5

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Hiram Vickers winced as the bullet was slowly pulled from his upper right calf. He hissed as the old doctor removed the insulting object from his body. He was lying on a gurney in a shabby office of a man he had only sent people to for injuries—never, ever his own.

“Aw, come on now,” the old doctor said in German-accented English. “It barely qualifies as a flesh wound. I’ve done worse to myself with a—”

“Shut the fuck up and keep your witticisms to yourself. Can I travel without too much discomfort?”

The doctor allowed the misshapen bullet to fall free of the clamp and Vickers heard the ting of the bullet as it hit the stainless steel bowl. He then placed a gauze bandage over the wound and started to tape it.

“As I said, it was nothing more than a flesh wound. It barely hit the muscle. If you can withstand a little discomfort I’m sure aspirin will cover it.”

Vickers eyed the man and was about to comment on the doctor’s opinion of his pain threshold when his cell phone chimed. He cursed when he saw the secure number displayed. He pushed the old doctor away and answered it.

“You son of a bitch, do you think this is going to stand?” he said angrily into the phone.

“You brought this down on yourself. You gave us no choice in deciding your fate, and you knew going in that if your dirty tricks and acquisitions department became public knowledge you would do what needed to be done. You didn’t do what was expected, so your retirement was determined to be essential. As I said, you brought it on yourself, and unless you have a plan that will make the president of the United States forgive and forget, some sort of leverage, you will be the most hunted man in the country. The FBI has already tagged you for the murder of four men at your apartment. Believe me, if I were you I would handle my retirement myself and not allow Jack Collins to do it for you. And you know that you can’t go and turn yourself in—we can get to you anywhere.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Peachtree, if you don’t help me get the hell out of here I will do something that will not only ensure that I hang, but you and several others will also.”

“You have nothing on either me or Speaker of the House Camden. You started the department and you are the one that went rogue on us and killed two American citizens, and agency people at that. No, I think the best way out for you and your family name is to do the retirement ceremonies yourself. Or your very own Black Teams will hunt you down and do the retirement in a most brutal manner—their way.”

“Listen to me, I will—”

Vickers cursed when he realized he was speaking into a severed connection. He closed the cell phone, then looked at the doctor, who was wiping his hands on a towel and looking his way.

“Find something funny in that?” he asked as he slowly slid from the table.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s not often that I treat a dead man. May I suggest you run for your life?” He smiled as he started to turn for the door.

Vickers angrily reached into his coat, pulled out the .32 automatic, and fired six times into the old doctor’s back. He limped over to the fallen man as he rolled over.

“Still find it funny?” he asked, and fired two more times into the upturned face.

Vickers turned and rummaged in the medicine cabinet until he found some pain medication, then quickly swallowed three pills. He reached out with his good leg and kicked the doctor’s head to remove the staring and blank eyes from him. He shook his head as he realized that the entire law enforcement community of the planet would be looking for him. He knew he needed leverage, the likes of which would sway the president into not proceeding with his retirement. He stepped around the murdered doctor and faced the far wall.

“I’ll bring you all down before this is over,” he said as he leaned his head against a large wall map of the United States. He knew he was a lost man as he took a deep breath and straightened. His eyes fell on the map and then they strayed to the western part of the United States. They centered on the southern portion of the multicolored map and he slowly started to smile, feeling better almost immediately with the sudden burst of inspiration. He stepped back and looked at the map and his smile grew. He knew he had found his get-out-of-jail-free card. His hand reached out and slapped the area he was staring at. He smiled at the streak of blood he left on the spot. He then turned away and left the dilapidated office building, exiting Washington for the last time.

On the wall map there was a blotch of red blood smearing the small town in Arizona that would see Vickers free of his dilemma: Chato’s Crawl—the home of the Matchstick Man.

USNS ALAN SHEPARD

UNITED STATES NAVAL SUPPLY VESSEL

The Alan Shepard rose on the twelve-foot swell and then rolled slightly to the starboard beam as her blunt but powerful nose fought free of the foam and sea that had so suddenly sprung to life around her. She went from a five-knot wind and light seas to having to take on ballast to keep her firmly placed in the water. Her captain leaned forward and peered through the wipers that tried in vain to keep her bridge windows clear. The swirling skies above were taking on a shape that the young captain didn’t like at all. He turned and looked toward his executive officer.

“I want damage control to standby near the ammunition lockers. This would be the time we find out that someone went slack on their loading procedures because no one was expecting this an hour ago.”

“Already done.” The exec reached for a control panel just as the Alan Shepard rolled again, this time to port. Lightning illuminated the interior of the bridge and many worried looks from her young crew were exchanged at the sudden appearance of the swirling storm.

“Captain, we’re starting to get a severe current slamming us from the starboard side. We’re having a hard time keeping course.”

“Maintain course, bring speed up to fifteen knots. I want to get out of this corkscrew. This is beginning to look like a typhoon.”

“I heard the North Sea was rough, but this is ridiculous,” the exec said as he finally gained control and steadied.

“Captain, you better look at this,” called out one of civilian load handlers. He was looking through binoculars and gesturing in the growing darkness of the raging storm. The captain grabbed a pair of glasses and turned to his second-in-command.

“Get a message off to South Hampton and warn them about this. They have to get word out to those deep-sea oil platforms—this thing could tear them apart. Message the Royal Navy that they may have a situation brewing out here.”

“Aye,” the exec replied and moved off to get the word out.

The captain quickly raised the glasses to his eyes as the Alan Shepard went deep into a trough of water that plunged her no less than a hundred feet down a steep waterfall of terror. She corrected and then her bow shot almost straight up. Lightning flashed and eyes flinched as they broke free to the surface once again.

