Act of War

CHAPTER FIVE

Porto do Santos, State of São Paulo, Brazil

Later that evening

Jorge Ruiz was a farm boy, but Manuel Pereira was a wharf rat. Born and raised in the bustling port city of Santos, on the South Atlantic coast southeast of São Paulo, Pereira loved the sea and loved the hardworking, hard-playing, no-nonsense life on the docks. The rules were simple: you worked, you supported your family, and you gave thanks to Jesus at the end of the week…the rest was up to you. Drinking, smoking, whoring, fighting, whatever—as long as you took care of the first three first, just about everything else was boa vida—the good life.

Although he joined the army and loved being a ground soldier, he would always be drawn to life on the docks. He loved the smell of the mountains of burlap bags of coffee or boxes of bananas on the wharf awaiting loading onto the rows and rows of ships from all over the world, the scent even overpowering the big diesel and oil engines; he loved the power and brutish efficiency of the cranes, tenders, tugs, and barges, all fighting for position and attention like bees in a hive; and he especially loved the grimy, gritty resolve of the men and women who worked the docks. Loading hundreds of tons of produce aboard a ship in just a couple hours might seem impossible for most men, but the workers did it day in and day out, in any kind of weather, for laughably low wages. They griped, groused, swore, fought, threatened, and complained every minute, but they got the job done because it was their way of life and they loved it.

Sometimes Pereira wished he could go back to the hard but fulfilling life of his boyhood. The people of the docks taught him how to be a man. It was not an easy tutelage, nothing he would ever want to experience again, but something he could look back on and be proud of how he got through it, proud of how well he learned and adapted, and anxious to pass along his knowledge and experience to his children.

“Manuel?” Pereira turned. His wife of two years, Lidia, stepped into the room, breastfeeding his son, Francisco. “Should you be sitting in the window like that?”

“You’re right,” he said, and moved his chair back into the shadows. They lived in a little two-room fourth-floor tin and wood shanty over the Onassis Line Southeast Pier, one of the busiest and oldest sections of the Porto do Santos. Almost five thousand families lived in this roughly one-square-kilometer shantytown, the homemade wood and tin cottages stacked and jumbled atop one another like thousands of cockroaches in a box. He knew he should be more careful—it would be ridiculously easy for the Policia Militar do Estado to scan hundreds of windows in just a few seconds from the harbor, an aircraft, or a nearby wharf.

But Pereira felt very safe here among the other shanties and thousands of people all around him. There was no question that one third of his neighbors would gladly turn him in for the reward he knew was on his head—but he also knew that the other two thirds of his neighbors would avenge him on the spot, and the next morning the informant’s body would be found floating in the harbor, minus his tongue and testículos. The people here were permitted to destroy themselves, not assist the government in destroying others; everyone survived by helping their neighbors, not ratting them out. Justice was swift and sure here on the docks—and justice belonged to the people, not the government, as it should.

Lidia sat on the arm of his chair, bent down, and kissed her husband deeply. “My sexy little chief of security,” he told her after their lips parted.

“I am nothing of the kind,” she said. “But I will be your nagging bitching wife if that is what it will take to keep you alive.”

Manuel smiled hungrily. Sniping at each other was how their love game usually started, and it delighted him. Lidia was barely one generation removed from her native Bororo Indian relatives from the interior, people who both lived off the land and worshiped it, people who were spiritually attuned to the forest, the wildlife, and the very vibrations of the interior regions. The Bororo, especially the women, were fiery, brash, and emotional—the three things that Pereira most desired in women. They lived for one thing: attracting a mate and having as many children as possible before age thirty. Most Bororo women were grandparents by age forty-five.

Manuel had met her while he was in the army, in Mato Grosso state. Lidia’s nineteen-year-old husband was a drug smuggler; she had just turned twenty, mother of a seven-year-old son and a three-year-old daughter. Manuel had never met the daughter…because he had accidentally killed her when the husband used her as a shield during a pursuit when they tried to serve a warrant on the husband.

Manuel was devastated by the daughter’s death. He had, of course, seen many dead children in his military career—children were an inexpensive and highly disposable commodity in most of Brazil, especially the interior. Even so, Manuel would never have knowingly raised his weapon against a child. But he was also struck by the way Lidia handled her grief. She didn’t blame the military as he expected—she put the blame squarely where it belonged, on her husband and on herself for allowing her bastardo husband to have any contact at all with the children, especially with drugs, large amounts of cash, and wanted criminals around. She was a tough, strong, principled woman, yet she tore herself apart with grief.

