SAMUEL COX SAT behind a desk in a cramped West Wing basement office, signing a letter. Though a brigadier general, Cox almost never wore a uniform. He was Hayes’s handler and a special adviser to the secretary of defense. He had no formal portfolio, and his real job wasn’t on any org chart: he made problems go away. It was in that capacity that he had come to serve as the link between Hayes and the command.
He had borrowed this office, down the hall from the Situation Room, to help coordinate the rescue of Hayes and the other men. He had been working nonstop for twenty-four hours and was waiting for a callback from the CIA station chief in Islamabad.
He looked at the personnel photo of a smiling Army Ranger, twenty-four years old, who had died in North Africa the week before on a classified mission against human traffickers that Cox had helped run through the Joint Special Operations Command. He put the photo to the side, then took off his glasses and placed the signed letter in his outbox. It was addressed to the man’s wife, the next of kin. Cox always wrote them himself. He could offer no details, only his grief, and he knew that wasn’t worth much.
As he shut the file folder, a man with close-cropped silver hair stuck his head in the doorway. Cox stood.
“Any word on our guys, Sam?”
“We got the recon team out of Pakistan, sir. It’s all deniable. Sanders is still in surgery. Burke will live. Probably never see again. Hayes is still missing.”
Cox checked his watch. Hayes had been out there for nearly twenty-six hours. Most men would be dead from exposure after one night in those mountains.
“Have you called the family?”
“I know the wife. We gave her word that he’ll be out longer than we expected. But she doesn’t know anything about the mission. There’s no sense in worrying her any further until we know if he’s alive or dead.”
“Whatever you decide. I’m going to the residence. Let me know if anything changes.”
“I will, sir. Is Elizabeth back from school?”
“Yes. She’s upstairs. Cramming for finals.”
“Give her my best.”
“Do you want to come up for dinner?”
Cox looked at the phone. He had work to do here.
“Of course.” The visitor turned and started up the steps to the main hallway through the West Wing.
Cox could hear the Marine guard at the top of the stairs. “Good evening, Mr. President,” echoed down the marble hall as Cox seated his glasses back on his nose and dialed up the regional Joint Special Operations commander for Afghanistan and Pakistan.