“My God,” the captain said beneath his breath as he eyed the most amazing sight he had ever seen in the natural world—one he knew few had ever seen before. The clouds swirled in a clockwise motion high above them and thirty miles to the south. It looked as if it was a hurricane forming but the captain knew it was swirling far too perfectly. What he was seeing looked almost animated. The colors of blue, purple, green, and reds turned at an amazing speed. The sea directly beneath was churned up into a whirlpool that covered no less than ten miles of the North Sea. A giant wall of water was reaching up to touch the bottom of the tornado of light. The captain flinched and turned away when the windows were blotted out by a thousand streaks of lightning as they broke free of the swirling mass and struck out into the sky in all directions.

“Captain, sea temperature has risen by ten degrees, current winds approaching one hundred miles per hour!” The shout came as the captain regained his sight and once more looked out into the raging hurricane.

“Bring us hard to port—get us the hell out of here! All ahead flank!”

The large supply ship turned hard as the captain saw a sight that froze his blood. Far above and twenty miles away the great tornado of clouds, water, and Lord knew what else, slammed into the sea. The two met with a powerful explosion that sent the sea three miles into the sky, and that still was not enough to hide the terror of the mass of swirling light as it met the ocean. The captain turned away just as the bridge windows exploded in. He looked up and then his heart sank just as five objects of tremendous size exited the twirling tornado. The sound they made even broke through the passion of the raging winds—a deep base tuba that hurt the ears of men twenty miles away. Five times the excruciating noise broke through as the sound of the objects exiting the storm finally diminished and then was gone. The giant round structures then vanished into the eruption on the surface of the North Sea. They disappeared as fast as they had arrived and even then the captain truly wondered if he had seen them at all.

“God!” came a scream of terror as the Alan Shepard rolled hard to starboard as the rogue wave slammed into her. Men lost their grips and fell. Cargo meant for the USS Nimitz carrier battle group broke free and crushed many below decks, and still the giant supply ship rolled. A tremendous scream rent the air as the ship began her death roll.

Three minutes later the bottom keel broke the surface of the North Sea and the USNS Alan Shepard rolled lazily on the now-gentle surface. The sun gleamed off her red-painted underside as men started to bob to the surface of the cold sea one and two at a time. The storm had completely vanished as if it had never been there at all. There was only the debris of a once-proud supply ship that marked the graves of many a sailor.

UNIVERSITY OF APPLIED SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

BIRJAND, IRAN

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad looked on angrily from behind the protective three-foot glass wall as technicians raced to put out the fire that blazed at the base of the alien power plant. General Hassan Yazdi was standing beside him and too saw the debacle that the final test had turned out to be. He felt the anger rolling off of Ahmadinejad in waves. The ex-president reached out and struck the intercom button with a closed fist.

“Turn off that cursed alarm,” he said over the intermittent beeping of the fire warning system. He waited as the alarm was finally silenced. He turned to the general. “As if these incompetents couldn’t realize on their own that they had a fire, they had to be warned?” He shook his head as he watched the fire being brought under control. “How does the placement of your men progress?”

“The First Guards Division is entrenched outside of Tehran, and the Third Guards are at this very moment approaching the holy city of Qom. We will have no trouble from the clerics—nor, dare I say, the ayatollahs. The bulk of the men believe they will be preventing a coup, not initiating one. Once the president falls, the religious right will fall in line with the plan, especially since it will be too late to stop it.” He looked into the dark eyes of the smaller man. “That is if this infernal device works correctly and the target actually is struck.”

Ahmadinejad remained stoic as he held the general’s eyes. “That is something we shall see about right now.”

As the two men watched a large glass doorway parted and the lead physicist stepped out. The giant, round, mostly glass and strange steel power plant was still and dark behind him as other technicians scrambled on and over it. The man used a white towel to wipe his hands. He angrily removed the white lab coat he was wearing and tossed it aside. He rummaged in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes. He caught himself just before he lit up and looked at the dark eyes staring at him. He cleared his throat and apologized, then placed both cigarette and lighter back into his pocket.

“Well, what happened to the test?” Ahmadinejad asked, still eyeing the bald man.

“We had a power spike from the blasted power plant itself.”

The two men just stared at the physicist.

“The power we were supplying it was too much; the damn thing seems to be correcting its output on its own. The technical advancement of this engine is so far beyond our understanding. It’s like it is healing itself after being inactive for so long. It’s actually correcting the adjustments we had made to it.”

“Talk straight, man,” Ahmadinejad said angrily.

“It has made an adjustment entirely on its own that actually made it more efficient. It went out of control momentarily and didn’t target anything on this planet. There was no ground strike, it just dissipated into space … we assume.”

“Will the machine work in the manner we need it to?” Yazdi asked. “I have half a million men with their lives hanging in the balance if it doesn’t work, you fool.”

“Oh, yes, yes, very much so,” the man said, wishing for a cigarette in the worst way. “We now know what to look for and will prevent the power plant from spiking. We’ll adjust our input of power to compensate for what the engine provides.”

“Will it work?” Ahmadinejad asked as he leaned forward into the scientist’s face.

“Yes, the targeting will be accurate to the foot.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad finally dipped his head. He turned and faced the general. “Make final preparations to eliminate the key government personnel we have selected—seal the capital off, General.”

The taller man came to attention as the once and now future president of Iran turned to the shaking physicist.

“Correct your machine and make it operational within the hour. No more delays.”

“Yes, sir,” the man shakily answered.

“A complete strike package will be delivered to you in one hour. Target: Tel Aviv.”