She also knew that no other man in her tribe would have her now: she’d lost a child, and as the only surviving family member was therefore responsible for the deaths of her husband and child and for outsiders coming into their village. Manuel could see the hatred building already in the villagers’ faces. If she didn’t commit suicide shortly after the funeral, she would either be gang-raped and turned into a lower-caste prostitute or servant, or driven out of the village. She would soon be nothing but a walking ghost.

Manuel attended the child’s funeral, a half-Catholic, half-animistic ritual cremation, then stayed to question the widow. Bororo Indians usually don’t cooperate with outsiders, much less with the authorities, but Lidia was ready to break that code of silence in order to rid her village of the drug smugglers. She became his secret witness, then a confidential informant—then, rather unexpectedly, his lover. They had their first child secretly—having a bastard child by someone outside their tribe was strictly forbidden and would have resulted in death for the child and banishment for her—and then he sent for her shortly after he left the PME. They were married in the Roman Catholic Church just days after she received her first communion.

Although native women were usually scorned by the mixed-race Euro-Indians of modern Brazil, Lidia wisely adapted herself: she became a Catholic, learned modern Portuguese and even some English, and taught herself to mask her own native accent. But more important, she discovered how not to belittle herself in the eyes of other Brazilians. Life on the docks of Porto de Santos became just another jungle to her, and she quickly made it her home.

While his son sucked hungrily on her right breast, Manuel opened Lidia’s white cotton shirt and began to suck her ample milk-swollen left breast. “Maybe I will be your baby now, Mama,” he said. “Go ahead and nag—I’m not listening anymore.”

“Leave some for your son, you greedy pig,” she said in mock sternness, but she did not move out of his hungry reach. The sensation of both her son and her husband nursing her was one of the most sensual experiences she’d ever had, and she felt the wetness between her legs almost immediately. She reached down and felt him beneath his cutoff canvas trousers, stiff and throbbing already, and she gasped as his left hand slowly lifted the hem of her dress and inched its way up her thigh. “Ai, ai, mon Dios,” she moaned as she spread her legs invitingly. “Let me put Francisco down, and then you may have all you wish, you big baby.”

“I think we are both happy right where we are, my love,” he said, reaching higher and finding her wet mound.

“If I fall off this chair it will be your fault, bastard.”

“If you fall off the chair I expect you to fall on me, lover,” he said, “and then I guarantee you will not be slipping off.”

“You filthy horny pig, you are disgusting,” she said breathlessly as she grasped him tighter through his trousers. He chuckled as he suckled—they both knew that Indian women were a hundred times hornier than any normal Brazilian male, which said a whole lot for the men in Brazil. “How dare you touch me there when you know your son might walk in on us at any moment?”

“I always thought Manuelo should learn from the best,” Manuel said.

“Carajo,” she gasped as she thrust her hips forward, impatiently driving his fingers toward her and pressing her breast tightly into his face. “Filthy horny bastard. You would shamelessly put your fingers into your wife’s chumino and continue to suck her breasts while your son watched? You are a monster.”

“I would do whatever I felt like to my wife and take great delight into pleasuring her any way I chose,” he said, roughly scraping his beard against her nipple.

“Pig. Fucking whoring pig.” There was only one other place where his beard felt better on her body than on her breast, and she couldn’t wait until he rubbed it down there. Thankfully she knew that Manuelo would probably not be home until dinnertime—they had at least an hour of privacy before the baby would awaken and her oldest son would return home. Her fingers started fumbling for the buckle on his belt. “Let’s see if this is really yours or if you just had a banana in your pocket this whole time, you filthy whoremonger.”

He moaned again as she worked on his belt…but then he heard steps on the wooden stairs outside, rapid-fire running steps, and his body froze. Lidia detected the change immediately, got to her feet, and wordlessly retreated to a curtained-off area of the second room with the baby. Manuel was on his feet, an automatic pistol that was hidden in the chair cushion behind his head in his hand. He quickly stepped over to the window and peeked outside. It was his son, Manuelo, running up the stairs past his shanty. Manuel lowered the gun and was about to call out to his son to ask him where he was going, but something—a tenseness in his nine-year-old son’s young body—made him stop. Something was wrong. Something…

“I said stop!” he heard. Manuel ducked low. A PME officer ran up the stairs and grabbed Manuelo by the back of his neck. “Don’t you run away when I tell you to stop, asshole!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were talking to me, sir,” Manuelo said. Pereira was proud of his son for staying cool and polite—the PME liked nothing better than to beat up on young orphans and street urchins to keep them in line. Politeness and showing respect went a long way toward survival in Brazil, especially if you were a kid.

