Act of War

CHAPTER FOUR

Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

That evening

That night, Jason and Ariadna had dinner in a mesquite barbecue restaurant at the Clovis Municipal Airport’s general aviation terminal. Because the nation’s airspace was still shut down, business at the airport was terrible—but the food there was outstanding. As they feasted on spicy ribs, enchiladas, and barbecue beef sandwiches, Jason nodded at Ari. “You look different somehow,” he said.

“Oh?”

He looked closer. “Is that an olive drab T-shirt you’re wearing under your blouse?” he asked.

“So what?”

“Where’d you get a…oh, I see. Doug gave you his T-shirt too?”

“We fired over three hundred rounds today. Doug said I shouldn’t wear nice stuff because of the oil and powder residue that comes off the weapons. He gave me a couple of his T-shirts. We’re going to practice tomorrow too.”

“What piece of your underwear did you trade for the T-shirt?”

“You’re a degenerate.”

“What kind of gun are you practicing with?”

“Forty-five-caliber SIG Sauer P220, the best semiauto in the world,” Ari said. “He showed me how to clean it, hold it, shoot it, even holster it.” She opened her blouse and withdrew the SIG from a shoulder holster, pointing it toward the wall. “Beauty, isn’t it?”

Jason’s eyes bugged out in surprise as if she had shown him a nuclear fuel rod. “Christ, Ari! You had it on you this whole time? Isn’t that illegal?”

“In New Mexico it’s legal to carry a concealed weapon without a permit as long as it’s unloaded,” Ari said. “Here.” She opened the action with a loud cha-chink! which garnered no reaction whatsoever from the diners around them, as if everyone expected to see handguns at restaurant tables all the time. She inspected the chamber. “It’s unloaded, but always check it yourself.” She handed it to Jason, who looked at the empty chamber. “No, J, never put your finger on the trigger!” she snapped as he wrapped his hand around the butt end.

“But you said it was unloaded, and I looked myself and saw it was unloaded!”

“Doug says always treat a gun like it’s loaded,” Ari said sternly. She pushed the gun’s muzzle away from her as he started to turn it toward her. “And never, ever point a gun at anyone.”

“But it’s empty, for Christ’s sake. There’s not even a clip in it!”

“Doesn’t matter—and it’s a ‘magazine,’ not a ‘clip.’ A clip is a device that holds a number of rounds; a magazine is a box that feeds rounds into a chamber.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Sure—like EDO and FPM memory chips are the same thing.”

“No—those are totally different.”

“You are such a nerd, Major,” Ari admonished him playfully. “We spent more time on gun safety today than anything else, and I learned so much.”

“Oh yeah? What else did Doug say?” Jason asked, emphasizing the sergeant’s name like a grade-schooler does to a friend on Valentine’s Day.

“Grow up, J. Doug says pretend there is a laser beam emanating from the muzzle at all times, and if it hits anyone they will die. If you can’t point it in a safe direction, point it at yourself. You always treat a gun like it’s cocked, locked, and ready to rock unless you personally verify it otherwise.”

“ ‘Cocked, locked, and ready to rock’—what in hell does that mean?”

“Jesus, J, I thought you were in the army! Which army might that be—Captain Kangaroo’s army? Didn’t you ever learn how to handle a gun?”

“Seven years ago at OCS, a nine-millimeter Beretta, for one week.”

“You’re pitiful.”

“Why are you carrying it around?”

“Doug said I should get used to carrying it,” Ari said. “I’m going to get my concealed carry permit for New Mexico. I spoke with Kelsey and asked her to help me get a federal carry permit, but after this afternoon I don’t think she’ll give me the time of day. I might have to go to Jefferson.”

“What do you want to carry a gun for?”

“Wake up, J,” Ari said. “The terrorist threat is the highest it’s been since 9/11, and we’re right in the thick of it. I’m surprised you aren’t carrying a weapon. You’re active-duty military—Chamberlain can probably get you authorization in a snap.”

“I’m here to employ CID, not shoot it out with bad guys with pistols,” Jason said. “I think I impressed Jefferson out there in the range today. He asked me again about the argument between me and DeLaine.”

“You both clammed up when he asked you together—makes sense that he’d want to ask you individually too.”

“Yeah, but what was most interesting: I don’t think Jefferson told Chamberlain anything except us having a disagreement about something other than CID.”

“So?”

“So it means that maybe Jefferson isn’t spying for Chamberlain after all,” Jason said. “If he was, and Jefferson then finds out we’re tapping FBI servers and satellite datalinks, he’d have us kicked off this project so fast our heads would spin. Jefferson is a fossil, but one thing’s for sure—he has a personal code of conduct, and he follows it to the letter, no matter who he’s talking with. He may be Chamberlain’s shill, but his loyalty is with the task force.”

“He probably figures you’ll shoot yourself in the foot anyway—no need to rat you out,” Ari said.

“You’re the one who’ll shoot herself in the foot, once you start carrying bullets in that thing.”

“You pansy—guns are perfectly safe once you learn a few basics on gun safety and learn how it works,” Ari said, holstering the weapon. “I’ve field-stripped this gun and put it back together three times today, and the third time the gun was under a towel—I did it by feel. It’s one hundred percent safe even with a round in the chamber. Hundreds of police units and dozens of nations use this gun as their primary sidearm.”

“To tell the truth, Sergeant Moore seemed a little like a mama’s boy the first time I met him.”

“He got this gun from his mother, as a birthday present.”

“Doug gave you the gun he got from his mother? Sounds like you two are engaged to be married already!”

“Bite me, J.”

A woman walked up to the table, notepad in hand. “Anything else I can get for you guys?” she asked.

“Just the check, please,” Jason said, finishing off the last of his barbecue sandwich.

“Nothing else at all? A doggie bag, a refill on your sodas—or how about a damsel in distress that was rescued by a robot knight in shining armor?”

Jason’s eyes bugged out in surprise, and his eyes snapped up at the waitress—only to find Kristen Skyy standing there, smiling at him, pretending to be a waitress with a reporter’s steno book in her hands. She was wearing a faded leather bomber jacket, a gray scarf, faded blue jeans, snakeskin boots, and an Albuquerque Isotopes minor league baseball team cap, obviously dressed to look like one of the locals. “Hi there, Major Jason Richter, Dr. Ariadna Vega. Good to see you two again.”

Jason got to his feet and gave Kristen a hug, and she returned it with a kiss on his cheek very close to the corner of his mouth that sent a shiver of electricity through his entire body. He led her to his side of the booth as Ari moved over to let him sit beside her. “This is quite a surprise,” Jason said after he and Kristen locked eyes for a few moments after they were all settled in—long enough that no one noticed Ariadna’s amused grin as she watched the two unabashedly gazing at one another. “What a coincidence. What in the world are you doing here?”

“Are you kidding me, J?” Ari interjected, rolling her eyes in mock disbelief at Richter’s apparent naiveté. “This is no coincidence. She tracked us down.”

Kristen looked into Jason’s eyes, trying to figure out if Richter was baiting her or not; she decided not to test him. “Yes, I did track you down,” she said with a smile. “Hope you don’t mind. I should have called, I guess, but when I got the information I decided to come right away.”

“How did you find us?”

“I have my sources,” Kristen said. “But I assure you, it wasn’t hard. My producers don’t even really have to lie—they usually mention that they work for Kristen Skyy or SATCOM One News and that’s enough. But most of the civilized world saw us together on television, and they might figure we’re already an…item?”

“And you want to know more about CID?”

“Of course,” Kristen said. “Your technology is simply amazing. It could revolutionize not just armed combat but policing high-crime neighborhoods, search and rescue, relief activities…”

“Sounds like the usual spiel from our public affairs office,” Ari said suspiciously. Kristen shrugged, admitting the fact. “What’s the real reason you’re here?”

Kristen smiled at him and nodded, apparently deciding to tell him everything—she obviously figured Ariadna would challenge her on anything she thought might be spin. “My sources say that the White House is planning on starting a secret terrorist-hunting unit, in response to the Kingman City attack,” Kristen said. “They’re preparing some sort of major antiterrorist policy statement, and they want this secret unit ready to go once the President makes the announcement.

“Now, if I was going to build a secret military antiterrorist force, I’d start with CID. You’re not at Fort Polk anymore; the Army Research Lab says you’re on temporary duty but they won’t say where, and not available for interviews. But while we’re at Fort Polk’s visitor’s center waiting to talk to someone who can tell us more about you, one of my staff members observed two civilian tractor-trailer trucks, which looked like they were loading gear up from the building where your office is. The trucks are from a moving and storage company in Shreveport, and they headed north on Interstate 49 toward Shreveport—Barksdale Air Force Base, I’m guessing.

“I have a source who’s an Air Force reservist, flies A-10 Warthogs out of Barksdale, and he tells me that each of the trucks had two twenty-foot steel army camo cargo containers that were loaded aboard an Air Force C-130 transport. He says that Base Ops said the C-130 was heading to Cannon Air Force Base but was not accepting space-available passengers. I head out to Cannon. I can’t get onto the base and public affairs won’t talk to me, but the locals tell me about the secret test ranges west of the base, almost as secret and well guarded as Area 51 in Nevada. They also say this place is a popular hangout for Air Force types. We’ve been watching it for a couple days now. Suddenly—poof, here you are.”

“You’d make a good intelligence officer—or spy,” Ari said. Jason looked at her but with a weird expression—not anger or exasperation, but with surprise at her comment.

“I’m a good investigative TV journalist, which most times is the same as being a spy,” Kristen said. “Anyway, here we are. So, what can you tell me?”

“Not anything more than what you know right now,” Ari said. “We’re here. Sorry you came all this way just to learn that.”

“Are you involved in a secret government antiterrorist unit?”

“If we told you, it wouldn’t be ‘secret’ anymore, would it?”

“This conversation is strictly off the record,” Kristen said. “It’s deep background, nothing more.”

“Does anyone ever buy that line?” Ari asked. “It doesn’t mean a thing except what you reporters want it to mean.”

“What it means, Dr. Vega, is that I would never use anything you told me in any article, not even if I ‘quoted unnamed sources,’ ” Kristen said. “I would use your information as a stepping-off point to finding information from other sources. It lets me know if I’m getting warmer or colder, that’s all.”