SSN SUFFREN

NORTH SEA

The boat was new. She was on her third shakedown cruise deep in the North Sea as the French navy unveiled its latest attack submarine: the Barracuda-class Suffren. Her design and construction had been done in secret and the French people had been shocked when news leaked of the Barracuda class of boats. Protests from Paris to Toulon took up every available minute of news time on television. The anger stemmed from the program’s prohibitive cost, for the six new boats of the Barracuda class would cost the people of France eight billion Euros—roughly twelve billion dollars. The citizens could not grasp the need for such an expensive weapons platform when the world—so it was thought—was drawing down from the war on terror. It seemed to the French nation that military spending was on the rise just as it was in other countries. Every western nation along with China was trying to quietly bring on new and expensive weapons platforms for no apparent reason or perceived threat. Riots in every western nation soon followed the discovery of new weapons programs that no nation on earth could possibly afford after the costly war on terror. The anger stemmed from not having a justification for the buildup.

Captain Jean Arnaud, a veteran of every class of submarine the French navy had produced since the end of the Cold War, sat at his elevated station just above the navigation console. Arnaud was close to his retirement from the sea and was preparing to drive a desk after the Suffren had been thoroughly put through the ringer on this, the last of her shakedown cruises.

As he looked around the silent control room he wondered if the protests back home would eventually shut the most expensive naval program in the history of France down before the second boat, the Duguay-Trouin, could be launched early next year. He shook his head in wonder at the way civilians thought. He knew the program was needed, but he had to admit that in this day and age it was hard to justify the expense of such a massive weapons system when the terrorists of the world were on the run and the old Soviet Union didn’t exist. As far as the Chinese went, they had been silent for the past four years on anything concerning their military. Rumors of a massive Chinese buildup could be the force factor in the West’s rearming.

At the moment the Suffren was running a standard station-keeping drill in the thermal cline a thousand feet below the surface of the roiling North Sea. If the new boat could keep still at the thermal cline—which was a layer of current that separated deep water from shallow and had varying degrees of current and temperature—her shakedown would be complete. Thus far the Suffren had not moved three feet in either direction. Her thrusters kept her nearly motionless in the dark waters as the rough current tried to push her first one way, and then the other.

“Very nice. Enter the specs into the computer along with the time and note it. Gentlemen, let’s bring her up to five hundred feet at a bearing of 237 … let’s take her home.”

He saw the relief on the faces of the young French sailors as the order was given and the shakedown was officially closed. The Suffren had passed all of her tests. Even his officers were relieved to learn they were headed back to L’Ile Longue submarine base.

“Sonar, do you have anything in the vicinity?”

“Conn, sonar, no close-aboard surface contacts and nothing below.”

The captain nodded his head and then started to relax.

“Five hundred feet and zero bubble, Captain.”

Arnaud heard the chief and smiled. “Gentlemen, push the fish out of the way and let’s get back home with our newest fleet boat. Watch commander, all head two-thirds.”

“All ahead, two-thirds, aye, Captain.”

The Suffren and her new power plant pushed her silently and efficiently through the frigid waters of the North Sea.

HMS AMBUSH

TWENTY-SEVEN NAUTICAL MILES EAST OF SUFFREN

The French navy was not the only nation in Europe with the latest in attack submarines. The Royal Navy was in the middle of producing its own—the Astute-class submarines would lead the empire into a future of subsurface warfare that was on a par with the United States and her Virginia-class line of superboats. The Ambush was the second keel to have been laid down at the shipyard and her crew was well aware that theirs was the leading class of attack boat in the entirety of the Royal Navy.

“It looks as if our French friends may be satisfied. It seems they are headed home, Captain.”

Captain Miles Von Muller took the report from the sonar officer, examined it, and handed it back.

“I see old Arnaud worked out the station-keeping problem they had with their thrusters.”

“Yes, sir,” Von Muller’s first officer, or number one, said as he folded the report. “It looks as though the Marine Nationale have a keeper on their hands.”

Von Muller nodded his head. “For now we’ll await them to egress from the North Sea. Then we’ll come shallow and report to the admiralty that the Suffren is now a viable asset for our friends across the channel.”

“Aye, Captain,” the first officer answered.

Von Muller started to rise from his chair. “Until then, match speed and course and let’s follow Suffren a while, and collect what we can from her power plant noises. Keep her at fifteen knots and three hundred in depth. Let’s stay above the thermal cline for the moment.” He smiled, “No sense in letting our friends know we’re near and interested.”

“Very good, Captain.”

“I think I’ll take some tea and settle in for a while. You have the conn, Number One.”

“Number One has the conn.”

Von Muller started to move aft, patting men on their shoulder and nodding his head in thanks at their performance.

“Conn, sonar, we have a light contact bearing two-three-seven. Contact is intermittent at this time.”

The captain immediately stopped and looked back at his first officer. He watched the man take the 1MC mic from its stanchion.

“What do you mean intermittent?” The first officer thought a moment and then clicked the mic to life once more. “Either the Suffren is there or it’s not.”

“Sir, this is not the Suffren. The Frenchies are slowing to five knots. I think they see and hear the same thing we are.”

The captain strode quickly back into the control room and nodded his head, indicating that he would take it from there—his tea would wait.

“Captain has the conn,” his first officer said as he turned and sped for the sonar shack.

“All stop, quick quiet,” came Von Muller’s order.

“Captain, sonar,” his first officer called from the aft compartment, where the Thales Underwater Systems Sonar 2076 was located. The Thales system was the newest and latest in British technology and the men were well aware of its sensibilities. If she said there was something out there you could bet your mother’s pension check that there was indeed something in the tree line. They all felt the massive submarine decelerate as she came to a full stop. “I believe we have a contact two kilometers to the south. It comes shallow and then goes deep. We have a hard time tracking her below the layer. Captain, there is something out there.”

