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Wellington Farnsworth put in a superhuman effort over the weekend, staying up nearly all night on Sunday to finish the complaint. Wyatt made a note to give the young man a raise. The lawsuit spanned 102 pages and asked for $30 million in damages. Wyatt wanted to ask for more, but Kristen had put her foot down.

The complaint contained lots of speculation and paragraphs that began with the magical words “Upon information and belief,” a lawyer’s way of saying that he didn’t know whether the information was necessarily true but he had to allege it for a good lawsuit.

Wyatt carried the thick document to the federal court building in downtown Norfolk himself. Because the case accused the president of wrongdoing and involved the greatest disaster for American Special Forces in modern history, he knew there would be plenty of media interest. He had alerted the local press that he was filing the case and would have a few comments on the courthouse steps. When you don’t have a traditional office, you have to improvise.

He wore his best gray pin-striped suit and red power tie. He had stuffed his briefcase full of extra copies so he could hand them out to the local reporters. He filed the suit early in the afternoon so they would have plenty of time to get their stories together for the evening news.

He emerged from the courthouse to a bank of microphones and at least a dozen reporters. He began by talking about Kristen and Troy Anderson and the brave men from SEAL Team Six. It pained him to file this lawsuit, he explained, but he had learned disturbing information from reliable sources that the SEAL team’s mission had been compromised before it began. Worse yet, he had learned—upon information and belief—that the president’s chief of staff knew the mission had been compromised and had conveyed that information to the president herself. Troy Anderson’s family deserved answers, and Wyatt Jackson was going to get them some.

He took questions for a few minutes, but he wanted to save the good stuff for the national news. He had included a picture of the meeting between Marcano and Kilpatrick in the lawsuit but had held back the video. Wellington was on the phone with the big networks in New York at that very moment. The young associate promised to send them electronic copies of the complaint and, if they agreed to interview Wyatt Jackson the next morning, a video of the park-bench meeting. They could get their own experts to read the lips of Philip Kilpatrick.

The plan worked to perfection, and the next morning Wyatt Jackson was making the rounds on the cable networks and morning shows in New York City. Predictably, the news had exploded the prior night, and legal experts were already predicting the lawsuit would be quickly tossed. But when the morning hosts confronted Wyatt with those predictions, he had a surprise for them. The Feres Doctrine didn’t apply, according to Wyatt, because the SEAL team actually hadn’t been working for the Navy at the time of the mission. That’s right, they had been “sheep-dipped” by the CIA. They were civilians, not members of the military.

And once the networks started showing the video, the merits of the suit were no longer the center of public debate. Everybody had an opinion on what Philip Kilpatrick said or didn’t say. Everybody also had an opinion on why the wily Marcano kept his hand over his mouth. Soon the press corps was descending on the White House, demanding a comment.

Wyatt Jackson took an early-evening flight back to Norfolk with a smug half smile on his face. He was sixty-five years old. He would probably never have another case like this. He might not win, but he was sure going to have fun trying.

Philip Kilpatrick learned about the case on Air Force One. He printed two copies of the entire complaint and huddled with the president at thirty thousand feet to review it. It contained mostly conjecture and speculation and paragraphs that began, “Upon information and belief.” Kilpatrick had been around the block a time or two, and the president had seen her fair share of lawsuits, but neither of them had heard of Wyatt Jackson. The whole thing had the stench of an ambulance chaser trying to get lucky.

“What do we know about this lawyer?” the president asked. Pointedly, she had not used his name. He had not yet earned that much respect.

“Basically a solo practitioner. Criminal defense. Virginia Beach. Unorthodox trial lawyer who will say and do anything.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Amanda said. Kilpatrick knew what she meant. The big D.C. firms were predictable. But guys like Wyatt Jackson could be the legal equivalent of suicide bombers.

“Do you think one of those conservative crusader groups is behind him?” the president asked.

“Don’t know. I’ll do some research.”

The president set her copy of the lawsuit on the table in front of her with a sigh. She took off her reading glasses and placed them next to it. She never wore them in public, preferring contacts so that the good people of the United States would always remember she was the youngest president since JFK.

Kilpatrick could see the weariness in her eyes. This was day one of a four-day international excursion—first to Europe, then the Mideast. Allies had to be cajoled. Giant egos had to be massaged. Promises had to be made and explanations given for those that had not been kept. The president hated trips like this.

“You’ll have to take care of this, Philip,” she said. “We won’t be able to talk about it. If the case ever makes it to trial, which is highly unlikely, they’d be able to ask about any of our conversations. We don’t have attorney-client privilege, you know.”

“I can handle it,” Philip assured her.

The president looked out the window for a second and then blew out a breath. This lawsuit was not in the plans. “Do you think this story has legs?”

“I’ll call Dylan Pierce. He’ll file a motion to dismiss. It’ll be gone at the first hearing. You’ve got immunity, and we’ve got the Feres Doctrine to fall back on. Plus, we’ll plead national security and say the courts shouldn’t pry into these matters.”

“I know all that. But we need this thing to die quickly. We can’t wait two months for a court ruling. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

The whole conversation had a familiar ring to it. Take care of it, Philip. Do the impossible, Philip. Make it go away.

“We’ll need to issue a firm denial,” Philip said. “We’ll be careful in the wording so it doesn’t look like we’re taking a shot at the widow of the SEAL who filed this thing. We’ll reaffirm how much you love the military and how you would never send men into harm’s way knowing that they weren’t going to make it out. You’ll have to be ready to take questions at the press conference in London tomorrow night.”

“I know,” the president said. She sounded more determined now. Nothing about this job was easy. “I heard this guy left behind a wife and two little boys. Is that right?”

“Yeah. It was the Anderson family.”

“I remember them,” the president said, looking out the window. There was a wistfulness in her voice. “Cutest little boys.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Philip said.

The president turned back to him. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

If Philip Kilpatrick was good at one thing, it was opposition research. His team was the best in the business at digging up dirt on campaign opponents. So after he called Dylan Pierce and hired Washington’s most expensive law firm, he called his opposition research team. They had two assignments—first Wyatt Jackson, then Troy Anderson.

Philip googled Jackson and knew his boys would have fun with this guy. By the time Air Force One landed, his team would have enough dirt to bury the man twice over. A divorced defense lawyer with a checkered legal career who liked to push the envelope on ethics. It would be, in the parlance of the military, a target-rich environment.