“And it’s guaranteed never to get back to the source, huh?”

Both Jason and Ari could see Kristen Skyy finally putting up her professional’s steel-curtain defensive shield. “No, Ari, I can’t guarantee anything,” she said stonily. “But many times it protects a person who has something to say and badly wants to say it. Information is purposely leaked all the time in exactly this way. The press gets the story it wants, and the government or groups get the information they want disseminated without revealing the source—namely, themselves. Governments, businesses, organizations, and individuals take advantage of the constitutional and professional protection the press can provide. I have kings and terrorists alike agree to make deep background comments every day.”

“So you just broadcast any information you receive from unnamed sources?”

“Of course not,” Kristen retorted. “We realize why the information is being leaked: it’s propaganda, pure and simple. We always double-and triple-check information we receive with other sources. I’ve already received deep background information about a new government military antiterror unit being considered; you are one of the corroborating sources. I’ll need another couple sources to verify your information, and on and on it goes. But I’ll go to prison before I reveal my sources.”

Ariadna was obviously unconvinced, and she scowled a little at Jason when he didn’t decline Kristen’s request. What’s the matter with you? Jason? she asked him silently. “We’d better go, J,” she prompted him, none too subtly.

“Wait,” Jason said.

Ari couldn’t believe it. “We can’t talk to her, J,” Ari said emphatically. “We’re already in hot water.”

“Oh?” Kristen asked Jason, her eyes dancing. “Stirring up trouble, are we?”

“Hold on, Ari,” Jason said. He turned to Kristen, his expression earnest and troubled at the same time. “Here’s the deal, Kristen: we have information on a possible terror cell that might be responsible for Kingman City…”

“Jeez, J…” Ari breathed.

“…and we can’t verify it—the various government agencies won’t share intelligence with us,” Jason went on. “We have the technology we need to move on this group right now, but we need verification of the group’s existence, location, and strength.”

“And you want me to get it for you?” Kristen asked. “You have any information to go on?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t do it yourself?”

“There appear to be…political roadblocks.” He spread his hands and added, “And I obtained some of this information by surreptitious means.”

“You scientists and your five-dollar words,” Kristen said, smiling. “You mean you stole some juicy information but you can’t verify it and you certainly can’t ask the people you stole it from to do it.” Jason smiled like the cat caught with the bird in its mouth. “Fair enough. What’s in it for me?”

“A piece of the action,” Jason said. “Exclusive firsthand coverage of the first American high-tech joint civil-military antiterrorist assault force in action.”

“Jason!” Ari exclaimed. “You can’t invite the media along on a secret mission—especially when it’s not authorized!”

“It’ll be our mission,” Jason said. “CID alone.”

“Sounds very tempting,” Kristen said.

“I’ll bet it does!” Ari interjected. “It could also land us all in prison.”

“Not if we get the bad guys,” Jason said. “Kristen, you have to promise me that if you can’t or don’t help us find the terrorists, then you sit on all the information you gather on us and our other units and their missions forever—no ‘deep background,’ no anything. It stays with you to the grave.”

“Unless I get information from other sources…”

“That’s not good enough,” Jason said. “I don’t want to blow any chances for the powers-that-be to find the terrorists and go after them their way. You either help us to close in on the terrorists, chase them out of hiding or plant them six feet under, or you forget we ever had this conversation.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me, Major,” Kristen said playfully. “I’m hurt.”

“That’s the way it’s going to have to be, Kristen,” Jason said seriously, but inwardly he was thinking: boy, I’ll bet that smile opens a lot of doors for her. She still appeared as if she wanted to argue. “You’ll have front-row seats to the future of war fighting, Kristen,” he added. “You saw CID in action once in Kingman City—but you haven’t seen anything yet.”

It didn’t take any more convincing. “I’m in, Jason,” she said, extending a hand. Jason shook it. “Tell me what you got.”

“Two words: GAMMA and Brazil.”

Kristen looked surprised, then skeptical. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, that’s it? That’s all you have? And I was getting pretty excited there for a minute!”

“Who is GAMMA?” asked Jason.

“GAMMA is a radical environmental terrorist group formed in central Brazil years ago that opposes what they call oppressive multinational corporations, mostly big oil, and specifically TransGlobal Energy,” Kristen explained. “But they’re small potatoes, Jason. They’ve harassed TGE for years, mostly in South America—recently in fact. But they take great pains to avoid human casualties—I don’t believe GAMMA would ever use a nuclear weapon, even if they had access to one. And they haven’t been responsible for any activities north of the equator that I’m aware of.”

“Our intel says otherwise.”

“Are you sure you’re getting reliable information? You sure no one’s feeding you bogus information just to throw you off the trail of the real terrorists?”

“Like I said, we obtained this information by ourselves, our own means—it wasn’t contained in a briefing or field report.”

“If you think it’s so good, why don’t you stay plugged in to this source?”

“Someone blew the whistle on us, and we had to shut down or be cut out completely.”

“I’m surprised you weren’t busted, given the security climate around the country these days,” Kristen observed. “The feds would just as soon throw you in jail first and then investigate, just to be on the safe side.”

“We’ve managed to keep it in-house for now, but if we kept the pipeline open and got caught again, they would definitely lock us up and throw away the keys,” Jason said. “Can you help us?”

“Well, you sure didn’t give me much to go on,” Kristen said, “but I do have pretty good sources in the Brazilian paramilitary, the PME, which is their combined municipal police and interior military. Problem is, when they find a terrorist group, drug smugglers, poachers, insurgents, or anyone else stepping outside the law—or on their own turf—the PME tends to interrogate, torture, kill, display, and claim victory—they rarely jail anyone, and they don’t share too much information outside their provincial headquarters.”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” Ari observed.

“I go to Brazil a lot, and I don’t just hang out at Copacabana or Ipanema,” Kristen said. A brief image of Kristen Skyy strolling down the famous clothing-optional Brazilian beaches in nothing but a thong and suntan oil flashed in Jason’s mind, but he forced it away—unfortunately not fast enough to keep Ari from elbowing him in the ribs. “Fact is, if you have a PME officer on your side, especially a Colonel, you are completely safe from anyone and you can do pretty much whatever you like.”

“Something tells me,” Ari said, “that you’ve charmed your way into the hearts of a lot of officers.”

If Kristen Skyy was stung by that remark, she didn’t seem to care. “International broadcast journalism isn’t like sitting in a lab all day and having your professional life judged by lines of computer code, sister—it’s about taking chances, running hard, and not being afraid to take a few shots in the gut to get the story,” she said. “I get the big fish because I’m thorough and fair, not because I sleep around or hand out bigger bribes than the next guy.”

“Being rich, famous, and beautiful doesn’t hurt.”

“Dr. Vega, in places like Brazil and most of the real world, the men in charge are richer and more powerful than the presidents of most countries in the world—including the United States—and they suck rich, famous, and beautiful women dry and discard them every week. I would be just another trophy on their walls if I was just a news whore.”

She turned to Jason and went on: “The only way we’re going to get information from the PME commandants in the provinces is to give them something they don’t already have. They’re already as wealthy as they want to be in their own regions: they are the federal, state, and local government; they can have any woman or any politician they want just for the asking. You can scare them, but they’ll turn on you faster than you can take a breath as soon as you’re out of sight. About the only thing of yours they may want is your robot.”

“Then let’s not get information from the commandants,” Jason said. “Ari’s right, Kristen: you’re rich, famous, and beautiful. That might not impress the commandants, but speaking as a lowly field-grade officer, it impresses the hell out of me. I’ll bet there’s a lot of young bucks down there who would love to talk to Kristen Skyy of SATCOM One News and give her anything her heart desires.”

“Maybe.” She gave Jason another mind-blowing smile and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Once you find them, we’ll need transportation,” Jason said. “We’ll need a plane big enough to carry a Humvee.”

“We’re a satellite news organization, Jason, not the Air Mobility Command,” Kristen said. “Why can’t the army fly us down?”

“If your information is timely, accurate, and actionable, and if I can convince my bosses that we should act, then maybe they can,” Jason said. “But I’m assuming no one will believe us or that no one will support us even if they do believe us. SATCOM One must have jets that fly all over the world all the time that carry thousands of pounds of equipment…”

“Sure—for the VIPs going on vacation or for coverage of the World Cup, not for me,” Kristen said. “But I do have fairly ready access to a medium jet that can make it around Central and South America with very few customs hassles—assuming the airspace in the United States isn’t shut down and I can fly it out of the country. It can carry a crew of two, six passengers—that means you two and four for me—and all the cargo and supplies we can carry. One full day of flying to get to Brazil, maybe two depending on weather. That’s the best I can do until I have something juicy to show my boss.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Jason said. “We won’t be able to take our Humvee, but it’ll give us practice in using CID with minimum ground support on a rapid-reaction mission.”

“And my photographers and I will have total access to all your activities, right?”

“As soon as we load up our equipment in your plane, yes,” Jason said. “But we get a look at your information first. If it’s good, we’re on.”

“How are you going to get your stuff off the base?”

“Heck, that won’t be hard—they’re ready to kick us off already,” Ari said wryly. “All Jason needs to do is something asinine—like talk to the news media about what we’re doing, right, J?”

Jason turned away from Kristen and fully toward his friend and colleague. “Listen, Ari, I need you with me on this,” he said. “If you’re not, I’ll stop this and we’ll go back to helping DeLaine and Jefferson do whatever it is they want to do.”

“Riddle me this, J—why are you doing this?” Ariadna asked. “You told me that the powers-that-be were impressed with CID—I think they’ll put us online eventually. Why do you feel the need to step out like this?”

“Because I don’t trust anyone I’m working with,” Jason replied. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel like anyone’s being straight with us. Do you?”

“I don’t know, J,” Ari said. “I’m just an engineer—same as you. I’m not a soldier or a spy. I write computer code to instruct computers to design futuristic weapons. I do it for the U.S. Army because I love my country and I think my designs can help, and because they pay me a lot of money to work hard for them. I don’t get paid to worry about who’s pulling the strings or whose agenda is being played. What is it with you, J? It’s not just distrust. You seem unhappy, or dissatisfied, or paranoid, or something. What is it you’re looking for, Jason?”

