something with this unidentified aircraft and goes to battle stations? Does he think the chopper was shot down? Why would anybody shoot down a rescue helicopter?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Carlyle said. “It’s preliminary word, a lot of guesstimates. But I asked that the Navy notify the White House anytime one of their battle groups in the vicinity of the Russian or Chinese carrier groups goes to battle stations for real, so they did. I thought you’d like to know.”

The president nodded, then burped uncomfortably—the sudden flurry of excitement was dumping stomach acid atop the fine dinner and wine he had partially finished, and now it was all turning into sour junk in his guts. “That’s okay,” he said. “Keep me advised.” At that moment the phone rang, and he picked it up, listened, then grunted something in reply. “Phoenix wants a quick word.”

“What about?”

“Wouldn’t say.” He picked up the phone again. “Ask Mr. Kordus to join us in the Oval Office. He’s upstairs in the residence with the reelection team. Thanks.” Just as he hung up, there was a knock on the Oval Office door, and Vice President Ken Phoenix walked in. “What’s going on, Ken?” the president asked.

The vice president held up a folder. “I have information that proves that the Russians have been sabotaging our Space Defense Force satellites, sir,” he said.

The president’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You have information? How did you get it, and I didn’t?” He turned to the national security adviser. “You hear about this, Conrad?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

Phoenix ignored the question. “Just a few minutes ago, the Russians sent netrusion signals into a Kingfisher weapon garage, causing it to shut itself down a short time later. The signals were detected originating from a Russian space tracking and intelligence site in the Gulf of Aden, off the coast of Somalia.”

“Answer my question, Ken—how did you get this information? Who is it from?”

“Apparently a nongovernmental group investigating Russian activity in the Gulf of Aden.”

“A ‘nongovernmental group’? Care to elaborate?”

“That’s all I was told, sir.”

“Does this have to do with the commando insertion plan you concocted on that island in the Gulf of Aden…what was it, Socotra Island?”

“You canceled that operation, sir.”

“I canceled all operations in that area, Mr. Phoenix,” the president said. “How did this one come about?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Phoenix replied. “But the results are conclusive: The Russians are definitely targeting Kingfisher weapon garages, causing them to shut down.”

Chief of Staff Walter Kordus entered the Oval Office, and he motioned to National Security Adviser Carlyle that he had a phone call waiting for him. While Carlyle took the call, the president motioned for the papers Phoenix had and quickly flipped through them. “It’s all unsubstantiated stuff, Ken,” the president said, giving the file back to him. “It’s hearsay. No specifics. I think someone is feeding you information you wanted to hear. Besides, it’s moot: I’m shutting down those Kingfisher satellites anyway.” Carlyle hung up the phone loudly enough to get the president’s attention. “What, Conrad?”

“More information on that incident in the Gulf of Aden.” When he noticed Vice President Phoenix’s quizzical expression, he explained quickly: “The Reagan went to battle stations after one of its search-and-rescue helicopters went down.”

“What…?”

“Go on, Conrad,” the president ordered irritably.

“Soon after the second helicopter went down, three emergency satellite beacons were detected. One belonged to the life raft dropped by the first helicopter. We assume it was activated by the rescue swimmer when he saw the second chopper go down.”

“Makes sense. What about the others?”

“They belonged to the crewmembers of that bomber that was shot down.”

“So there were survivors!” Phoenix said.

“The rescue swimmer could’ve activated the beacons on the victims’ life vests,” Carlyle pointed out. “There’s more. The position of the three beacons stayed constant for about fifteen to twenty minutes, and then they were lost…at approximately the same time as the Reagan’s radar plane detected the unidentified helicopter come in from the west.”

“An unidentified helicopter…?” Phoenix exclaimed.

Gardner ignored him. “Lost? You mean, shut off?”

