121

 

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, 11:48 A.M.

Dan needed to make a phone call, but no one would hear him over the roar of the storm. He headed for the Pebble Beach Club. He wasn’t a member, but his grandpa had been and the staff knew him. They were closing up as he arrived, boarding up.

He propped up the Ducati, jumped off, ran to one of the handymen.

“José!” he shouted. “I just need to make a few calls. Can I go in for five?”

“Go. Then get. We all gotta move.”

Dan raised his hand, called out a thank you as he ran for the entrance, let himself in. The door closed heavily behind him, sealing out some of the noise. He pulled out his cell, paused for a moment, recalled the number he had never had to use. The line rang. SOCOM, Special Operations Command, based at MacDill Air Force Base. This was the central US command for all Special Forces stateside. The underground secure Operations Center had a dedicated team to deal with non-active personnel and incoming information. They would get SOCOM himself, Dan’s old friend Jack Meade, in touch with him.

The phone was picked up at the third ring. An impassive voice said a flat “Hello.”

This was a standard security practice so that the caller would have no idea who he has rung until his identity was verified.

“Hello. 4157BQ,” replied Dan with equal flatness.

“XT279” replied the other man.

“Swordfish2” responded Dan. There was a pause. Dan could feel the pulse of interest on the other end of the line. Swordfish2 was the code that indicated information relating to terrorist activity from a currently nonoperational ex-special-ops guy who still held clearance or was at risk of reprisal action. In the world of special ops, Dan had just thrown a big bright flare into the sky.

“I need to speak to SOCOM himself. ASAP.”

“Wait out!” came the voice.

Dan hit END. Cry Havoc, let slip the dogs of war. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.