The army major sat back, his eyes adopting a faraway look for several long moments. He looked back up at Ariadna and shook his head. “I’ve been working on CID for three years, Ari—it’s almost the only thing I’ve done in the army,” he said. “I was so damned proud, of our gear as well as myself, when we were able to save those people at Kingman City. I felt like we could take on the world. Almost immediately we get the call, and it’s like my dreams suddenly came true: they wanted us to fight.

“But then I look at the players involved, and I know they don’t want the same things I want,” he went on. “I don’t know what it is exactly, but it’s as if they don’t want to fight the terrorists, like they have their own secret agenda…”

“And you don’t, J?” Ari asked.

“Me? Hell no. I told you what I want: to use my technology to get the terrorists…”

“And when the powers-that-be don’t put CID at the tip of the spear, all you want to do is squawk and pout and break off and link up with a reporter and do your own thing,” Ari said flatly. “Who’s not being the team player now?”

“I…” Jason stopped, looking at Ariadna’s accusing expression, then away. He stayed silent for several moments; then shook his head. “Sure, maybe I’m pissed. I know CID works, and I proved it can do some good. I want it to do some good.

“But the army or the powers-that-be could’ve taken CID away from us and used it however they wanted,” Jason went on. “They didn’t: they put us in charge. That makes it personal. I want to win, Ari. No matter who else is involved or what they really want out of this thing, I want to win. CID can do it. I don’t think they want us to succeed. I’m going to do everything I possibly can to win.”

Ari looked at Richter with a serious, concerned expression, and her smile didn’t return. She put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. “Okay, J. I don’t know if what you’re doing is legal or right or even smart, but I think your heart at least is in the right place—even if your brain maybe isn’t. But one thing’s for sure: we’re a team. We have been ever since you showed me your drawings for CID three years ago. If you want to do this, then I’m with you.”

Jason smiled, nodded, then leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ari.”

“Sounds like a discussion that needed to happen,” Kristen said. She wrote some information down on a business card and handed it to Jason. “That’s a secure e-mail address, although how secure it is from the government I’m not sure.”

“We’ll check it. If it’s secure, we’ll send information on how you can contact us.”

“Good.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be in touch, guys.” Jason slid out of the booth as Kristen walked away; he looked back at Ari, who rolled her eyes and waved him on with mock impatience, like a school chum urging a buddy to slip a valentine to the prettiest girl in school who just walked by. He hurried to catch up to her.

It was clear and slightly cool outside, with the fresh smell of a late-afternoon thunderstorm and welcome rain on the desert still lingering. He looked for her but couldn’t see a thing in the gloom of the dark street outside the terminal and restaurant.

“She seems to care quite a bit about you.” Jason turned and found Kristen standing in the shadows beside the terminal building, stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette.

“We’re friends,” Jason said, walking to her. “We’ve worked side by side for many years.” He stepped close to her. “Isn’t there anyone you’ve worked so closely with that you tell them everything, even if it’s not work-related?”

“You mean, other reporters? Hell no,” she said.

“No. I mean friends. Someone you’ve known for a while, shared something of yourself, opened up to a bit.”

He could hear Kristen’s leather jacket rustle as she shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember. So many cities, so many assignments, so many persons you get thrown together with to get the job done. It all kinda gets jumbled together. Boyfriends don’t hang around too long if they don’t like being second banana to the job.”

“Sounds lonely—like you’re never by yourself, but always by yourself at the same time.”

“It is.” As if she was afraid she was opening up too much, she straightened her shoulders. “But it’s exciting, and it pays well, and once in a while I get to do something really cool…” She patted his chest playfully and added, “…like work with Superman.”

He took her hand in his. The toughness she tried to portray instantly melted away. She used her other hand to pull him to her, and they kissed. The friendly kiss turned into a long, passionate one.

Jason didn’t quite know what happened next, except that she had slipped her rental car keys into his hand, then the keys to her room at the Clovis Inn just a few minutes later when they pulled up, and then they were in each other’s arms and undressing one another. They didn’t do much talking that night either.

Hours later, she kissed him good-bye and dropped him off again at the airport terminal. Ari had caught a ride back to the base on her own, as he knew she would do. Partners to the last, she knew it would not look right for a world-famous investigative reporter to be dropping off the commander of a secret military task force at the gate to a military base late at night.

Pecos East Training Range, Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

Several days later

The eighteen commandos who formed the operational strike members of Task Force TALON, along with Kelsey DeLaine, Carl Bolton, and Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, were assembled on a weapons-training range in a special area of Pecos East shortly before dawn. With them were six specialized vehicles resembling narrow, fat-tired, high-tech dune buggies they had nicknamed the “Rat Patrol,” designed to fit inside large transport helicopters or small fixed-wing transports. Out in the distance was a group of buildings they were going to use for target practice as a warm-up for their big training exercise later that morning.

Standing apart from the other task force members were Jason Richter and Doug Moore, both mounted inside Cybernetic Infantry Device units. Richter had a grenade launcher backpack, while Moore wore another backpack that launched small observation drones called GUOS, or “Goose,” short for Grenade-Launched Unmanned Observation System. The two CID units were not really part of the morning exercise, but were allowed to use the range and targets after the rest of the task force were finished.

Again, Jason thought ruefully, Kelsey and the sergeant major still weren’t interested in merging CID’s capabilities with Task Force TALON. What an incredible waste.

The other members of Task Force TALON were busy checking their weapons, equipment, and radios, and were now standing before a short platform awaiting their final briefing. “Okay, ladies and gents, listen up,” Sergeant Major Raymond Jefferson began. “Welcome to Task Force TALON’s first field exercise. Our first objective this morning is simple: get used to moving and communicating as a team.

“Our primary means of tactical transportation on our missions will be by helicopter, which is why we’ve chosen to use the ‘Rat Patrol’ dune buggies for fast ingress and egress,” he went on. “There are three men per vehicle. Each vehicle is fitted with a machine gun or M19 grenade launcher. Top speed is about a hundred kilometers an hour. They’re designed for rough terrain but they’re nimble and top-heavy with the guns mounted on their pedestals, so be careful your first time out and get the feel of steering and handling these things on uneven ground.

“In about an hour we’ll bring in a couple of MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopters and try a helicopter assault on a simulated oil refinery out on the range, but right now we’re going to get the hang of riding and attacking from the dune buggies by attacking that small group of buildings out there. Hop in, try some turns and fast starts and stops, then spread out and try firing on the buildings from the buggies and on foot. Charlie Range is heavily instrumented, so we’ll have multiple cameras on all players and will be able to do an intensive debrief later on. All communications, weapon hits, and player movements will be recorded. We’ll have some time to iron out procedural problems later on, so let the glitches happen. Questions?”

The officer in charge, Jake Maxwell, nodded toward Richter and Moore. “What are the CIDs’ roles today, Sergeant Major?”

“They are here to observe,” Jefferson responded. “They will test-fire their grenade launchers after you are finished. Sergeant Moore in CID Two will use his drones when we move on to the second phase.”

“I’d like to watch those things in action,” one of the commandos said. “Why don’t they come along with us and see if they can keep up?”

“We can wax your ass, Yonker,” Moore said with his electronically synthesized voice.

“In your dreams, robo-toy…”

“Can it,” Jefferson interjected. “CID tactics will be merged with the task force once a training syllabus has been drawn up and approved. Any other questions?” There were none, so he turned to the others beside him. “Ma’am?”

Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine stepped up before the team. Unlike the others, she and Special Agent Carl Bolton wore black FBI fatigues and headgear instead of the high-tech pixilated fatigues worn by the commandos. “Welcome to our first field training exercise,” she began. “This will be the first of many exercises we’ll do to fine-tune our daytime procedures; then, we’ll advance into night exercises and finally some urban terrain training. Our team members come from all segments of the special ops and tactical law-enforcement community. You are all superstars in your own units—now, we need to see what it will take for us to work together as a team.” The troops appeared very anxious to get out into the field to prove what they could do. “Be careful out there. Lieutenant Maxwell, take charge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” army First Lieutenant Jake Maxwell, the TALON platoon leader, responded. Maxwell looked impossibly young, but he was an experienced Army Ranger and special-operations commando. He turned to his platoon and asked, “Any other last-second questions?” He waited only a few heartbeats, but no one said anything. “Okay, mount up and let’s do it. Follow me.”

As Kelsey moved off, she said over her shoulder, “Major, Sergeant, we’ll meet you over at the oil refinery.”

“I thought I’d do some target practice with the team,” Jason said. “I’ll bet CID can move faster and shoot better than the guys on those buggies.”

“We’re trying the GUOS drones today,” Kelsey said. “We’ll try assaults later. See you there.”

The commandos loaded into their buggies, started them up, then lined up in a column behind Maxwell. They started out on a paved road up to maximum speed for a few miles, then took the buggies off-road, first on a dirt road and then cross-country. The gunners stayed seated for the first few minutes off-road, but soon Maxwell directed the gunners to take their places up in their braced mounts behind the weapon pedestals to get the feel of riding while standing. Soon the buggies were racing across the open range at full speed. A few of the buggies had to stop because the gunners got jostled a little harder than they expected, and several had some scary moments when the drivers took a few turns too tightly and they threatened to roll over, but it did not take long for all six vehicles to stay in a tight column while racing full speed across the desert with the gunners standing behind their weapon mounts.

“Pretty damned impressive,” Kelsey DeLaine said as she watched through binoculars. “Looks like they’ve been doing this for years.”

“These guys are pros, ma’am,” Jefferson said approvingly. “They’ll be up to speed in no time. Shall I send them over to the target buildings?”

“Absolutely,” Kelsey said. “I’m anxious to see how well they shoot while moving.”

Jefferson made the radio calls, and the buggies headed south toward a small group of metal and plywood target buildings located in a circular berm made of sand, rock, and dirt dug up from the desert. The buggies lined up at a range of fifty meters and began firing smoke rounds into the buildings from the grenade launchers mounted on the back of the buggies and from the M203 grenade launchers carried by the commando riding in the passenger’s seat. They moved out to one hundred meters, then two, and finally three hundred meters. After firing several rounds from stationary positions, the buggies lined up and began firing from fifty meters with the buggies traveling just twenty kilometers an hour, gradually stepping up the speed.