“Who else would I be talking to, the damned fish?” the officer yelled. Pereira didn’t recognize him—he must be from outside São Paulo state. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Carlos, sir.” Carlos was his Catholic confirmation name, a lie that he could easily pass off as an honest mistake if questioned later. It was an unwritten code word in the shantytowns that you used your middle or confirmation name when being questioned by police, so your neighbors could support your lie for you. “Carlos Cervada.” “Cervada” was his mother’s “Portuguesed” Bororo name—again, only a half-lie.

“You’re lying. Your Indian name is Diai. You go by the name of Manuelo, in honor of your whore mother’s new husband.”

“I’m not lying, sir. I was taught never to lie to the police.”

“Shut up, bastard! You are lying, I say. Where do you live?”

“Right up there, sir,” Manuelo said, pointing.

“Where?”

“Right up there, sir. I’ll show you. My mother is there—can you see her?”

“I see a hundred women up there, boy,” the officer said. “Is your father at home?”

“My father is working, sir.”

“Where does he work?”

“At the docks, sir, for the Maersk Line. ‘Constant Care.’ That’s what they say all the time. I don’t know what it means, but…”

“You’re lying, boy. Your father is a deserter and a terrorist.”

“I’m not lying, sir. I was taught never to lie to an officer. The PME is here to help us. We must all do as the PME officers tell us. The PME is our friend. Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Where is your mother? Point her out to me.”

“Direita lá, senhor. Right there, sir,” Manuelo said. “Mamai! It’s me!” As expected, at least six or seven women waved back. “See? There she is!”

“You had better not be lying to me, boy, or I’ll beat you so badly you’ll wish you were dead. Now take me to her, imediatamente!”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.” Manuelo scrambled up the steep steps, and the PME officer had to hustle to keep up with him. “Not much farther, sir.” He was leading him away from his father, giving him the precious seconds he needed to get away. “We’re almost there…”

“Slow down, bastardo!” the officer said. But that was Manuelo’s cue to bolt. He actually accelerated up the last flight of stairs, ran down a catwalk, and reached a ladder leading up to a roof of the lower tier of shanties. “Stop! I order you to stop!” the officer shouted. Pereira was proud of his boy for reacting so fast…but out of nowhere, another PME officer grabbed Manuelo just as he started climbing up the ladder.

“Nao!” Pereira shouted, and he raced up the stairs toward his son. The first PME officer, turned and pulled out a walkie-talkie to report making contact with his quarry. The second PME officer had grabbed Manuelo by the ankle, pulled him off the ladder, and was holding him with his arms pinned behind his back, making the boy cry out in pain. Like an angry lion, Pereira went up the stairs after him.

“Stop, Pereira!” the first PME officer shouted. He had drawn his sidearm and was pointing it at him. The second PME officer started dragging Manuelo toward the first officer, making Pereira freeze. “We just want you for questioning, that’s all,” the first officer shouted. “No need for…”

At that moment there was a loud “BOOOM!” from below. Lidia Pereira had appeared in the doorway of her shanty with a sawed-off shotgun and had aimed it at the second PME officer holding her son. The second officer cried out and let go of Manuelo, who immediately ran toward his father.

“Puta!” the first officer shouted, and he turned, aimed, and fired four shots. Lidia Pereira ducked behind a wall but the flimsy and half-rotted plywood could not stop a bullet. She screamed and slumped to the floor.

Clutching his son and momentarily forgetting all about the PME officers moving in from all directions, Manuel Pereira headed back to check on his wife. She had been hit in the left thigh and grazed in the left rib cage. “Lidia!” he shouted. “Hold on. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“I’m all right, Manuel,” she gasped. There was a large bloody hole in her leg, but thankfully the bullet that had hit her chest had not pierced her lung. “Take Manuelo and go.”

“Sergeant Pereira is coming with us, Mrs. Pereira,” the first PME officer said. Two other PME officers grabbed Manuel and handcuffed him behind his back. “I think we’ll take his son too, to ensure his cooperation.”

“Cowardly bastards…!”

“It is you who is the coward, Pereira, hiding behind your son and making your wife fight your battles for you. Get them out of here.” As neighbor women came to help Lidia, Manuel and his son were taken away by the PME. Several neighbors came out of their homes and looked on, and for a moment it looked as if they might try to take the Pereiras away from the PME, but more armed officers showed up and kept the crowd from getting out of control.