“Americans?” the chief of the boat asked the captain in a low tone.

“No, the Americans know the way the game is played. They bloody well invented shakedown tracking. They have other things to concern themselves with in the South China Sea, with the Koreans. This is something else. What is the Suffren doing?”

SSN SUFFREN

Arnaud had ordered all stop as his sonar was below the thermal cline and thus had much better information than their British counterpart. They could see the object at one half mile away holding perfect zero-bubble station—as if it were waiting. Arnaud noticed that the target was sitting right in the middle of the swiftest current in the North Sea and she refused to budge one inch in any direction, up, down, sideways, or backward—the object was anchored like a rock at six hundred feet.

“What are the dimensions?” Arnaud asked as he leaned over the operator’s shoulder to see the multicolored waterfall display on the screen.

“We may be having an issue here, sir. We think it may be as much as six hundred feet…” The young operator paused. “In diameter, Captain.”

“Diameter? You mean this thing is—”

“It’s round Captain. That is not a submarine. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a normal submersible.”

Captain Arnaud turned to face his second-in-command and leaned toward him, as he looked like a man wanting to say something. “What are you thinking?”

“The alert we received from Fleet before leaving on our first shakedown last month. Any abnormal contacts beneath the surface are to be reported immediately when contact has been confirmed not to be a submarine.”

“We don’t even know that yet. We cannot report a partial contact no matter what mysterious orders we have from Fleet. We need—”

“Captain, contact is now active and it’s moving straight toward us at high speed,” the operator said.

“What is their speed?”

“No speed estimate at this time; the computer is having a hard time keeping up.”

“Bring the crew to battle stations, submerged.” Arnaud hurried back to the control room. “Weapons,” he called back to his first officer. “Load tubes one through four with war shots.”

“Aye, Captain, tubes one, two, three, and four with Sharks.”

The Black Shark, as the Italian-made torpedo was known, was a heavyweight in the world of submerged warfare. The fiber-optic-controlled weapon could speed out of the tubes at over fifty-five knots. She could punch a hole in most anything even without her powerful warhead detonating.

Arnaud entered the control room to face the uneasy faces around him.

“Range to target?” he asked as he studied the sea and its surroundings.

“Target aspect change, it’s now slowing, slowing … It’s stopped dead in the water again, Captain.”

“Stopped where, sonar?”

“One moment, conn … Conn, contact is at one hundred meters to our bow. Target is holding station.”

Arnaud looked to his first officer. “The goddamn thing is nose to nose with us. What in the hell are we dealing with here?”

“Captain, we are close enough to use the camera in the sail. Bring the exterior tower floodlights up and see if we can get a look at this thing.”

Arnaud nodded his head. “Weapons, standby, we may have to shoot from the hip.” He smiled in false levity for the benefit of his young crew. “As our American gunslinging friends might say.”

The lightness the captain displayed brought some uneasy smiles to the men manning their stations, but no real relief.

“Lights are up 100 percent, camera coming online.”

Most submarines of modern navies are equipped with cameras hidden behind high-pressured glass located in the tall sail structure. It was used for driving boats under the ice and close-in situations where radar and sonar could only give you numbers, while high definition and ambient light cameras gave you real-life viewing.

Captain Arnaud took a few steps toward the twenty-seven-inch monitor as the picture started to clear. The bright floodlights illuminated the bow of the new submarine, and through the bubbles rising from her steel, sound-absorbing skin Arnaud saw the object. His eyes widened and he looked at his first officer.

“Jesus Christ, what in the hell have we here?” Arnaud asked as curious eyes tried to get a glimpse of the thing blocking their way home. “Maneuvering, back us off to five hundred feet—dead slow.”

“Dead slow astern, aye.” And a few seconds later: “She’s answering two knots astern, Captain.”

They all felt the slight movement as the Suffren slowly eased back from the saucer-shaped object. Arnaud watched as the distance grew between the two very different vessels.

“Conn, sonar, target shows no aspect changes at this time. It’s not following.”

“Orders, Captain?”

“We already have our orders, Number One.” His eyes met those of his younger first officer. “Directly from Fleet at L’Ile Longue. I’m beginning to believe someone knows something very peculiar that they’re not telling us. Well, I guess that’s beside the point now, our orders are to report immediately so that’s just what we’ll do.”

“I assume those orders don’t include not defending ourselves if we have to?”

“Orders sometimes can be very ambiguous.” He smiled at his first officer. “Weapons officer, if that thing so much as blinks put four Sharks down its throat—I don’t care how close it is. Set your safeties on the fish accordingly.”

“Aye, Captain, fish are warmed and ready, safeties set to three hundred feet,” came the call over the overhead speaker.

Every sailor who heard the command knew that the distance was not far enough to avoid blasting open the hull of their own boat if the warheads detonated that close.

“Give me ten degrees up bubble—bring her up slow like she was made of glass, Number One. Periscope depth, please,” he said.

The hull pops and creaks meant the boat was slowly coming shallow.

“Standby radio room for flash traffic to fleet.”

“We can—”

The cannon fire from the saucer flashed three times and the bolts of blue-green light smashed into the sonar dome of the Suffren’s rounded bow. The heavy submarine rocked as its nose was blown free of the boat. Water cascaded into the forward spaces faster than anyone could react to close all hatches. The nose of Suffren went down and the French navy’s newest sub started heading for the bottom of the sea two miles below.