“Military locator beacons are designed so they can be shut off, to avoid crews being tracked by enemy searchers in an escape-and-evasion situation,” Carlyle said. “But EPIRBs carried on ships or life rafts are designed to stay on until the battery runs out, which could be for several days. It’s seawater-activated, waterproof, and designed to float, but if it’s submerged deeper than thirty feet, the signal can’t be heard.”

“So the beacons came on and stayed steady until an unidentified helicopter came in from the west,” Phoenix summarized for himself, “when at that time the beacons were cut off? Sounds to me like whoever was in that helicopter had something to do with that. Was anything found at the last location of those beacons? Rafts? Bodies? Wreckage? Anything?”

“No, sir, nothing,” Carlyle replied. “When the Navy patrol plane came back after turning away from the Putin carrier group, it orbited the last position for an hour until the first rescue helicopter came back, but found nothing.”

“A patrol plane flew toward the Putin?” Phoenix asked. “You mean, chasing the unidentified helicopter?” He looked at the president with a stunned expression. “It was a Russian helicopter?”

“We don’t know that, Ken,” the president said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “We’re making a lot of assumptions here, and we could be screwing ourselves up. We don’t know the identities of any of those other aircraft except our own.”

“What other aircraft, sir?” Phoenix asked.

“The Hawkeye tracked a fast-moving aircraft in the area just before the Navy rescue helicopter went down,” Carlyle said. “No idea what it was, where it came from, or where it went.”

“It sounds like the Russians attacked the rescue helicopter, then sent one of its helicopters to pick up the survivors,” Phoenix said. “That’s madness! That’s an act of murder and piracy!”

“We don’t know shit, Ken,” the president said. “All this happened within the last thirty to sixty minutes half a world away. The story will change a dozen times in the next sixty minutes.”

“Sir, we’ve got to confront the Russians with what we know and what we suspect,” the vice president said. “Lives are at stake. Those bomber crewmen and the Navy diver could be in the hands of the Russians.”

“It’s being handled, Ken,” President Gardner said, longing to get back upstairs to the victory party. He looked at his vice president, thought for a moment, then: “Maybe you’re right, Ken,” he said, nodding. “I’ll meet with the entire national security team in the morning, get the latest updates, then rattle Truznyev’s cage. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Phoenix nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll make a few calls to the Reagan commander and get up to speed. Sorry I wasn’t here for the briefing.”

“That’s okay,” the president said. “But if I’m going to chair this status meeting tomorrow, I’m going to need you to fill in for me.”

“Fill in, sir?”

“I have three campaign stops scheduled in Chicago and Milwaukee for tomorrow,” the president said. “I’ll stay in Washington, get the update, and brief the Press Corps myself on what happened and what we know. I’ll have you fill in for me in Wisconsin, then we’ll blow the doors off the place by appearing together in Chicago.” He nodded to his chief of staff. “Set it up, will you, Walter? I’m heading back upstairs. Good night, all. Thank you.”

The president, chief of staff, and national security adviser departed the Oval Office, leaving Ken Phoenix by himself. He stood motionless for several long moments; then, as if accepting an unwelcome fate he had seen coming for quite some time, he went over to the president’s desk and picked up the phone. “This is the vice president,” he spoke. “Get me President Truznyev of Russia immediately.”

 

The president and chief of staff strode through the outer office of the West Wing, heading for the stairs to the residence. As they passed the chief secretary’s desk, she put her phone on hold and called out, “Excuse me, Mr. Kordus?”

He stopped and looked quizzically at her. President Gardner called out over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you upstairs, Walter,” and continued on with a wave of his hand.

Kordus went back to the receptionist. “What?” he asked impatiently.

“Sir, the vice president is still in the Oval Office,” she said, “and he just asked to speak with the president of Russia!”

Kordus’s face went blank, and then his mouth dropped open in shock. “Call the president, now, and cancel Phoenix’s request to talk with Truznyev!” he shouted, running back to the Oval Office.

 

President Gardner strode into the Oval Office a few minutes later, finding the vice president and Chief of Staff Walter Kordus standing next to the president’s desk. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked. “What are you still doing here, Ken?”