They were loaded into a PME van, but instead of being driven out of the harbor area to PME headquarters in São Paulo or Santos, the van detoured into an older, more isolated section of the waterfront. Garbage trucks were unloading onto huge piles of trash, while bulldozers were pushing the piles onto conveyor belts, which led up to garbage barges ready to be taken to nearby island landfills. When the PME van came inside, the entry lane was closed off; within a half hour, all of the trucks and the bulldozer operators had gone.

Manuel Pereira and his son were finally taken out of the van and over to one of the garbage piles, both still in handcuffs. Manuel didn’t need to ask why they were taken there—he knew all too well. Moments later, he saw Yegor Zakharov’s aide, Pavel Khalimov, and then he was certain. “So, the colonel didn’t have the guts to do this himself, eh?” he asked. “I knew he was a coward.”

“The colonel doesn’t have time to take out the trash,” Khalimov said idly. The big Russian looked at Pereira’s son, smiled, put away the silenced pistol he was holding, reached down to an ankle sheath, and flicked open a switchblade knife. “I had planned this to be quick, but now I think we’ll have a little fun first. Let’s see how the big tough Brazilian soldier boy does when he sees his son die before his eyes.”

“I was sure you’d bugger him a few times first—you are into little boys, aren’t you, Khalimov?” The Russian killer’s smile dimmed, and Pereira saw him swallow hard. “Or did your boss tell you not to bugger the victims before you killed them? Afraid you’d leave DNA traces behind that would lead back to him? I get it.” Pereira turned to his son and said, “This is Captain Pavel Khalimov, son. He rapes and kills young boys for fun, like that old one-eyed Colombian Feliz down on Pier Seventy-seven did before you and your friends took care of him. What do we do to perverts like that, son?” Manuelo expertly shot a glob of spit into Khalimov’s face. “Very good, son. That’s exactly what we think of corn-holing faggots like Khalimov here.”

The big Russian flicked the switchblade in a blur of motion, opening up a deep gash on Manuelo’s left cheek. The boy screamed like the child he was but quickly silenced himself and started swearing in Portuguese. Blood gushed down his face, and very soon the boy’s face began to turn pale. “I suppose you would call that a badge of honor for your bastard child, eh, Pereira?” Khalimov asked. He stepped forward, grasped Manuelo behind his neck, and pulled him around so he could face his father. The boy kicked, clawed, and pulled, but it was obvious his strength was quickly leaving his young, thin body. “Say good-bye to your son, Pereira,” the Russian said, raising the knife. “Maybe I’ll pay a visit to your big-titted young wife after I dispose of you and see if she needs consoling.” Pereira screamed over the noise of the nearby bulldozers as Khalimov drew the knife across…

Suddenly a massive shape and a blur of motion obscured Pereira’s view. He and his PME captors were pushed roughly backward by a metallic bar or tool of some sort. Manuelo screamed again, and the father screamed in unison, unable to see or do anything in the confusion. Machine gun fire broke out—Khalimov’s guards, no doubt—so close that Pereira thought he could feel the bullets whizzing past his ears, and he instinctively curled up into a ball to present the smallest and most innocent-looking target for the gunmen. A shotgun blast rang out, completely destroying Pereira’s hearing.

He hated himself for thinking it, but he prayed that last shot, directed at the last spot where he thought Manuelo had been standing, would quickly end his suffering.

Just then, in the midst of another barrage of machine gun fire, Pereira was suddenly airborne, lifted by the back of his trousers and hurled through the air. A split-second later he landed, hard, on the concrete wharf again—and when he opened his eyes, he was face-to-face with his son, Manuelo, who was looking at him with tear-filled but overjoyed eyes, holding a blood-covered hand over his facial wound. “Manuelo…my God, Manuelo…!”

Then, between the gun blasts, he heard a strange but very loud and clear electronically synthesized voice in English. “Help the boy, dammit. Get him out of here.”

Pereira pressed his hand over his son’s face to staunch the blood and to cover his young body with his. He looked up just in time to see…well, he had no idea what in hell it was. It moved like a man but looked like something out of a science-fiction movie, with segmented body parts, wide back tapering down to a slim waist, bullet-shaped head, and weirdly articulating limbs. It didn’t move like any machine he had ever seen, but it obviously was some kind of human-looking construct. He heard machine gun fire and then saw sparks and flying pieces of shattered lead fragments as the bullets bounced off the machine; a barrel like a short grenade launcher atop a large box on the machine’s back swiveled around and fired a projectile of some sort. The acidy, stinging scent of tear gas reached his nostrils, making it instantly hard to breathe, and Pereira instinctively scooped up his son in his arms and scrambled to his feet, moving away from the gas and hoping he didn’t fall off the wharf into the harbor.