“All back full, blow ballast, blow everything! Weapons, match bearings and fire!” Arnaud called out as loudly as he could. Even with the noise of the fast-sinking warship the captain could feel the four successive jolts as the high-pressure air sent the four Shark torpedoes flying from their tubes. One of the fish caught on the wreckage of the bow and snagged but the other three raced to the target. The flying saucer moved down and the resulting wash of the sea broke the fiber-optic cables guiding the Shark torpedoes. The weapons spun off into three differing directions as the guidance to the Suffren was severed.

“Put the reactor into the red, we’re going down stern first. Full power!” Arnaud shouted. “We need—”

Another salvo of green-blue light struck the Suffren amidships as she spun counterclockwise in her race to the bottom. The cutting beams smashed into the sound-reducing hull and penetrated into the pressure vessel itself. Before anyone could scream, the Suffren came apart.

The fall of the French navy’s newest boat would take a full two hours to reach the bottom of the sea two point seven miles beneath the surface.

HMS AMBUSH

Captain Von Muller’s eyes widened as he listened to the recording of the attack. At least he was assuming it was an attack.

“Target is moving off at high speed, Captain.” The sonar operator looked up with an uneasiness he wasn’t accustomed to. “One hundred and twelve knots’ speed. Target is now off the scope.” They saw the sonar rating’s face go white.

The first officer looked from the operator and then leaned over to a switch on his console just as the sonar technician removed his headphones and lowered his head as the sounds of men dying came across the speakers. On the acoustic display and on the sound system inside the sonar room they heard the most horrible noises any submariner could ever hear while submerged. It was the bursting sound of twisting steel and clanging metal.

“Suffren’s bulkheads are collapsing. She’s breaking up.” The operator slowly shook his head as the sound of the French navy’s pride and joy died only a mile and a half away.

“My God, Number One,” Von Muller said as he hurriedly reached out and shut off the echoes from the audio separation mode. “What is the complement of their new boats?” he asked, fearful of the answer. Every man inside the control room could see it in his eyes.

“Forty-seven enlisted personnel and twelve officers.”

Von Muller felt his stomach lurch. He shook his head.

“Do we have a course bearing on the target?” He lowered his head and then nodded at his first officer to get to the radio room.

“Last aspect change had target heading north toward the ice pack.”

“Maneuvering, all ahead flank, take us shallow to fifty feet. Make ready to raise radio mast.”

The HMS Ambush was about to pass along a message the military forces of the world had been waiting to hear—the first shots in a new kind of war had been offered up. A war some had been planning for since 1947—people who knew exactly who the fight was against.

The Grays had arrived.

TOKYO AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL CENTER

EIGHT MILES NORTH OF TOKYO, JAPAN

The semi-darkened room seemed far quieter on the midnight-to-eight shift than third-year controller Oshi Yamamura was used to. The number of flights into Japan was virtually cut by a third in the early morning hours. He noticed some of the more experienced controllers actually had time enough on their hands to share conversations about their experiences, unlike the overtaxed men and women on the day and evening shifts. The atmosphere was light and easygoing and that was just what the young controller wanted.

Oshi’s shift supervisor stopped by his station and momentarily looked over the young man’s shoulder to examine the flights on his scope and their numbers.

“Ito is going to go on his break. Think you can handle a Continental heavy out of Honolulu?”

Yamamura smiled and nodded his head. The supervisor slid the flight and its info card into the slot just above his board. He patted the young man on the back and then made his way to the next controller to further divide the breaking man’s flight responsibilities.

“Korean Air 2786 to Tokyo Center, over,” the voice in his headphones said.

“Korean Air 2786, this is Tokyo Center, good evening.” The young dark-haired man answered confidently, making sure to speak loud enough that his supervisor could hear.

“Tokyo Center, we have traffic off our starboard wing, about two miles out and below our six. What do you have in that area? Over.”

Yamamura examined his scope and saw Korean Air at twenty-nine thousand feet on an easterly heading. The only other flights in the immediate area were a Nippon Air thirty-five miles south of the Korean flight and the Continental 747 he was just handed at twenty-six miles north of Korean Air.

“Korean Air, I have no traffic in your vicinity at this time, over.” He again examined his scope for something he might have missed. The sweep was clear except for his three immediate aircraft responsibilities. “We have the storm cell to your rear and clear skies with a twelve-knot tailwind; other than that we are clear on the scope. All other traffic is local and feet dry, nothing over water, over.”

“Tokyo Center, we are being paced by an aircraft with very bright anticollision lights and it’s less than two miles distant. The lights are brilliant. We have been observing aircraft since breaking into clear weather, over.”

Yamamura watched his scope but the sweep remained clear. He was almost at a loss for what to say. His supervisor came over and also examined his radar sweep and was satisfied the kid had missed nothing. He placed his clipboard down and then connected his headset with Yamamura’s console.

“Korean Air 2786 heavy,” the supervisor said as his eyes remained on the screen, studying the lone IFF designation of the Airbus A350 as it made its way toward Tokyo. “Come right to heading 314 and climb to 31,000, see if traffic remains on current course.”

“Roger Tokyo Center, come right to—”

The silence was sudden. Yamamura looked at the supervisor, who just clicked his mic twice. There was no problem on their end.

“Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006 heavy, we have a bright flash of light approximately twenty to thirty miles to our north, very high altitude, over.”

“Continental 006, wait one, please. Korean Air 2786, repeat last message. Korean Air, please report, we have—”

“Oh, God,” Yamamura said as he nudged his supervisor on the side and pointed at the scope just as the blinking symbol for Korean Air 2786 heavy went dark.

“Korean Air, do you copy? Over.”

“Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006, we have traffic to our immediate front and just above our position. Tell whoever that is to mind the rules of the road, we are—”

The Continental icon blinked three times and then it too went dark. The Boeing 747 just vanished.