“Amazing,” was all Kelsey could say after the exercise was completed and they had assembled to talk about their performance. “My hat’s off to you guys. You were up to sixty kilometers per hour and consistently making hits. Well done.”

They had a fifteen-minute break to check their weapons and equipment and brief the next portion of the morning exercise. DeLaine, Bolton, and Jefferson were picked up by a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter and taken out to the next exercise target area, and minutes later two massive MH-53 Pave Low III special-operations helicopters approached their location. The rear cargo ramp lowered, and the loadmaster and crew chief emerged and waved them in. Three dune buggies fit in the cargo hold of each of the big choppers with room to spare. The flight was not very long, and the cargo ramp remained lowered as they dropped to low altitude and sped in toward the landing zone.

The two massive MH-53 Pave Low III special-ops helicopters stirred up an immense cloud of dust as they translated from racing just a few meters above the desert floor at ninety knots to zero airspeed in just a few seconds. Within seconds the high-tech dune buggies drove off the choppers into the dust storm kicked up by the massive rotors. Their objective was about five kilometers in the distance, just outside the reach of simulated “enemy” rocket-propelled grenades or shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons: a small compound, thirty-six acres in area, with oil derricks, pumps, tanks, and electrical control buildings, built to resemble a small oil-pumping facility. Normally they would deploy and fight at night, but this was their first practice and it gave them an opportunity to take it a little easy until they got the hang of using their new vehicles.

Even with fat tires and wide stances the buggies were top-heavy with the gunner and their weapon situated above the driver, and it made for some exciting moments when the drivers executed all but the gentlest turns. Bouncing across the open desert in the buggies demanded a lot from the gunners. They rested against a metal back brace and wore a harness attached to the weapon stand, but they were still wildly bumped and jostled around while racing at nearly a hundred kilometers an hour. Aiming the weapons while moving at more than thirty kilometers per hour was nearly impossible. But at a slower speed or while stopped, the gunners did an incredible job and showed off their marksmanship skills, hitting practice targets with great precision even from as far as a hundred meters.

Kelsey DeLaine, Carl Bolton, and Sergeant Major Jefferson watched the six buggies approach and then encircle the “facility” through high-powered binoculars. They were inside the “oil terminal,” watching the task force as they started their raid. “I thought Crenshaw was going to lose it for a second there—he took that last turn a little sharp,” Kelsey commented. “But they’re doing great. Twenty-one minutes to surround the compound and hit all the perimeter targets—not bad.”

“I’d sure like to see it done in less than fifteen,” Bolton commented.

“This is their first time out, sir—they’re not pushing those buggies too hard yet,” Jefferson commented. “A few more days and they’ll be moving at top speed.”

“I hope so, Sergeant,” Bolton said. “Otherwise we’ll have to re-think this whole ‘Rat Patrol’ idea.”

“They’ll get better, sir,” Jefferson insisted.

“I still think we can parachute or sneak in some snipers and have them take out any Stinger air defense sites first,” Bolton argued. “Then the choppers can move in closer.”

“It takes time to put snipers in position properly, sir,” Jefferson said. This was an old argument, and he was tired of making it. “Our mission profile calls for a light, rapid-response force. It could take days to move three or four snipers into position.”

“Then what about getting Cobra or Apache attack helicopters to launch precision-guided weapons from outside Stinger range? A Hellfire missile has three times the range of a Stinger…”

“It’s only twice the range, sir, not three times,” Jefferson interjected. “But the main reason is that the support necessary for even one Cobra or Apache helicopter is enormous—we would need our own C-17 transport, maybe two, and probably double our personnel.”

“We were lucky to get two MH-53s and the buggies sent out here,” Kelsey admitted. “If we can get additional funding or get a change in our operational profile, then perhaps we can get some attack choppers.”

“If we changed our profile to include things like helicopters, ma’am, we’re losing the thing that makes us distinctive and gives us an edge—our speed and flexibility,” Jefferson said. “We’d be just another Marine or Army Ranger mixed light infantry–helicopter company.”

“Then I suggest we practice more and get our times down, Sergeant,” Bolton said, “before the White House disbands us in favor of some grunt unit.”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson responded, making the “sir” sound more like “cur.” Sergeant Major Jefferson was unaccustomed to civilians telling him what to do while training his men, especially civilians that rarely, if ever, picked up a gun or rode in military vehicles.

There was an uncomfortable pause for a few moments; then, Kelsey keyed the mike on her walkie-talkie: “Okay, Sergeant Moore, let’s give the Goose a try.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Moore, mounted inside CID Two and positioned near the helicopters’ landing zone, responded. He turned toward the oil compound and issued a command via an eye-pointing system inside his helmet. There was a loud pop! and a projectile, resembling a long bowling pin, fired from the unit’s backpack. When the projectile reached fifteen meters’ altitude, a set of long thin wings popped out of its body, a small jet engine started, and the projectile flew up and away like a tiny jet plane. A few moments later, Moore launched another. The projectile was a GUOS, or Grenade-Launched Unmanned Observation System, nicknamed “Goose,” a remotely operated drone with a tiny camera on board that sent back pictures to a ground observer team or to the CID pilot from as far as forty kilometers away and four kilometers’ altitude.

“Two Geese away, both in the green,” Moore reported. No one responded to him. “They should be on station in five minutes.” Still no reaction. “Ma’am, I think CID could’ve reached that compound and taken out those perimeter targets faster than the buggies.”

“After the task force gets it down in the buggies, maybe we’ll give it a try,” Kelsey said noncommittally, turning to the portable surveillance monitor set up in her Humvee.

“Or maybe not,” Bolton said under his breath.

“Ready to activate random gunfire, ma’am,” Jefferson said.

“Do it,” Kelsey responded. Automated emitters inside the compound would fire laser beams outside, which would be scored as small arms fire with the Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System. The emitters were just distractions, added to enhance the realism of the exercise.

All of the officers observing the exercise were just simply amazed at the precision and accuracy of the “Rat Patrol” dune buggy gunners. They were indeed getting better by the minute: after just two complete orbits of the perimeter, Sergeant Moore reported, “Ma’am, I see smoke coming from every defensive position. They did it. Every Stinger site and machine gun nest destroyed by TALON.”

“Those guys are incredible,” Kelsey said. “Congratulations, Sergeant Major.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jefferson responded. “But that was only phase one. These guys work best on the ground.”

The six dune buggies surrounded the oil refinery, and twelve Task Force TALON commandos in pixilated desert camouflage fatigues, Whisper Mike communications headsets, Kevlar helmets, safety goggles, gas masks, and M-16 rifles fitted with the MILES direct fire training system modules dismounted. The six dune buggy drivers moved their vehicles away from the perimeters, then configured the pedestal-mounted weapons on their vehicles to fire remotely from the driver’s seat. The twelve commandos joined up into three groups of four and began to approach the refinery at preselected entry points. Each commando carried an M-16 rifle with a retractable stock to make it more compact, along with pouches of ammo and gas grenades; one commando in each team had an M203 grenade launcher attached under his rifle for additional firepower.

Maxwell was the first to break radio silence: “TALON, One,” he radioed, “look sharp, I just found a booby trap. Claymore mine with a fishing-line trip wire.” Each team leader checked in, acknowledging they heard the warning. Maxwell disarmed the Claymore—a smoke grenade, not a high-explosive mine—and proceeded on. Several more traps were discovered on their way in. The more they found, the sharper their attention became. This was just a first exercise, sure, but at least Kelsey DeLaine and Ray Jefferson were making it interesting right off the bat!

They made it to the perimeter fence without tripping any of the five mines they discovered. The barrier was a simple three-strand electrified enclosure, typical of those used for farm animals. Fearing the fence might be wired to set off an alarm or an explosive if cut, the teams decided to slip under the lower wire—until they spotted the trip wires on the other side, less than a centimeter aboveground, attached to more smoke bombs. “Good setup here, Kelsey,” Maxwell said on his comlink.

“Thank you,” Kelsey acknowledged. “Continue.”

After a short discussion, the teams decided to jumper the electrified fence wires, then cut them. No alarms or booby traps were set off, and they were able to disarm the Claymores inside the compound. The flat desert floor made it easy to spot more trip wires and booby traps set up inside the fence. One team member was able to move up to a mechanical dog—actually a wooden box on legs with ultrasonic emitters and a speaker that would emit barking sounds if activated—and disarm it without it detecting his presence.

“Pretty amazing,” Kelsey said off the air to Special Agent Carl Bolton seated beside her. “Thirty minutes after launch and they’ve reached the inside of a well-guarded and booby-trapped oil refinery without setting off one noisemaker. They’ll be done in five minutes.”

“They’re the best of the best, that’s for sure,” Jefferson said. He made a few more notes, but he had precious little to debrief the team so far. “They’re acting like they’ve trained together for years.”

“This is better than I hoped,” Kelsey said. “If we can find another twenty guys to bring out here like this, we’ll be operational in plenty of time with an entire platoon ready for action, with one in reserve.”

“I’m just glad we’re not screwing with that CID thing,” Bolton said, completely ignoring Doug Moore standing almost right beside him in CID Two. “We’d still be sitting in a classroom learning how each and every microchip fits together. Do those eggheads really think it’s that important to learn how that stuff works? Those briefings are the most God-awful boring things I’ve ever been to.”

“It’s impressive, but Richter and Vega are just out of their element,” Kelsey said, trying to be upbeat. “They’re not helping themselves, that’s for sure. We made the right decision by deferring their participation for now.”

“Definitely,” Bolton said. He focused in on the refinery again. “They’ve started the search. Moore?”

“The Gooses are on station,” Doug Moore reported. He was watching the imagery from the GUOS unmanned aerial vehicles through his helmet’s electronic visor. “Imaging infrared sensors active…I’ve got the three TALON elements in sight…Team Three, CID Two, hot contact, one o’clock, eleven meters…Team Two, no contacts…check that, Team Two, I’ve got a stray blip at your three o’clock, fifteen meters. Might be residual heat from a timer or chemical package.”

“Checks,” the TALON team leader radioed back. “Demo charge with a mechanical timer. Deactivated.”

“Roger that,” Moore acknowledged. “Team One, stop, stop…” But it was too late—a robot “terrorist” swung around on a mechanical pivot and fired a MILES laser beam. One commando was hit in a nonlethal spot: his backup “killed” the “terrorist” with a three-round burst. “Sorry about that, One.”