The robotlike thing sprinted away so fast that Pereira couldn’t believe what he saw. More bullets ricocheted off its smooth metallic skin. A PME officer would move out of hiding, afraid of the approaching machine, and before he could take two steps the machine was on him, knocking him unconscious with a single blow to the head with an armored fist. The pattern was repeated twice more: a soldier or one of Khalimov’s men would shoot, the robot would rush him, the gunman would bolt, and the thing conked him out.

Out of the clouds of gas a PME wheeled armored vehicle appeared, firing its twenty-three-millimeter machine gun mounted on a roof turret at the robot. The robot sprinted diagonally away, far faster than the gunner in the turret could follow, and in moments it had dodged back and jumped atop of the APC. One massive hand reached down to the machine gun barrel, and with a quick jerk the barrel bent, then snapped. The robot then pulled the gunner out of the gun turret and tossed him to the pavement, aimed the barrel of his shoulder-mounted grenade launcher inside the vehicle, and fired. Within moments acidic smoke began streaming from the turret and all of the APC’s crew members abandoned the vehicle, coughing and gagging as they threw themselves outside as fast as they could. With the APC stopped, the robot stepped off, reached down to the bottom of the armored car’s body, and effortlessly lifted the vehicle over onto its side, putting it out of action.

Yop tvayu mat! Khalimov swore to himself as he dashed for his Land Rover SUV a few meters away and opened the locked steel case in back. What in hell is that thing? He remembered something about the Americans developing a powered strength-enhancing exoskeleton that could carry weapons and give its wearer incredible physical ability, but he never thought he’d ever see one, especially not down here in Brazil! This had to be reported to Zakharov immediately—but first it had to be stopped before it rolled over both his security men and the PME officers he had hired to help him find Pereira. The thing was strong and obviously bulletproof, but it didn’t look that massive.

He had just one choice of weapon and just one chance to knock this thing out.

Through the thinning clouds of gas Pereira saw Khalimov raise what looked like a rocket-propelled grenade launcher or LAWS rocket and aim it at the robot. “Olhar Para fora! Tem um foguete!” he shouted, but he was too late. The projectile hit the robot squarely in the back on his left side, and it went flying as if hit by a wrecking ball. When the smoke cleared, the robot was lying facedown, blackened and smoldering like a half-burned piece of firewood. It looked like a smashed toy, but Pereira could see a small rivulet of purplish fluid and a wisp of smoke leaking from its back near where the projectile exploded and thought about the irony of a bleeding machine. Was it blood, or could it be…?

…and at that moment, to Pereira’s astonishment, the robot began to slowly get on its feet. It was obviously wounded, moving much more stiffly and not nearly as smoothly and gracefully as it had been just moments ago, but it was now moving toward the Russian.

Khalimov swore in Russian, dropped the spent LAWS canister, drew his pistol, and fired. The robot tried to pursue him but appeared to be suffering a serious malfunction, because it was now moving very slowly and clumsily. Khalimov holstered his pistol and ran over to one of the nearby running bulldozers, jumped in, and steered it toward the robot. The machine managed to keep from getting pinned under the front blade by hanging onto it, but Khalimov didn’t care. He steered the bulldozer over to the edge of the wharf, set the throttle lever to high, and jumped off just before the bulldozer, with the robot still clinging onto the blade, tumbled into the harbor. He looked over at Pereira, wanting to finish the job he had been assigned, but by then Manuel had retrieved a PME assault rifle and had just loaded a fresh magazine in it, so the Russian turned and sprinted away. In moments he sped off in his Land Rover with two PME sedans accompanying him.

“Jason!” Ariadna shouted. Vega, Skyy, and Jefferson, all wearing bulletproof vests, helmets, goggles, and gas masks, sprinted over to where the bulldozer had gone into the ocean.

“Follow me!” Jefferson shouted. He leaped aboard the garbage barge closest to the scene, lowered the conveyor belt that had been loading trash onto the barge, and unclipped the cable. Swinging the arm out over the gunwale, he fed out a length of cable, kicked off his boots, grabbed the end of the cable, and jumped into the harbor where bubbles were still rising. Ari dashed over to the barge and stood by the controls. A minute later, Jefferson surfaced. “Go! Raise him up, now!”