“Continental 006, come in, over. Continental 006, say again.” The supervisor slapped Yamamura on the shoulder to get him out of the trance he was in. “Get Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa on the line and ask them if they have any traffic in the air that can report on what’s out there. They’re closer than we are.”

As they moved to get to the business of reporting downed aircraft, another of the controllers started talking loudly, trying to raise a commercial heavy, a Qantas 777 out of Anchorage, Alaska, as it too vanished thirty miles from the scene of the first two. All of this at 2:30 A.M. on a cloudless and moonlit night.

KADENA AIR FORCE BASE

OKINAWA, JAPAN

The two Japanese Air Self-Defense Force F-16 fighters lifted off on full afterburner just minutes after the call came in from Tokyo Center requesting assistance. The Fighting Falcons jumped into the air and instead of heading for their normal hot spot in the Sea of Japan and the hostile Korean Peninsula, they headed east toward the Pacific.

Lieutenant Colonel Naishi Tomai brought the venerable fighter’s nose up and climbed. As he did he had to think back to the very brief weather report from the base. Cloudless, it had said, but just as the thought came to him the F-16 along with his wingman rose into a heavier, darker mass of weather that seemed to be stationed over the sea at sixty miles. He knew he would never be able to see anything from that altitude so he nosed the fighter down, trying to ease the light aircraft into the sudden storm. He hoped his wingman was hugging him pretty close as they slowly came through the low clouds. It seemed the dark clouds held nothing but potholes as his small fighter was tossed up and down and side to side as he eased the Falcon through the rain and swirling winds of the storm.

The two F-16s broke free of the squall at eight thousand feet and that was when the lieutenant colonel could not believe the sight he was seeing far below on the surface of the sea. He unsnapped his oxygen mask and shook his head at the impossible view. Spread out on the ocean for hundreds of miles around was the wreckage of the three commercial aircraft. Three distinct spots on the sea eight thousand feet below. For the colonel it looked as if the waves had caught fire.

The attack that killed over seven hundred and twenty civilians had lasted less than thirty-two seconds from beginning to end.

CAMP DAVID

FREDERICK, MARYLAND

Jack, Carl, and Henri sat in a closed and windowless van that either had the air conditioner on the fritz or the four FBI agents watching over them wanted them to suffer for some reason or the other. The mess they left back in Georgetown was more than likely the reason. Farbeaux had listened to the two Americans speaking and tried his best to follow the complicated conversation they were having. Henri adjusted the handcuffs on his wrists.

“And the British, who were out in the middle of the Antarctic for who knows what reason,” Everett said, “found my watch buried in two-hundred-thousand-year-old ice? And this was the reasoning behind you leaving me out of the hunt for your sister’s killer? Just to keep us separated? Your blood on my watch, found at a level in the Antarctic ice that is over a hundred and eighty thousand years old.”

“That’s about it.” Jack glanced at the Frenchman, who acted as if he weren’t listening. “Now, as for the British, I know some parts of the Overlord plan, but not the main cog in the wheel. I’m beginning to think they found that watch during the excavation of something else under the ice.”

“That’s a little thin, Jack.” Everett also looked at Farbeaux, who only winked at the captain. “Niles has got to have more on this.”

Jack adjusted his hands so he could get some relief from the handcuffs on his wrists.

“I believe he does, but he, Matchstick, and Garrison Lee have been so tight-lipped about Overlord that they won’t let anyone in. I handled some troop reports and dispositions of war material for the plan, but after that, it’s like the Manhattan Project was reactivated.”

Carl just raised his brows when Matchstick and Lee were mentioned.

“As far as I can tell without butting my nose into secret stuff is that only a few people, mostly heads of state and their immediate military commanders, even know the word Overlord.”

“And?” Carl persisted.

“Well, I guess Matchstick says that no matter what we do to prevent you from being lost two hundred thousand years ago, it will more than likely cause you to be lost. He said you were too vital to Overlord.”

“So the little guy will just chuck my ass right under the proverbial bus to prevent us from changing the outcome?”

“I guess that’s the way it is. He says you may be the reason we win or lose the war.”

“It’s called a paradox, gentlemen. One cannot change the past, nor dare I say the future. Time and physics will make the changes so it comes out the way it was meant to be.”

Both Everett and Collins stared at the Frenchman as if he had just fallen from the Darwinian tree.

“So now we know the truth—you used to write for Star Trek or something, right?” Carl joked as the van’s sliding door flew open.

“The powers that be, Captain Everett, have deemed you expendable and no attempt is to be made to change the fact that your watch ends up two hundred thousand years in the past. I guess for whatever war that is approaching they need you doing what it was you were meant to do.”

“Henri, why don’t you take your theories and shove them right up your—”

“Gentlemen,” said one of the agents in a navy blue FBI Windbreaker, “please follow me. You will now be separated.”

Henri only smiled at the uncomfortable frame of mind he had put the navy man in. He winked at Everett as he was led to a black sedan only feet away.

“I hate that guy, Jack,” Carl said as he was led to a second car.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

*   *   *

Three separate vehicles moved slowly down the winding roadway. Jack Collins was in the backseat of the lead vehicle, driven by a healthy looking young Marine corporal. The guard next to him kept his eyes straight ahead and did not once look back at the career army officer. As they neared the front gate Jack saw the security team of five Marines awaiting their arrival. They all wore gray combat fatigues and all watched the three sedans intently as they approached.

As the rear door was opened for Collins he looked back and saw Carl and Henri step from their cars and look around. Carl knew exactly where they were. As for the French Army colonel, he looked at the secure surroundings and figured this was one of the nicer prison properties he had ever seen. He started to step toward the two other men but a burly Marine stepped in front of him. Another three Marines escorted Henri toward the back of the large wooden residence.