“If you can’t help them out, Moore, then terminate and let them do their job,” Bolton complained.

“It had an infrared shield on it,” Maxwell reported. “Very clever, hiding it from the Goose’s sensors. We would’ve completely missed it and it would’ve hosed us if the Goose hadn’t warned us. I’m starting to develop a fondness for our little Goose friends up there, Kelsey.” Bolton shook his head but said nothing.

In less than ten minutes, assisted by Doug Moore and the GUOS drones, the task force had “killed” more than a dozen “terrorists” and deactivated six demolition charges and booby traps set up in various parts of the complex. “Excellent work, guys, excellent,” Kelsey said. “Mission accomplished. Let’s head back to the training area, get cleaned up, and…”

“Something’s happening,” Doug Moore in CID Two suddenly interjected.

“What?”

“GUOS Two has detected a high-speed vehicle approaching,” Moore said, studying the downloaded images in his electronic visor. “It’s Major Richter, ma’am. He’s…watch out!”

Suddenly there was a tremendous “Craashh!” and CID One burst through the outer perimeter fence. Several live Claymore mines exploded, but Richter kept right on coming. He ran through the avenues in the complex at a very high speed, firing smoke grenades at all of the already-attacked targets. Several MILES laser guns opened fire on him, scoring hits. The Task Force TALON commandos were stunned at how fast the CID unit was traveling and how accurate it was launching grenades.

“Knock it off, Richter,” Kelsey radioed, waving at the smoke wafting in her direction. “The exercise is over. Stop before you run over someone.” But Richter kept right on going, running faster and faster, dodging around pipes and tanks with incredible speed while firing in all directions. Once all the targets were destroyed, Richter stood triumphantly in the center of the complex, raising his hands and jumping from foot to foot like a huge robotic Rocky Balboa on the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps. “What a hot dog. Bring it in, Jason.” He turned to acknowledge an imaginary crowd, swatting at a steel pipe still left standing, then turned again, still dancing…

“Watch out!” Moore shouted. The steel pipe had been holding up a steel tank on a short steel pedestal, and when Richter broke the pipe the tank teetered over and crashed on top of him. “Major!” Moore shouted from within CID Two, running up to Richter.

Helped by CID Two, Richter got CID One to its feet and came trotting up to where Kelsey, Bolton, and Jefferson were standing. It unloaded its backpack and assumed the “dismount” stance, and Jason Richter climbed out a few moments later. He immediately began examining the robot’s left side. “Jason! What did you do?” Kelsey shouted as she stepped quickly over to him. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I lost everything for a moment there.”

“You know better than to just run out onto a live fire range without getting clearance from the range supervisor!” Bolton shouted. “You did this on purpose to screw up our exercise and turn attention to your CID stuff.”

“Hey, Bolton, you can kiss my ass,” Richter retorted angrily. “I thought you guys were done and it was my target.”

Kelsey felt bad that the CID unit was damaged, and she was impressed that it had assaulted the complex so quickly and so effectively. Fortunately no one got hurt, and the task force had already done pretty well on their morning training. It was a good first exercise, despite the unwanted intrusion. She walked over to where Richter was examining the robot’s back. “What happened to it, Jason?” she asked.

“Cracked an access panel,” he said worriedly. “The primary hydraulic power pack is leaking. It’s more maintenance than I can do here—I might have to take it back to Fort Polk.”

“How long will it take to fix it?”

“I have no idea—maybe a couple days, maybe a week.”

“Take all the time you need,” Bolton interjected sourly. “Maybe we’ll get some work done around here for a change.”

“Button it, Carl,” Kelsey said. “All right, Jason, you and Ariadna can head on back.”

Jason nodded dejectedly. “Okay. There’s an Army Research Lab C-130 here from Fort Polk right now—I’ll just hitch a ride with them. I don’t want to stow the CID because of the break, so I’ll just walk it into the cargo bay.”

Kelsey nodded. This was the first real sign of emotion she had ever seen from Jason Richter—it should’ve come as no surprise to her, she thought, that he reserved his deepest feelings for a machine. “Sorry about your robot, Jason,” she said. “Get back as soon as you can. We’ll use CID Number Two as scheduled.” Jason nodded, shot Bolton an angry glare, which did nothing but increase the size of the smirk on his face, climbed back inside the robot, started it up, picked up his grenade-launcher backpack, and trotted back toward the task force base, moving a little awkwardly.

Bolton shook his head as he and Kelsey watched the robot run out of sight. “I thought that thing was more sophisticated than that,” he remarked.

“I thought it did pretty well—a lot better than a Humvee, dune buggy, or helicopter could,” Kelsey said. “But I’m glad we decided not to go with it right now. That should get us off the hook with Jefferson for us not wanting to use it, too.”

“It looks like a wounded raccoon hobbling away,” Bolton observed. “Maybe he won’t interfere with our training for a while.” He turned to speak with the commandos as they returned to the range controller’s pad. Kelsey watched the CID unit trot away for a few more moments. It did look rather pitiful. Richter’s pride and joy, brought down by a small grenade. This is not going to look good in front of the brass, she noted.

Back at the task force training area, Ariadna was shaking her head as she watched CID One trot up and saw Jason dismount. “I got the call from Doug,” Ariadna said. “I can’t believe you broke CID One.”

“It was an accident.”

“What were you doing in the middle of that training exercise?” Ari asked.

“I wanted to see how well I could find all the targets,” Jason said. “I was watching the GUOS downlinks the whole time and found a couple mines the task force didn’t.”

Ari shook her head, then stepped closer to Jason and asked, “Okay, J, what’s going on? Why did you go over there?”

Jason looked at his partner for a few moments, then shook his head and replied, “Because I was pissed they didn’t invite us out there for the first field test,” he said. “I wanted to show him that we don’t need all those dune buggies to do our job—CID can do everything they can do, and better.”

“That wasn’t a very smart move, doofus,” Ari said. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“We’ve shown many times how impervious CID is to grenade and heavy weapons fire,” Jason said. “The tank falling on me was a lucky shot. I wasn’t worried.”

“You’re crazy, that’s why—you’re too stupid to be worried,” she replied, trying to keep her tone of voice lighthearted but serious at the same time. “Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be careful.” Ari shot him an exasperated glance and began examining the damaged compartment. Jason’s cell phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it while Ari hooked up a portable monitoring unit and recharger from the Humvee. Jason made sure his special encryption routine was running before checking the caller ID readout and replying: “Kristen? How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I’m fine, Jason,” Kristen Skyy responded. He could hear a great deal of airplane noise in the background. “Listen, I have a hot lead, and we need to move as quickly as possible. I have a jet ready to take us to Brazil, but we have to leave this morning.”

“This morning?” Jason exclaimed. “I don’t know…”

“My source tells me he’s got a lock on one of GAMMA’s head guys,” Kristen said. “But they’ve been moving around every couple days. We need to be down there tonight. I got us a plane that can take us to Brazil in seven or eight hours. We’ll arrive at Clovis airport within the hour. My pilot says if we can leave in the next hour, we can be down at São Paulo shortly after sunset.”

Jason threw his mind into overdrive as he tried to work out the logistics. They barely had enough time. They had to grab as much supplies and ordnance as they could and go immediately. “I’ll be there, Kristen,” Jason said. “I’m not sure how I’ll manage it, but I’ll be there. Gotta go.” He hung up.

“It doesn’t look too bad, J,” Ariadna said as Jason went back to her. “Failed main hydraulic power pack. The secondary power pack picked up the slack.” She showed him a slightly damaged access panel on the robot’s back approximately where the left kidney would be. “The hydraulic lines look okay thank God, but the fiber-optic connector needs replacing. I think I might have the parts I need, but I need a good two or three hours.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fix a rainy day, as long as it’s in my lab, J,” she said confidently. “But in the field, reliably enough for combat? Maybe…probably…yes, I think so. I have to take apart the left data bus assembly to change the fiber-optic cable—that’s practically the whole left side’s electronics. It’s not difficult, just time-consuming work.”

“Do we have a spare?”

“Spare power pack—sure. Spare access door—no,” Ari replied. “Looks like the entire left edge of the panel is cracked—we won’t be able to secure it tightly. We don’t have any equipment for making repairs to composite structures here. I’ll need the material, a frame, an autoclave…”

“Can we secure it in place temporarily?”

“I think I might have some duct tape,” Ari quipped. “Why? You’re thinking about finishing the exercise with the rest of the task force?”

“That call was from Kristen,” Jason said. “She has information on that terrorist group GAMMA. They located one of its leaders, in São Paulo, Brazil…”

“Brazil?”

“They move around a lot, and her source says our only chance to grab him will be tonight.”

“Why don’t we get the FBI or the locals to do it?”

“Because it’s our job, Ari,” Jason said. “If Kristen knows where this guy is, maybe the locals do too, and he’s free because he’s working with the locals. We need to get down there.”

“Not with CID One. He’s down for repairs. You’ll have to take CID Two.”

“There’s no time to pull him out of the exercise,” Jason said. “We need to be airborne with all the gear we can take in less than an hour. Kristen is bringing a jet to Clovis to pick us up.”

“Are you sure about this, J?” Ariadna asked. “This may look like we’re stealing the CID unit. We could end up in prison for this…”

“And we could end up catching a major GAMMA commander and learning a lot about their next attack,” Jason said. “We’ve got to try it. We still have one good power pack. We can’t have everything perfect. I want to move on Kristen’s hot intel. Let’s do it. We’ll load our gear; tell the crew we’ll be ready to go in half an hour.”

“You want to take CID One into battle with just the secondary power pack?” Ariadna asked. “If that one goes out, CID One will turn into a sixteen-million-dollar lawn ornament.”

“We have to chance it,” Jason said. She still looked skeptical. “I’ll contact Jefferson. If he absolutely forbids us to go, we’ll stay. But we’ve got to get moving or we won’t have any options.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, dude,” Ari said as she hurried off to pack some equipment. She loaded up a portable test system, a case of tear gas, and smoke grenades for the grenade launcher backpack—the only weapons she could find that she had ready access to—plus the GUOS drone backpack with six drones and some tools and spare parts to work on the CID unit, and within minutes they were in a truck heading out to Clovis Municipal Airport. Meanwhile, Richter got on his secure cell phone to Sergeant Major Jefferson. The phone conversation was very short: his instructions were simply to “stay put.”