“The vice president put in a call to President Truznyev from the Oval Office, sir,” Kordus said. “I canceled it.”

“What?” Gardner thundered. “You asked to speak with the president of Russia, without my permission, from my office? Are you insane, Ken? That’s a criminal offense! You can be impeached for that! What—”

The phone rang, and Kordus picked it up. “Yes…? Oh, Christ…” He put the call on hold and turned to Gardner. “President Truznyev. Wants to know why the vice president called him and then canceled the call.”

“Tell him it was a mistake.”

“Insists on talking to you, sir.”

Gardner’s furious eyes impaled Phoenix with burning lances of anger, and he snatched the phone out of Kordus’s hand and hit the “CALL” button. “President Truznyev? President Gardner here…it was a mistake, Mr. President, a miscommunication…no, it was not some sort of tactic…yes, I mean to find out right now.” He put the call on hold again. “Well, Phoenix? What the hell were you going to talk with Truznyev about?”

“I was going to tell him that we know about the netrusion activity from Socotra Island that damaged a Kingfisher satellite,” the vice president said.

“Dammit, Phoenix, I told you I was going to confront him with that tomorrow…!”

“I was also going to tell him that we know the Russian military intelligence bureau captured the operative that planted the sensor that discovered the netrusion activity,” Phoenix went on, calmly and very matter-of-factly, “and I was going to warn him that if he didn’t release the operative, the bomber crewmembers, and the Navy rescue swimmer that he captured today immediately, certain powerful nongovernmental groups were going to start destroying Russian bases and ships around the world.”

“What the hell did you say?” Gardner shouted.

“I was also going to tell him that we know he has been conspiring with Premier Zhou of China to neutralize American space and seaborne military systems,” Phoenix went on, “and similar attacks would commence against Chinese assets.”

“Are you insane, Phoenix…?” Gardner shouted. “He’s not going to believe any of this. I don’t believe any of this!”

“It’s true, sir,” Phoenix said. “You can explain it to him, or I can.” He held out his hand for the phone.

Gardner gaped in astonishment, first at Phoenix, then at Kordus, then at the phone, then numbly handed the phone to his vice president. “I can’t friggin’ wait to hear this,” he murmured.

Phoenix took the phone and pressed the “CALL” button. “President Truznyev? This is Vice President Kenneth Phoenix,” he said. “As I just explained to President Gardner, I know about the netrusion attacks against our Kingfisher satellites, the Chinese antisatellite-missile attacks, and Russia shooting down an unarmed rescue helicopter and capturing the bomber crew and rescue swimmer…no, don’t bother denying it, sir, it won’t matter.

“I told the president that I am in contact with certain powerful nongovernmental groups that demand you release the captives immediately,” he went on. He listened for a moment, then interjected: “Sir, I’m not here to debate the matter. This group is already on the move. The first attack will be against the space tracking site on Socotra Island. The entire facility will be destroyed in”—he glanced at his watch—“well, any moment now. The second attack will occur shortly thereafter against your marine detachment in Aden. The third attack will be against the aircraft carrier Putin in the Gulf of Aden and its escort ships. The attacks will continue until the captives arrive unharmed at the American embassy in Sana’a.”

Phoenix listened for a moment to the translator’s words. At that moment Kordus’s cellular phone rang, and he answered it. “President Truznyev, this is not a joke,” Phoenix said. “The group is not under anyone’s control here in the White House, I assure you, including myself…yes, sir, I do know the leader’s name.” Gardner’s eyes grew wide. “His name…is Patrick S. McLanahan.”

“McLanahan…?”

“Sir, the consulate in Aden reports a massive ground attack at the harbor,” Kordus said excitedly. “They are saying those manned robots, the Cybernetic Infantry Devices, are tearing the Russian marine detachment facility to pieces! And AFRICOM is reporting a massive air attack near the airport on Socotra Island! The place is getting plastered!”