A Marine captain soon stepped from the house and walked down the pathway toward Jack and Carl. He was examining two photographs and then held up a small black box the two Event security men knew immediately. Collins and then Everett both held out their cuffed hands and their right thumbprints were taken and compared to Department of Defense records. The captain nodded his head and then gestured for his security team to disperse. He eyed first Collins and then the much larger Everett. His eyes settled on the blond man as he removed first Everett’s and then Jack’s handcuffs.

“You may not remember, Captain, but we served together once at Camp Pendleton.” He gestured for the captain and colonel to follow him toward the front of the less than ostentatious home.

“I’m sorry, Captain, it’s been a long day,” Everett said as he looked back at Jack.

The Marine captain paused at the double front doors. “It’s about to get a lot longer for you,” he said without a smile just as a two-and-a-half-ton truck pulled up to the front yard. Twenty Marines hopped down from its tarp-covered back. Jack looked at Carl as they both noticed the heavy ordance the squad of Marines carried. Collins raised his eyebrows when he saw the three men carrying the very heavy hellfire missile tubes.

“I take it you’re having trouble with the animal life around Frederick?” Carl asked, not really feeling comfortable with the small joke.

The captain looked back at the dispersing Marines as they vanished into the thickly lined tree-covered property. He ran an electronic keycard through the security lock and the door opened.

“I cannot comment on that aspect of security at the camp, gentlemen, not even as a professional courtesy.” He pushed the door opened and gestured for the two officers to enter. Jack held his place and looked at the young captain.

“What about our fri—” He paused in his description. “Our colleague. Where is he being taken?”

“That will be explained to you later, Colonel.” Jack and Carl looked up in time to see a very weary Niles Compton step into the foyer. “Until then, let’s just say the Marine security unit at Camp David becomes a little nervous when a known criminal enters the compound.” He nodded at the Marine captain until the man turned and with a dip of his head left the house. “And frankly our friend the colonel is not well liked by the president, especially after his miraculous escape from custody six months ago.” He looked sideways at Jack and Carl as he spoke. “So, after we talk maybe you can see Henri again, but not until a few things get out in the open.” Niles turned and walked down the hallway he had just exited. “Until then we have a meeting with a very angry and put-out president.”

Everett looked at Jack and raised his brows. “I probably chose a bad time to come home.”

Collins looked from Carl’s eyes to the watch he wore on his right wrist. He looked back and then just nodded his head. It probably was not the most opportune time to help Jack out with his personal problems.

They followed the director of Department 5656 into the bowels of the Camp David White House, eyed by even more menacing men, only these were the standard Secret Service team that always stayed close to the president. The men were serious looking. Jack and Carl immediately noticed that the agents all wore a sidearm fully exposed on their hips and every other agent carried a small briefcase that obviously held something far more lethal than a standard nine millimeter. They watched the two visitors very closely and that got the two Event Group men thinking that something in the equation had changed. They passed through a small living room where an agent stood beside the doorway and as they did they could hear the laughter of two small girls; when they walked by the two officers, both observant men, spied the first lady sitting on the carpeted floor playing with her two daughters. She looked up and met Jack’s eyes, and what he saw there made him worry even more. The first lady looked frightened.

Niles Compton opened a large door and stepped inside. When Carl and Jack followed they saw a sight that was reminiscent of the old photos from the war that depicted President Roosevelt sitting at a conference with Churchill and Stalin. Three men sat around a large table, looking at the newcomers very closely, as did two men standing off from the round table. Both Jack and Carl knew the five men from photos and briefing reports and they immediately came to the position of attention even though they weren’t in uniform. The president of the United States angrily nodded his head toward the desk that sat in the corner of the room. He stood and said something to the other four men. Niles escorted Carl and Jack toward the desk, where the angry man from the Oval Office met them.

“Have a good time in Georgetown, did you?” The president placed his hands on his hips. He wore no tie and his shirt was slowly turning a darker shade of white from sweat. Jack and Carl remained quiet.

A knock sounded at the door and a Secret Service agent escorted another two men into the room; the president gestured for them to join him. With a nervous glance at the four men sitting around the table the two men advanced.

“Gentlemen, this is my director of the CIA, Harlan Easterbrook, and the assistant director of Operations, Daniel Peachtree.”

Easterbrook nodded his head and quickly looked down at his shoes. Only Peachtree offered his hand for shaking. Collins looked from the outstretched hand and then up to the man’s dark eyes. Jack turned away and looked at the president as if he had been set up.

“Colonel Collins, I believe Mr. Peachtree has something to say to you.” The president’s hands remained planted on his hips, a stance every American knew meant he was angry and wanted something concluded. The four men at the table quietly spoke amongst themselves as the American problem played out on the other side of the room.

“Colonel, believe me when I say how much this ugly episode has upset the agency.”

Collins stared at the man as if his words went right past his ears without entering. His blue eyes bore into the man’s darker ones and before the assistant director of Operations knew it he had taken a step back.

“Upset the agency?” Director Easterbrook said as he heard the words come from Peachtree’s mouth. “Colonel, we are even now tracking down the murdering bastard who killed your sister and her colleague. We will not rest until he is hanging from the highest tree the agency can find, and the man to tie the knot in the rope is Mr. Peachtree here, especially since it was in his operational area that Vickers committed his crimes.”

“Enough. For right now the colonel will be satisfied with your response—won’t you, Colonel Collins?’

Jack didn’t give the president the courtesy of looking at him. “No, sir. As soon as I’m cut loose from here I’m going to hunt Vickers down myself. These gentlemen have lost credibility when it comes to policing their own agency.”