It was an immense relief to all of them to see the CID unit pulled from the ocean. He was unceremoniously laid facedown into a pile of garbage, and Ariadna was beside him immediately. “That round hit him right in the damaged power pack access door,” she said. “He lost the entire hydraulic system.” She used a Leatherman pocket tool to open a tiny access panel on the unit’s waist, punched in a code on a keypad, and the entry hatch opened up on the CID unit’s back. “Help me get him out of there.”

But it wasn’t necessary, because just then Jason pulled himself out of the flooded CID unit. He coughed, then vomited seawater, looking as white as a sheet, rattled but unhurt. “Shit, what was that?” he said after they took him away from the worst of the tear gas still wafting around the wharf. “I feel like I got hit by a train.”

“It was a LAWS rocket fired from about fifteen meters,” Ari said. “We thought you were toast. Then you got run over by a bulldozer and pushed into the ocean.”

“The sensors went blank when the rocket hit—all I got were warning messages about the hydraulic, electrical, and environmental systems failing,” Jason said. “I had just enough power to lift the blade or whatever was on top of me, then everything went out. I was okay until the water covered my face. Thirty more seconds and I was a goner.” He looked up at Jefferson and raised a hand, and the Ranger shook it. “Thank you for saving my life, Sergeant Major.”

“Don’t mention it, Major,” Jefferson said. “I’m glad you’re in one piece. I saw that LAWS round hit and thought we’d be spending the next few days picking up all the pieces. That’s one hell of a machine you built.”

They went back to look for Pereira. The Brazilian was trying to get away in the confusion and battle, but he couldn’t move very fast while still handcuffed and with an injured boy in his arms. They found him a few minutes later, hiding in some wooden shipping pallets. “Relaxe,relaxe,” Kristen Skyy said in English-accented Portuguese. She pressed a handkerchief over the boy’s facial injuries while Jefferson found a handcuff key and released them both. “The boy is hurt.”

“Quem esta? Pode me ajudar?”

“I’m a reporter. Televisao,” she replied. She was wearing a dark blue bulletproof vest with the letters “TV” in white cloth tape on both front and back; a blue Kevlar helmet with similar letters front and back; yellow-lensed goggles; a gas mask hanging under her chin; blue jeans and combat boots. “Yes, we can help you.”

Through his watery vision, Pereira could see four persons carrying the immobile robot to a waiting PME panel van. “Quem é aquele? O deus, o que é ele?”

“Amigo,” Kristen said. She put his hands back on his son’s face. “Help the boy.” She went over to the van and watched as they loaded the machine into the back. Her cameraman and soundman were right behind her, recording everything.

“Is that him?” Jason asked after the CID unit was loaded up.

“Yes,” Kristen said. “Manuel Pereira, former Brazilian army commando, GAMMA second in command. His family lives somewhere in this shantytown. I assume that’s his son—he’s supposed to have at least one son around that age.”

“Who was trying to kill him?”

“The men in uniform are PME officers,” Kristen replied. “Manuel Pereira is wanted by the PME—more accurately, he’s wanted by TransGlobal Energy, and that’s good enough for the Brazilian government.” She motioned toward an unidentified man in civilian clothing lying unconscious on the wharf. “But these guys, the ones not in uniform and the one who fired that LAWS rocket and drove you into the drink—I don’t know who they are. They might be Atividade de Inteligencia do Brasil, the Brazilian Intelligence Agency, which reports to the President of Brazil, or maybe they’re CIA.”

“That’s easy enough to check,” Jefferson said, pulling out his cell phone.

Jason, Kristen, and her crew went over to Pereira. “Fala Ingles, Manuel?”

“Um pouco. A little.”

“Quem o atacou? Who attacked you?” Pereira paused, still ethnically and morally hesitant to rat on anyone even after everything that had happened. Kristen motioned to the boy and asked in broken Portuguese, “Quem atacou seu filho, Manuel?”

Rephrasing the question to include his son changed everything—one look down at his son’s deeply scarred, blood-covered face, and the hesitation was gone. “Captain Pavel Khalimov,” Pereira said. “He is soldier with Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, GAMMA’s second in command.”

“I thought you were second in command of GAMMA?”

“No more. Zakharov is military leader now.”

“What about Jorge Ruiz?”

“I think Zakharov in charge now,” Pereira said. “Jorge want only to warn of poluicao, of corrupcao—Zakharov, nao. He is violencia, guerra, poder. GAMMA is no more.”