“We have just been advised that the attacks are under way in Yemen, Mr. President,” Phoenix said on the phone. “I would get those captives to the embassy right away before your aircraft carrier is hit.” He paused to listen, then said, “I’m just a messenger here, sir—I have no control over retired general McLanahan.”

Phoenix listened again, then looked directly at President Gardner, put on a slight smile, and said, “No…no, sir, I don’t have a responsibility to stop this, because…I hereby resign as vice president of the United States. I have a duty to uphold the Constitution of the United States and perform my duties under the law, and I find I cannot do either for this president, so I have resigned.” He pulled a letter out of a jacket pocket and dropped it on President Gardner’s desk. “Good day, Mr. President.” And with that, Kenneth Phoenix hung up the phone and walked out of the Oval Office without another word.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

JANUARY 2013

“You are going to be there, aren’t you, Patrick?” Ken Phoenix asked. He was in a limousine driving down Pennsylvania Avenue heading toward Constitution Avenue in the nation’s capital on a surprisingly temperate January morning, talking on a secure cell phone, holding his wife’s hand, his two children watching the sights of the capital from the front of the passenger compartment. “You said you would.”

“I said I might, sir,” Patrick McLanahan corrected him. “But we looked at the situation and decided against it. Sorry. Besides, I think I’m the last guy you’d want to be seen with right now.”

“Nonsense…but I understand,” Phoenix said. “You did say you’d try. How’s Gia?”

“Out of the hospital and right here with me,” Patrick replied.

“And Macomber?”

“Still in the hospital, but if he doesn’t leave the nurses alone, they’re likely to toss him out no matter what the doctors say.”

“Still wish you could be here for this thing, General,” Phoenix said.

“It wasn’t going to happen,” Patrick said. “The last thing anyone expected was for Truznyev to go public with the whole thing. I became public enemy number one in an instant. President Gardner had no choice but to indict me.”

“It’s going nowhere, believe me,” Phoenix said. “We’ve got the best defense attorneys waiting in the wings, but their services won’t be needed.”

“We’ll see.”

“In the meantime, not a hell of a lot else has changed,” Phoenix went on. “China has practically taken over Somalia—they’ve made a basing deal with the northern Somali province of Puntland to improve port facilities on the Gulf of Aden in exchange for missile-basing rights. Both Russia and China are building aircraft carriers like crazy. Russia stopped supporting resupply missions to the International Space Station and are resupplying the Chinese Tiangong military space station instead. Allies are either arguing with us or turning their backs. It’s a mess. And I don’t have my favorite general by my side advising me.”

“I’ll always be there, sir,” Patrick said.

“But you should be where you deserve to be—right up there with me,” Phoenix said.

“I thought about it and talked it over with Gia for a long time,” Patrick said, “and we decided what I knew all along: I’m just not a politician. I couldn’t make it as a lobbyist, private military contractor, defense-contractor exec, or industry advocate either. I guess I’ll always be just a flyboy.”

“You’re a leader, that’s what you are, my friend,” Phoenix said. “Always will be. That’s what we need in Washington.”

“I don’t know, sir. Lots of fun things happening at Sky Masters again, and my son likes his school.”

“I know, Patrick,” Phoenix said. “But Bradley is a tough Air Force brat, and Washington is good for kids. I have a feeling you’ll be back soon. When things settle down, let’s sit down and talk.”

“Roger that, sir,” Patrick said. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks, Patrick. You take care, General. See you soon.” And he hung up.

A short time later, the limousine arrived at the East Portico of the Capitol Building, amid tight security keeping back thousands of cheering onlookers. Phoenix and his family were met by Dr. Ann Page, and they embraced, which only energized the crowd even more. “You ready to do this thing, Madam Vice President?” Phoenix asked.

“You bet I am, Mr. President,” Ann replied. “Let’s do it.” Taking each other’s hand, with Phoenix taking his wife’s hand and Ann taking Phoenix’s daughter’s hand, they ascended the east steps of the Capitol.