“And he’ll have company dong it,” Carl said as his eyes did find the president.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the commander-in-chief said, ignoring both Jack and Carl for the moment. “Our regular security briefings are cancelled for today, as you see I have other guests.” He gestured toward the four men sitting at the table. Peachtree and Easterbrook nodded their heads and Peachtree took a wide path around the two military officers, who only glared at the two CIA men.

The president faced Carl and Jack and shook his head.

“You had your shot, Colonel, now allow the FBI to do their work. They have several men they need to speak to, not just Hiram Vickers.”

Jack’s face took on an angry countenance as he listened but soon softened when he saw Niles and Carl and was held in check by a look from the two men. The president nodded at Collins as he saw that the colonel immediately regretted his action while in the presence of the boss.

“I would want to punch me too, Colonel, but this job sometimes requires a bit of bad taste to get people to listen. Your participation in this matter of your sister is now concluded.”

Jack started to say something but the president held up a hand to stay him.

“Vickers took orders from someone. He gathered war material and several men used it to profit while saying they were patriots. Bullshit. I suspect I know who was behind it and I need the FBI to prove it or nothing will ever be done about it. As I said, your and Captain Everett’s participation in this is at an end. We will track the son of a bitch down and then I’ll let you throw the switch that sends ten thousand volts through Vickers’s black heart.”

“Now, let’s get down to business because, as you see, we have men waiting.” Niles Compton tried to get the meeting back on track and to get Jack’s head away from the immediate situation. He looked at his watch, knowing what he had to say next would place Jack’s mind back at the business at hand. “We have about an hour before the Russians strike at Iran.”

The president raised his brows as he gestured for Everett and Collins to join the men at the table.

“And you don’t know this, Jack, but we have two of our own heading into harm’s way.”

“Who?” Everett asked.

“Sir, your call went through,” a Secret Service agent said from the doorway. Another handed Niles a phone.

Compton looked at the president, who grimaced and then turned away to join his guests. Niles handed the phone to Jack, who gave him a questioning look.

“It’s Lieutenant McIntire.”

Still, the questions filled the cautious look from Jack and even Everett stopped in curiosity.

“Colonel, this is a presidential favor.” Niles held his gaze on Collins. “Sarah and Lieutenant Commander Ryan are going in as consultants to the Russian strike team.”

It was Everett who said what Jack was thinking. “Oh, shit.”

Carl stepped away to give Jack some privacy.

Jack turned away to take the call. He didn’t care how this looked to the powerful men in the room, as all thought of the events happening in the world fell away from his thoughts the very moment he heard Sarah was heading into danger.

“Small Stuff.” He almost choked on the nickname by which he had always called her.

“Hey, baby,” she said, her voice sounding distant and scratchy. “Jack, are you all right? Niles said you were away for a while?”

Collins caught the inference about his mission to kill the man who ended his sister’s life.

“That’s not important. You need to pay attention out there and get your small ass home in one piece. Ryan too.”

“Jack, we have so many Russian commandos here that you better worry about how many times I have to fend them off. I don’t know if those guys ever get time to see any women, the way they train.”

Collins was silent for the longest moment as he swallowed, and thought about the misery he would feel if Sarah was lost to him. “Look, baby—”

“Jack, I have to go; something’s happening here. It looks like we have a massive power surge coming out of Iran. They may be testing again. If they are they could lead the Grays right to us.”

Jack’s heart froze. He looked over toward Niles and the president as several signals officers urgently passed messages to the men around the conference table.

“Listen, I love you.”

Silence. Sarah had been disconnected as the Russian ship she was on went black, meaning the Caspian Sea task force had gone into communications blackout. Jack knew they were getting ready to strike. He turned away and locked eyes with Everett, then tossed him the now silent cell phone. Carl could see the pain in his friend’s eyes as he strode to the conference table just as the president stood with message in hand.

“Gentlemen, we just lost three commercial jetliners in Japanese airspace, and the navy is reporting that we also lost a United States naval supply ship in the North Sea.”

The president of France cleared his throat, then sadly shook his head. He had been conferring with the prime minister of Great Britain, Hamilton Lloyd.

“I must also sadly report that we have also lost contact with one of our submarines in the North Sea. It has been confirmed by a subsequent British report from a submerged source in the same area.” He placed the message he had received back on the table and lowered his head.

“Gentlemen, the time has come. We must assume we are under attack and the strike on Iran is now paramount to recover the alien engine.” The president turned to the leader of Russia. “Sergei, are your follow-up forces ready in case the first strike at recovery fails?”

“Yes, we have the Nineteenth Guards Division ready to move in from Azerbaijan, if needed.”

The president sadly shook his head, and sat down while looking at his old friend Niles Compton, who was seated along the wall. The eye contact was brief but they both knew that the plan they had drawn up along with Matchstick and the late Garrison Lee was now fully on the table. The fate of the world was now predicated on a small green alien and a man who died a year ago, along with two college friends who just five years before had never thought anything like this could ever happen.

“Gentlemen, Operation Overlord is now in effect. We have a lot of work to cover. Colonel Collins, we better start the brief. When the Grays strike in force, you will be immediately transferred to another location.”

Collins was shocked he had been mentioned at all. Every set of eyes was on the forty-two-year-old career army officer as his gaze went from Niles to Everett.

“You, Colonel, will be instrumental for the time we need to make Overlord work, and that may be quite some time. You will lead a fast-reaction unit of Special Forces to secure the Overlord location.”

Again all eyes went toward the head of the table and focused on the president’s words.

“Gentlemen, alert your home forces and let’s prepare to defend ourselves.”

The world was going to war—and they would fight as one.