At the airport, a Bombardier Learjet 60 business jet was parked outside the general aviation terminal being fueled. Jason hugged Kristen Skyy and resisted giving her a kiss, but she gave him one anyway. “I thought you couldn’t get us a cool ride, Kristen,” he said.

“You have no idea how many chips I had to cash in to get this,” she responded. “You got the rear baggage compartment for the CID unit—if your dimensions were accurate, it should fit.”

“I won’t be able to work on it in the rear baggage hold, J,” Ari said.

“What’s wrong?” Kristen asked.

“We had a little accident,” Jason said. “It’ll be okay. Hopefully we won’t be going into battle.”

“Is it serious?”

“Could be, but CID has redundant systems so it should be okay.” Jason admitted to himself that his tone wasn’t all that positive; Kristen obviously noticed it but said nothing. “Was it difficult getting clearance to fly with all the security precautions in place?” he asked.

“It took a few phone calls to Washington from the CEO of SATCOM One to get us just from Teterboro to here,” Kristen said, “but it was surprisingly easy to get clearance out of the country. We’re nonstop to Manaus, Brazil, where we’ll meet up with some company agents who’ll take care of customs formalities. We’ll also pick up a PME officer who’ll talk on the radio for us as we head to the rendezvous point.”

“What do you trade for no questions asked at customs?” Jason asked.

“The one thing more valuable than money, booze, gadgets, sex, or drugs: American press credentials,” Kristen said. “Six-month work permits for SATCOM One, unlimited entry and exit into the U.S., and no monthly check-ins with Homeland Security as long as their status can be verified by the network. Government officials will sell them for tens of thousands of dollars each.”

It was a tight fit, but the folded CID unit just fit in the rear baggage compartment. The jet’s cabin was choked with equipment but was still comfortable enough. Kristen had brought a sound engineer and a cameraman, and they had more gear than Richter and Vega. Minutes later they were loaded up, and the pilot received his clearance to depart. “We have to wait,” Jason said after Kristen was told by the pilot they were ready for takeoff.

“We can’t wait, Jason,” Kristen said. “It’ll almost be dawn by the time we get there as it is.”

“We need clearance from our supervisor,” Jason said.

“I thought you were the commanding officer.”

“I’ve never commanded anything more than a four-person laboratory or project office,” Jason said.

“Are we waiting for the same person who gave you your ‘political roadblocks,’ as you put it before?”

“Not quite,” Jason said. “This guy doesn’t believe in ‘political roadblocks’—if there’s a roadblock, he’d prefer to smash it in…”

“Which is what he’s going to do with our heads, once he finds out what we’re doing,” Ariadna said.

“So you’re talking about Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine then?” Kristen asked. Jason and Ari looked surprised—they had been careful not to mention the names of any other Task Force TALON members around Kristen Skyy. “I did a bit more checking and put two and two together. A combined military and FBI task force—very, very cool. DeLaine is one of the Bureau’s up-and-comers, but she’s not known for fieldwork—she’s an administrator.” She paused, looking at Richter carefully. “Interesting pick of persons to lead this task force. I would’ve expected a few more hairy-armed snake-eating ‘Rambo’ types to go after nuclear terrorists.”

“Me too,” Jason admitted. “But we have CID.”

“Why not give my information to Special Agent DeLaine and the rest of the task force? Why not do it as a team?”

“Because she won’t act on it, and they’ll shut down our source of information and most likely throw me in jail for involving the press in a classified government program,” Jason said. “Then the terrorists get away, the task force gets shut down or reshuffled, and no one wins except the bad guys.”

“You don’t trust her to share information or support your task force, is that it?”

“She would probably form an FBI task force herself to go down there and get the bad guys.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Kristen asked. “The goal is to get the terrorists, right? We could use all the help we can get.”

“This might not be the best way to do this,” Jason said, “but we’re going to do it anyway because we have actionable information and the means to respond.”

Ariadna sat beside Jason and lowered her head confidentially toward his. “This would be a good time to head to Fort Polk, J,” Ari said quietly. “We haven’t done anything really wrong yet, and CID One is really broken. Once we step off this plane in Brazil, we’re swimming in deep shit.”

“What do we do with Kristen’s hot tip?” Jason asked. “Should we just ignore information like she says she’s got?”

“We pass it on to DeLaine and the rest of the task force,” Ari said.

“We’re pressing on,” Jason said immediately. “Do the best you can with the replacement power pack and reattaching the door once we reach the target.” Ari looked at him carefully, silently questioning his judgment, but nodded and fell silent.

But Jason could feel her concern, and she knew after years of working together that Ariadna was rarely wrong. He pulled out his secure cellular phone and pressed some buttons.

“Go ahead, Jason,” Kelsey responded moments later.

“I need to talk with you, Kelsey,” Jason said.

“We’re in the middle of a briefing. Can’t it wait?”

“No.”

Kelsey sighed and said something to the others in the room with her. “Okay, go ahead.”

“I saw something on SATCOM One News about a connection between a terror cell in South America and the attack on Kingman City,” Jason said.

“I saw it too,” Kelsey responded after a noticeable pause. “We’re still checking, Jason,” Kelsey went on. “The Bureau’s got nothing to go on yet.”

“Kelsey…” Jason paused a moment, then went on: “Kelsey, I’ve received some information about a group calling itself GAMMA that might have had a…”

“Have you been tapping my computer and phone conversations, Richter?” Kelsey blurted.

“No, I haven’t,” Jason said.

“Then where did you hear about GAMMA?”

“It’s no secret, Kelsey…”

“Where did you hear about a connection between GAMMA and Kingman City?”

“My source doesn’t want to be revealed just yet,” Jason said, “but I think it’s good information, and I have enough that I think we should act on it. This group GAMMA was involved in Kingman City—how, I’m not sure yet. But my source may know where one of its leaders may be hiding in the next few hours. But they only stay put for a day at the most—we’ve got no time to waste if we want a chance to catch him.”

“How specific is your information?”

“Location down to one or two harbors; time, down to twenty-four hours.”

“One or two harbors?” Kelsey asked incredulously. “It would take hundreds of men to search an area that size, and another hundred to secure it. There’s no way we can…”

“Two CID units along with the Goose drones can do it alone,” Jason said.

“In that short a time span? Impossible.” But as soon as she said that, she knew that it was certainly doable—they had spotted several small targets inside that oil refinery complex during their training exercise without any trouble.

“It’s possible, and we’ve got no time to waste,” Jason urged. “I’ve drawn up a plan. I’d like to take the team and both CID units and go down to South America to…”

“South America! You can’t just blast off to another country with a task force just like that.”

“We can, and we have to. It can’t wait.”

“No way, Jason,” Kelsey said. “If you have actionable information, you need to present it to Chamberlain, Jefferson, and the rest of the task force. We’ll verify the information and draw up a plan.”

“It can’t wait,” Jason said. “In twelve hours it’ll be too late—we need to head down there now. I’ve got a plane standing by that can take us to Brazil tonight.”

“Brazil?” She paused. Then she said, “Where are you now, Richter? Where’s Dr. Vega? You’re not…?”

“I’m sure Jefferson can get us clearance,” Jason said. “C’mon, Kelsey, we need to move on this. Trust me.”

“Who’s your source, Major?”

“I can’t reveal it just yet…”

“So you can’t trust me either, huh?” Kelsey asked accusingly.

Jason hesitated for a few moments, then he continued. “A wellknown international TV correspondent got me the information, and has a high degree of confidence in its accuracy,” he said. “She’s laid the groundwork for us to…”

“She?” Kelsey interrupted. “A well-known female international TV correspondent…?”

“You’d recognize her immediately,” Jason said. “I’ve spoken to her on condition of complete anonymity…”

“You’ve spoken to her? About the task force? About CID…?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard of the concept of keeping a secret, Major?” Kelsey asked hotly. “Obviously not, because you seem to violate it every chance you get. What did you tell her about us?”

“She made contact with me and gave me information on this terror group,” Jason said. “She thought we could act on the information. All she wanted in exchange was to get exclusive access to our activities and…”

“She made contact with you, huh…wait a minute, wait a minute…that TV reporter you rescued in Kingman City…Skyy, Kristen Skyy, SATCOM One News. Jesus, Richter, she’ll blow our organization wide open in no time! We’ll have an army of reporters camped outside the front gate and flying overhead from now until doomsday! We won’t be able to go to the latrine without a camera crew taking pictures of it…”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Richter, you’ve blown it big time, and you are in a world of shit,” Kelsey said. “I suggest you get your butts back here immediately and report everything you’ve been up to with this reporter.”

“What about the information on GAMMA?”

“If her information pans out, then we’ll use that source again in the future.”

“But we may miss our opportunity to…”

“That’s the way it goes, Major,” Kelsey said. “Sources are verified by receiving a certain quantity of validated information, and most times their information is validated by something bad happening. Once we take the task force off the base, we expose ourselves to counterespionage forces and a lot of official and unofficial scrutiny. We can’t take that risk until we’re fully operational. We need to…hey, why am I bothering explaining all this to you? You’re a lab rat. You go off and do whatever you feel like doing anyway…”

“I’m a what?” Jason asked angrily. “What did you call me?”

“I meant you’re an engineer, not an operations guy, and you obviously don’t care about operational procedures or protocols,” Kelsey said. “What do you care about security, coordination, or teamwork? Apparently not much. I suggest…no, I order you to report back here immediately!”

“Maybe I should go to Jefferson directly.”

“You just can’t learn to be a team player, can you, Richter?” Kelsey asked acidly. She shrugged. “Go ahead. You’ll look like an ass. He’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you. Now discontinue all contact with anyone outside the task force and get back here on the double!”

“We’re missing an important opportunity here, Kelsey…”

“I strongly advise you to cut off this contact with Kristen Skyy or whoever you’ve been talking to,” Kelsey said sternly. “The information may be useful and even accurate, but you’re risking the safety and security of everyone on the team. Cut it off.” And she terminated the connection.