Kristen looked at Jason in surprise; then, after making sure her cameras were rolling, asked, “Did Zakharov have something to do with Kingman City, Manuel? Did Yegor Zakharov plan and carry out the nuclear attack in the United States?”

Pereira closed his eyes, lowered his head, then nodded. “Sim,” he said. “Terrivel. Desventurado. He must be stopped. He is very powerful, importante.” He swallowed hard, then looked away. “Desculpe. I am sorry. Zakharov is not GAMMA, GAMMA is not Zakharov. Jorge wants only paz, respeito, esperanca. Zakharov wants only violencia. I never trust Zakharov. Jorge only trust him.”

“Onde e Zakharov agora?”

“Nao sabe,” Pereira replied. “After we attack Repressa Kingman, we hide, move around.”

“Pode falar Jorge Ruiz?”

Pereira’s eyes returned to Kristen’s. “Sim,” he replied. “I can call. Telefone segredo.”

“Does Zakharov know this secret phone number?”

“Sim,” Pereira said. “We must hurry. Pressa.Jorgeestánoperigogrande.”

Pereira, his son, wife, and baby were taken away with Richter, Vega, Skyy, her film crew, and Jefferson into their waiting PME armored van. As they sped off to their waiting helicopter at São Paulo International Airport, Pereira called their secret drop number. “Nao resposta,” he said. “Eu comecei somente sua máquina da mensagem. He will call this number when he receives my message.”

“If Zakharov doesn’t get to him first,” Jefferson said. “His assassin Khalimov found Pereira—Zakharov might know where Jorge is hiding.”

“Onde esta Jorge Ruiz?” Kristen asked Pereira.

“Hiding. We move many times.”

“But do you know where he might be most of the time?”

Pereira hesitated, then nodded. “Sua quinta, his farm, em Abaete, Minas Gerais,” he said finally.

“I know where it is,” Kristen said excitedly. “I covered Ruiz during one of his human rights rallies there. Abaete is where GAMMA was started. It’s less than two hours north of here by jet.”

“The government seize his farm, move his family’s gravesite, and sold it, but the new owners allow him to visit and hide there. He…como você diz…torna-se re-energizado…strong, refreshed, there. Maybe he go there.”

“We need to get there as quickly as possible, Sergeant Major…”

“We’re going to need authorization to operate outside São Paulo state first,” Jefferson said. “I’m not going to start a war down here.”

“We’re working with the PME to…”

“Don’t even go there, Major,” Jefferson said. “I’ve seen how the PME operates: each officer hires himself out to the highest bidder, and no one even thinks twice about switching sides whenever it suits them. I was authorized to travel to Brazil to assist the authorities to capture and question Manuel Pereira, not to fly around the entire country getting into gunfights with government troops. We’re not going anywhere else except back to the States.”

“But Jorge Ruiz will be dead by then.”

“From what Pereira has said, he might be dead already—and even if he’s not, his organization has been corrupted and taken over by this Zakharov guy,” Jefferson said. “I’m not going to risk the future of Task Force TALON chasing after a guy who might not be a factor in the attacks in the United States.” He glanced back at the van following them, the one carrying Richter’s and Vega’s CID unit. “Besides, Major, Doctor, you two have some repairs to do. Or did you forget that your robot back there had to be pulled off the bottom of the harbor with a crane?”

“Then send Task Force TALON, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “You’ve got a platoon of top-notch troops back at Cannon ready to go—why not get clearance for them to deploy? We can act as their advance team and scout Ruiz’s farm in Abaete. They can bring CID Two along with some real weapons.” He made a quick mental calculation in his head; then: “They can be here by dawn. We can be in Abaete and scope out the farm at night and brief the team before they go in.”

Jefferson thought for a few moments, then nodded and opened his phone. “I’ll request the clearances and get the rest of the team loaded up and moving south,” he said. “But we don’t do anything until we get permission from the White House. We were authorized to fly to São Paulo, period. We stay here, or we head back to the States.”

Over Kingman City, Texas

A short time later

“My God,” the President breathed. “I can’t believe it…I simply can’t believe it.” He sat back in his seat in a Marine Corps UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, one of three orbiting over the blast site in a sort of aerial “shell game” to confuse any attackers that might want to shoot the President’s helicopter down. None of the helicopters had any presidential markings—they resembled the military helicopters that had been orbiting the area since shortly after the blast occurred. He shook his head numbly. “A nuclear terrorist attack on American soil. It’s simply incredible.”