Once through the Columbus Doors and into the Rotunda, they met with several of the distinguished guests who would be in attendance for the oath of office on the West Portico of the Capitol: several former defense secretaries and chiefs of staff, plus former vice president Les Busick and former presidents Thomas Thorn and Kevin Martindale and their families. After they greeted each other, they proceeded across the Rotunda to the West Portico.

Ann embraced Ken one last time before she walked out. “I’m so scared,” she admitted as they embraced.

“I am, too, Ann,” Ken said. “But we’re it now.”

She stepped back and smiled. “Damn right we are, Mr. President,” she said. “Damn right.”

Phoenix took his wife’s and son’s hands while his wife held their daughter’s, and they waited for their cue to emerge onto the West Portico. They could hear the roaring crowd outside and feel the unusual January warmth through the doors.

Holy God help me, he thought as he smiled at the sunshine and listened to the cheering crowd…I’m it.

HENDERSON, NEVADA

THAT SAME TIME

Patrick McLanahan put his arm around Gia, and she snuggled closer to him—until he tightened his arm too much across her back, causing her to wince in pain. “Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “Didn’t mean it. Still sore, huh?”

“That’s okay, lover,” Gia Cazzotta said. She snuggled closer, and he kept his arm safely on the back of the couch. Patrick’s son, Bradley, looked over at his dad’s girlfriend in concern. “That was Ken?”

“Yes.” They were watching the inauguration of Kenneth Phoenix on television from McLanahan’s condo south of Las Vegas. “He still wants me in Washington.”

“You just talked with the new president, Dad?” Bradley asked.

“Yep.”

“Cool.”

“He wants to talk about going back to Washington, Brad,” Patrick said. “How about it? Feel like going back to Washington again for a while?”

“I don’t know, Dad,” Bradley said. “I’ll be on the varsity squad next year, and…and…”

“You forgot about Heather, Dad,” Gia reminded him with a smile.

“Who?”

“Dad…”

“The cheerleader?”

“No!”

“That was last month, Patrick,” Gia said.

“She’s my lab partner,” Bradley said. “We’re building that telescope. Remember? Can we leave after the school year’s out?”

“We’ll talk about it,” Patrick said.

At that moment Central Intelligence Agency senior scientific programs analyst Timothy Dobson came into the room, his face wearing a smile but his body language saying otherwise. “Hey, Timothy,” Gia greeted him, “come to watch the inauguration with us?”

“Sure,” Dobson said.

But Patrick studied his face and immediately got up and walked him into the kitchen. “What’s up, Tim?” he asked.

“The FBI picked up on another team that came through McCarran International today,” the CIA assistant director said in a low voice. “Both Ukrainian nationals. Registered in the consulate as employment and training consultants for the Ukrainian government, but verified by the CIA as Russian Federal Security Bureau agents. It’s the second team to come through this area in a week.” Patrick looked over at his son with Gia, enjoying the pageantry of a presidential inauguration. “I’m sorry, General, but the Agency says it’s a high probability you’ve been targeted by the FSB. We’ve got to relocate you.”

“When?”

Dobson took in a long breath, then let it out quickly and said, “Yesterday, sir.” He saw Patrick’s shoulders slump. “President Phoenix has been advised, and he’d be as pleased as punch if you came back to the Washington area. President Martindale wants to meet with you, too. He says he’ll set you up any way you want.”

Now Patrick realized what Phoenix had meant by “I have a feeling you’ll be back soon”—he’d already had the briefing and was suggesting an alternate home. As much as Patrick thought he knew the inner workings of Washington, he reminded himself, he found he actually knew very, very little.

Just as Ann Page was beginning to recite the oath of office, Patrick came back into the living room and pressed the “MUTE” button on the TV remote. Gia and Bradley turned to him, but they both looked at his worried face and didn’t say a word.

“We have to talk about the move, guys,” Patrick McLanahan said somberly. “We have to talk.”