Back at the conference room at the training base, Carl Bolton stepped up to Kelsey, scanning her surprised expression. “What in hell did he want? What was all that about Kristen Skyy?”

“He said he had information on a GAMMA leader hiding out in Brazil,” Kelsey said breathlessly, her mind racing.

“GAMMA! Did he say anything about…?”

“He mentioned a connection between GAMMA and Kingman City.”

“Shit! That bastard!” The other task force members looked at Bolton curiously, wondering what he was so riled up about. They didn’t trust either Richter or DeLaine very much yet—Sergeant Major Jefferson was their leader, no matter what the organizational chart said—but they trusted Bolton even less, if at all.

“Carl, you have got to get updates from all our researchers and investigators and get an update on the whereabouts of all the known GAMMA leaders,” Kelsey said. “Richter’s source claims to have one localized.”

“How localized?”

“Pretty damn close. He wants to take the entire team down there to grab him, including both CID units.”

“He’s smoking something,” Bolton said dismissively.

“He might be on his way down there right now with the CID unit he was riding in this morning.”

“Is he crazy?” Bolton exclaimed. “Who authorized that?”

“I don’t think anyone did.”

“Richter has lost his mind,” Bolton said. “Jefferson will strangle him.” He fell silent for a moment; then: “Who in hell could he be talking to? Our sources haven’t come up with squat yet.”

“Call Washington and have Rudy get us an update, fast,” Kelsey said. “If Richter got his hands on something, we need to find out right away. Hit up our sources in SATCOM One in New York and Washington. If they won’t talk, threaten to arrest them.” Bolton pulled out his secure cell phone and made the call. “And one more thing: have someone keep an eye on Richter. If he tries to leave the base, notify Sergeant Major Jefferson and us right away.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Bolton said.

“What did she say?” Ariadna asked Jason when he hung up the phone.

“She said get our butts back to the training area.”

“Did you tell her you’re working with Kristen Skyy and SATCOM One News?”

“Not by name, but she guessed who it was.”

“What about Jefferson?”

“He said ‘stay put.’ ”

“We’re in deep, deep dog doo, J,” Ari said seriously. “We’ll be thrown off this task force so fast it’ll make your head spin. We need to head back to the base right now and forget all this.”

“Maybe that’s what we should be doing, Ari, but I still feel we need to be moving on Kristen’s information,” Jason said. They noticed a blue Air Force sedan with flashing yellow lights roaring up the street toward the general aviation terminal—followed by a Security Forces Humvee. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Gee, I wonder where we’ll be sleeping tonight—in a jungle in Brazil chasing down terrorists, or in a federal prison cell?” Ariadna asked absently. “And I wonder which would be worse?”

Richmond, California

That same time

After all the delays and endless paperwork, the job of unloading the cargo vessel King Zoser was finally underway, with a long line of flat-bed trailers waiting to pick up the oil-derrick parts. One by one, massive overhead Takref/Gresse container cranes picked up the parts and pipes and placed them on the trailers, where armies of workers secured the parts to the trailers with chains. As they worked, U.S. Customs Service inspectors, augmented with Army National Guard soldiers with military working dogs, looked on, occasionally asking to look inside the pipes or recheck a serial number.

Captain Yusuf Gemici looked and felt immensely relieved as he watched Boroshev’s heavy equipment being loaded aboard the trailers. American National Guard troops watched the pumps as they were chained in place, but they made no move to check them. No sign of any law-enforcement activity whatsoever, just normal, albeit heightened, port security and customs scrutiny. He couldn’t wait to get on with his voyage and…

Just then, a U.S. Customs Service officer who was sitting in a Humvee nearby stepped out of his vehicle, said a few words on a walkie-talkie, stepped quickly over to the pumps being chained onto the trailer, and started examining the lead tamper-evident seals on the safety wires on the sealed flanges. What in hell…they went to precisely the pump that had Boroshev’s mysterious delivery in it! Gemici fished out his cigarettes and lit one up to help steady his nerves…but as he looked away, out the port side of the ship toward the west into San Pablo Bay, he saw the Coast Guard patrol boat Stingray approaching them, just a few hundred meters away now, with the skipper watching him through binoculars and with two Coast Guardsmen on deck with M-16 assault rifles. Another customs service interceptor speedboat was a bit further north, officers lining the rails on both sides watching carefully for any sign of anyone trying to jump overboard and escape.

Gennadyi Boroshev came strolling up to him a few moments later. “Do you see this?” Gemici shouted. “The Americans are looking at your damned cargo and will be arresting us any second! What the hell have you done? What is in those pumps? Tell me!”

“Relax, Gemici,” Boroshev said, lighting his own cigarette. “You’ll have yourself a heart attack.”

“I will not relax! You had better tell me, dammit!”

“Shut up, you fucking old hen, or I will shut you up permanently,” Boroshev said. A white van without windows drove up to the cargo on the pier, and several men in protective MOPP suits emerged with detectors in hand. Armed officers started appearing, M-16 rifles in hand; Boroshev looked behind him and saw several Coast Guard seamen lining the rails with M-16s drawn as well. “If they find anything, we’re fucked. But they will not find anything.”

One of Gemici’s crew members ran up to the captain. “Sir, the Coast Guard and the harbormaster wish to speak with you.”

“May Allah help me, I am going to be arrested…!”

“If they wanted to arrest you, fool, you’d be in handcuffs by now,” Boroshev said. “Go see what they want. Be cooperative, and stop babbling like a damned monkey.” He didn’t trust Gemici one bit to keep his cool, but it didn’t matter—the more nervous he seemed, the more the damned American customs officers would think they were on the right trail.

“All hands, the smoking lamp is out, waste disposal in progress,” the loudspeaker announcement said. Boroshev stubbed out his cigarette and kicked it over the side. Christ, the air would stink of shit and diesel for the next eight hours, even though offloading the waste would only take one hour.

He wanted to stay and watch Gemici, but he had to act natural in case he himself was being watched, so he left and filled out logbooks in the engine room for several minutes, had a bite to eat, then returned to the rail. It took over an hour of sweating, hand-wringing, gesturing, and pleading from Gemici, and a careful search by the customs investigators, but finally they packed up and departed. “They questioned me about radioactive residue on those pumps!” Gemici said when he returned to Boroshev up on deck. “They said they detected radioactive residue! Those pumps are going to be confiscated!”

“They will hold them until the owner comes looking for them, and then they will have no choice but to release them,” Boroshev said.

“But the residue…!”

“Do not concern yourself over ‘residue,’ Captain—they can’t arrest anyone for ‘residue,’ ” Boroshev said. “There are dozens of good reasons why large machinery parts like that would trigger radioactive detectors, and they know it.”

“But…he said radioactive residue…!”

“You old fool, shut your mouth and go about your business!” Boroshev snapped. “Your job here is done. You have been paid for your work—now get out of my face.”

Boroshev tried to look calm and collected, but inwardly he was still nervous. They apparently did detect something, but obviously at levels far below what they needed to confiscate the entire vessel and crew. That meant they had no concrete evidence, which meant so far their operational security was good. He had made it. He’d given himself only one chance in ten of pulling it off, but he’d done it.

The customs officials were now going over each and every piece of machinery being offloaded—it would take several more hours to accomplish, maybe the rest of the day. The Coast Guard vessel Stingray was still off the starboard side, but the crewmen on the rails no longer had their rifles at port arms. Most of the crew of the King Zoser was on the port rail, watching the U.S. Customs Service inspectors and National Guard soldiers doing their work. Almost all other work aboard the cargo ship had come to a halt…

…except for the task of unloading tons of trash, sewage, gray water, and contaminated oil and diesel into a garbage barge that had pulled alongside, which was going on at the stern. Boroshev watched the inspections going on at the bow…but out of the corner of his eye, he was also making sure offloading the ship’s waste was going smoothly as well. There were no uniformed customs officers over there, just contract workers making sure nothing was dumped in the harbor. When that was done and the announcement came that the smoking lamp was lit again, he smiled and lit up another cigarette.

Mission accomplished, he thought happily. Mission accomplished.

Clovis Municipal Airport, New Mexico

That same time

“I’d say we have a major problem here, folks,” Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson said wearily. He had everyone standing out on the ramp beside the Learjet, with Air Force security vehicles surrounding them. The rear cargo hold was open, and Jefferson went back and looked inside, saw the folded CID unit, and shook his head. “I’m going to take extreme pleasure in seeing that all of you spend the next twenty years or so in a federal prison, breaking big rocks into little ones.”

“Sergeant Major, I’m prepared to explain why we’re…”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Major Richter!” Jefferson exploded. “There is no possible explanation on earth for this. You’re absent without leave; you left the base with classified government property without permission; you conspired to use classified government property in an unauthorized manner. That’s only for starters. I’m not a damned lawyer, but I’m pretty sure all of you could grow very old in Leavenworth before you ever see the light of day again.” He took an exasperated breath. “Are you absolutely insane, Richter, or just a damned idiot?”

“Sir, if you’ll allow me to…”

“I said shut your fucking mouth, Major!” Jefferson shouted again. “You have no right to be heard, sir. You have no explanation for any of this, and I’m not going to waste my time and energy listening to whatever nonsense you’ve dreamed up.

“I’m going to give you the courtesy of telling you what’s going to happen to you now, Major,” Jefferson went on. “You will be taken into custody by the Army Criminal Investigation Command. They will take you to Fort Belvoir, where you’ll be booked and formally charged. You will undoubtedly be interrogated by the FBI and CIA as well as the Defense Intelligence Agency. Eventually you’ll be tried and no doubt convicted of dereliction of duty, espionage, conspiracy, leaving your post, absent without leave, trafficking in classified government property, conduct unbecoming, and any other charges we can think of. Dr. Vega, as a military employee in a highly sensitive position in the Army Research Laboratory, and therefore subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, you will face the same charges and specifications and will probably face the same fate.”

“Sergeant Major, just listen to Major Richter for a…” Ariadna began.

“You will shut up now, Vega!” Jefferson shouted.

“That’s uncalled for, Sergeant!” Jason interjected.

“For starters, sir, it’s ‘Sergeant Major’—I earned those stripes on the field of battle, and I better damn well be addressed properly,” Jefferson said angrily, a vein impressively standing out on his forehead now. “Now, did you just back-talk me…?”

“I said, talking to Dr. Vega like that is uncalled for, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “As her immediate supervisor, she was following my direction. I’m the one responsible here.”

“You think that’s going to make any difference, Richter?” Jefferson asked incredulously. “You are both going to be put away for a very, very long time. Don’t expect me to be cordial or polite to either of you. You’re criminals, thieves—nothing more, nothing less. There is no explanation, excuse, or defending one another anymore. Enjoy your last night of freedom here, because once we arrive in Virginia, you will be in federal custody probably for the next twenty years, or longer. Fun’s over.” Jefferson looked over at Kristen Skyy and added, “Miss Skyy, your plane and all your equipment will be impounded by the CIC, and you will be taken into custody by FBI agents and…”

“Like hell I will, buster. One phone call and the weight of the world will be dumping on you so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“That’s why you won’t be allowed to make a phone call, Miss Skyy,” Jefferson said matter-of-factly. “You and your crew will be held in federal custody as material witnesses, which means segregated from all other persons and prohibited from contacting anyone until you are formally charged. When that happens will depend on your cooperation in our investigation. As you know, in the current security condition, we have the power to hold you as a material witness indefinitely.”

“I hope you like plenty of media exposure, Sergeant Major,” Kristen said angrily, “because you’re going to be experiencing a shitload of it if you try any of that stuff, I guarantee it. My network knows I’m here; they’re expecting me to check in daily, and if I don’t they’ll call out the dogs looking for me—and the first place they’ll go is to your bosses in the Pentagon and the White House. When they find out you’ve kidnapped me, you’ll be in really deep shit. Your career will be over.”

“We’re way beyond threats here, Miss Skyy—we’re into high-level military espionage and illegal transfer of military secrets,” Jefferson said. “Haven’t you been reading the papers or watching TV? There is no First, Fourth, Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth Amendment protection for spies, terrorists, or conspirators. After 9/11 and Kingman City, the American people will gladly put people like you away for good.” Jefferson’s cellular phone rang; he glanced at the caller ID number, gave Jason a scowl, and walked away to answer it.

Jason saw two Air Force Security Forces men photograph the CID unit inside the Learjet, then carry it out and set it on the ramp. He looked at Ariadna and tapped his wrist, and she looked at him with an “Are you damned sure you want to do this?” expression. “Kristen, how sure are you of your information?” Jason asked.

“Doesn’t matter now anyway…”

“Kristen, I need to know if your information is any good,” Jason said seriously. “We’re risking our careers over this—maybe our lives, if those Security Force guys get too rambunctious here in a moment.”

Kristen’s eyes narrowed fearfully at that remark, darting back and forth between the guards and Jason apprehensively. “Lieutenant Alderico Quintao is one of my best sources in South America,” Kristen insisted. “I’ve known and used him for about three years when I covered terrorist activities in Brazil, even before GAMMA was created; he’s got connections in every nation that shares a border with Brazil; his family is politically connected and wealthy. If he said he knows GAMMA’s whereabouts, I believe him. What difference does that make now?”

“I hope you’re right, Kristen.” He lifted up his sleeve, revealing a large square wristwatch, and pressed several buttons. “We’re about to start a ruckus.”

Suddenly they heard excited voices shouting near the CID unit. They looked over—and saw the CID unit unfolding itself. Jason looked over at Jefferson, but he was still talking on his cell phone, looking out toward the runway with a blank look on his face, a finger in each ear to block out the unidentified noise behind him. Most of the Air Force Security Force officers were armed, but they were too stunned to pull their weapons and just scrambled to stay out of the machine’s way.

“Get the plane loaded up again and ready to fly,” Jason said to Kristen. The CID unit walked straight over to him. “CID One, pilot up,” he said, and the machine assumed the boarding position. In a few moments, Jason was inside, and the robot really came to life.

“What in hell is going on here?” Jefferson thundered. In a flash, Jason stepped over to him, and before Jefferson could react, he was trapped in the robot’s strong mechanical hands. One robotic hand was wrapped around each of Jefferson’s arms, and Jason held him just high enough so he was dangling in mid-air and couldn’t wriggle free. The Security Forces readied their weapons, but didn’t point them at the robot for fear of hitting the Ranger. “Put those damned guns down!” Jefferson shouted to them. To the robot, he yelled, “Is that you in there, Richter? You are in big fucking trouble, asshole! Let me go immediately or I will bust your ass all the way to Antarctica and back!”

“Sergeant Major, as I tried to tell you, I have actionable evidence of the whereabouts of the terrorist group that planned and executed the Kingman City attack,” Jason said, his electronically synthesized voice firm and unwavering. “They’re in Brazil. Kristen Skyy knows where they are, and her confidence in her source is high.”

“Really? And since you’ve spent a few quality hours with Miss Skyy in Clovis, your confidence in her is very high as well, eh?”

Jason told himself that he should not have been so surprised to learn that Jefferson knew about his evening with Kristen. He swallowed hard within his composite armor shell but managed to reply, “Yes, sir, it is,” his embarrassment evident even through CID’s electronic circuitry.

“You sure you’re not thinking with your dick instead of your brain, Richter?”

“I believe Kristen’s information is accurate, sir.”

“Put me down, dammit!”

“We are going to depart with Kristen’s camera crew,” Jason said. “You will tell the Security Forces not to interfere and to authorize our departure.”

“You are not the one giving orders here, Richter…!”

“But I can be, Jefferson,” Jason said. “I will destroy those Security Force vehicles if you give me no other choice.”

Jefferson knew he could do it too—better try to talk him out of this, he thought. “I said put me down, Major,” Jefferson said, a little softer this time. “That’s an order. I will not repeat myself.” Jason paused for a moment, then lowered Jefferson to the hangar floor and released him. “Have you got any fucking idea of what you’re doing, Major? Or is this your idea of how an officer in the U.S. Army is supposed to behave?”

“Sir, if you tell me that you believe that Task Force TALON is everything it appears to be and that it is being managed and supported in the best way possible by everyone involved, then I will gladly step down, turn over all of the CID technology to you and Special Agent DeLaine, and accept any punishment you give me without another word,” Jason said. It was indeed a rather shocking and otherworldly sight to see—a huge three-meter-tall cyborg talking, gesturing, and expressing itself so earnestly and emotionally, resembling some weird alien creature with very humanlike mannerisms.

“Richter, I don’t give a shit about your fears, concerns, or frustrations,” Jefferson said, “and I am not one bit impressed by your admonition or offer of surrender, redemption, or cooperation. I care about only one thing: getting Task Force TALON functioning as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Your job, your duty, is to follow orders and support the efforts of your commanders and superior officers to the absolute best of your abilities, or get the hell out of the way. Now which is it going to be?”

“Sir, just tell me you believe we’re not being played for fools, and I’ll obey your orders to the hilt.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything except obey my orders, now, or find yourself relieved of duty and facing judicial punishment,” Jefferson said. “You had better learn right here and now, mister, that in my command there are no assurances, guarantees, hand-holding, kissy-face, or group hugs—there is only me and everyone else. I give the orders, and you obey them. It’s that simple. What is it going to be, Major?”

The cyborg stood silently for a moment, and Jefferson thought he saw its shoulders droop and its arms go limp, as if in surrender…and then suddenly those huge mechanical arms reached out and grasped Jefferson’s arms in a steel-like grip once again. Jefferson was so surprised at the trap-quick movement that he gasped aloud.

“Put him down, now!” a Security Force officer shouted, his M-16 rifle raised.

Jason turned and with unbelievable speed went over and, with Jefferson still in his hands, lifted one of the Security Force Humvees up with his right foot and overturned it. In another blur of motion he dashed over to a second Security Force officer and simply bumped him, sending him flying onto his back, bruised but unhurt. Just as Jason turned toward a second officer, ready to put him down, Jefferson shouted, “All right, all right, stop.” To the other officers he said, “Lower your weapons.” They did as they were ordered. “Happy now, Major? You think you can fight off all of the Air Force Security Forces? Is that how you want to play this?”

“This is how we’re going to play it, Sergeant Major,” Jason said, his electronic voice as firm as the CID unit’s composite structure. “We are going to follow Kristen Skyy’s intelligence and pursue the leads we have. If we find nothing, we will fly back to Washington or Fort Leavenworth or anywhere you wish and turn ourselves in. But I’ve come this far because I believe I’m doing the right thing, and I’m not going to stop now.”

“What do you think you’re going to do with me, asshole: kill me?” Jefferson shouted. He was glad to see Richter wince at the very notion of killing anyone—it was that obvious, even inside the CID unit. “Or maybe you’re going to carry me around like a doll while you chase through the jungle?”

“If I have to, sir, I will,” Jason replied. He turned toward the plane. “Kristen?”

“Fuel truck’s on the way, and the pilot is filing our flight plan as we speak,” she replied. “We’re getting clearance to depart right now—we’ll be ready to go as soon as we’re fueled. What about Sergeant Major Jefferson?”

“He’s coming with us,” Jason said. “Get some nylon ties to secure him.”

“That won’t be necessary, Major,” Jefferson said.

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t trust you to cooperate with us.”

“Your mission has been authorized,” Jefferson said. “Apparently the name Kristen Skyy gets you instant credibility these days. The National Security Adviser authorizes us to proceed to São Paulo only to observe and assist in her investigation. We must be accompanied by local police or paramilitary forces at all times, and we are not authorized the use of force.”

Jason immediately put Jefferson back on the ground, then dismounted from the CID unit…and as soon as he did, Jefferson had him by the collar and pulled the young Army officer nose to nose with him. “Now you listen to me, you sniveling chickenshit little worm,” Jefferson snapped. “If you ever touch me again, in or out of that machine, I will break your scrawny little neck like a twig. I won’t prefer charges; I won’t report you; I won’t write up one letter of reprimand or letter of counseling—I will simply kill you with my bare hands. Do you read me, Major Richter?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“You think you’re the big tough crusader riding off with your lady-love to thwart the evildoers and save the world? You are an officer in the United States Army, so start thinking and acting like one! You will follow my orders and behave like an officer, or you will find yourself cooling your jets in the stockade—after I finish kicking your damned ass.” He tossed him away from him, then turned to the others. “Let’s get this show on the road, people. Mount up.”