“I think we’ve seen enough,” the President’s chief of staff, Victoria Collins, said, taking an apprehensive glance outside. “Perhaps we should head back, Mr. President,” she said nervously.

“Suck it up, Vicki,” they heard, just barely audible above the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.

Collins turned angrily to the third passenger in the President’s compartment. “What did you say, Chamberlain?”

“I said, ‘Suck it up, Vicki,’ ” National Security Adviser Robert Chamberlain said in an exasperated voice. “It means, we’re here to gather information and get a firsthand sense of the destruction here, not to soothe your sensibilities. It means as bad as you feel now, there are thousands of Americans down there who are suffering. So suck it up, Vicki!”

“How dare you talk to me like that?”

“I dare, Miss Collins, because you want to cut this important inspection short because your delicate little tummy can’t stand the sight of a nuclear blast just a few thousand meters away. I dare, Miss Collins, because somebody needs to tell you to put aside your fear and queasiness and do your fucking job.”

“All right, that’s enough,” the President interjected. “This is no time to be sniping at each other.” The President picked up the intercom and spoke to the pilot, and in fifteen minutes they were on the ground at Houston-Hobby Field. After a few more meetings with military, state, and federal investigation, security, and disaster relief officials aboard Air Force One, the President and his staff were airborne once again, heading back to Washington.

Aboard Air Force One, the President and his advisers were assembled in the large conference room. Only Chamberlain and Collins were with the President—the rest of the Cabinet and military advisers were present via secure video teleconference, dispersed to various safe Continuity of Government locations around the northeast and mid-Atlantic region for their security. The President first turned to General Charles Lanier, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Update on our defense response, General?”

“Fully implemented, sir,” Lanier replied. “Complete shutdown of all major civil and commercial air, sea, and land gateways. Full mobilization underway of all National Guard and Reserve units to help secure the borders, ports, petro-gas facilities, chemical plants, and major utilities. All current air and coast defense units are on full alert, and we’re adding three new air, coastal, or border defense units per day. In less than two weeks we’ll be on full wartime continental defense configuration. We’ve gotten an average of one thousand new enlistments per hour since Kingman City in active, Reserve, and Guard branches, and there’s no letup. The American people are responding like nothing we’ve seen since World War Two.”

“Everyone is going through normal background screening and training though, correct, General?” Chamberlain asked.

“Yes, of course,” Lanier responded. “Our backlogs are long but we’re ramping up and increasing our capability every day. We’re not cutting corners, just increasing capacity, slowly but surely.”

“Good. What about inspection routines?”

“Ramping up slowly but surely as well, sir,” Lanier said. “Reserve Forces units are working with Homeland Security agencies to set up one hundred percent cargo inspections.”

“Donna?”

“We’re already up to eighty percent of all air cargo and twenty percent of all sea cargo being inspected before entry,” Secretary of Homeland Security Donna Calhoun responded via video. “There’s a tremendous backlog of containers, but many shipments were stopped after Kingman City, so the disruption was already mitigated. I’m thankful for the quick Reserve Forces mobilization.”

“George?”

“Same with the prosecutors and the FBI,” Attorney General George Wentworth said. “We’re getting thousands of applicants for positions and lots of retired and former employees returning every day. The offices are bursting at the seams and it looks like total chaos out there, but the people are hunkering down and getting the job done. Everyone knows we’re under attack now, and they’re doing everything they can to help. I want to congratulate Mr. Chamberlain for proposing that call for volunteers, sir—we were ready when we needed to be. I’d hate to think of the mess we’d be in now if we didn’t have that big influx of volunteers after you made your speech.”

“I add my thanks as well,” the President said. “Now, I need some clearheaded opinions on what to do next. Let’s hear it.”

“Whoever did this has to pay, Mr. President, and pay dearly,” Chamberlain said bitterly. He turned to Collins and asked, “What about the President’s proposal of asking Congress for a declaration of war on terrorism, Vicki?”

“The status is still the same, Bob,” Collins shot back acidly. She turned to the President: “It’s still being staffed, Mr. President. The White House, Justice, State, Defense, and congressional counsels have been meeting for weeks with no consensus.”

“What’s the holdup?” Chamberlain asked.

“Simple: we don’t have anyone to declare war on,” Collins said. “You can’t legally declare war on an activity or a concept. Even Israel has never declared war on organizations such as the Palestine Liberation Organization or Hezbollah, no matter how deadly they are. You can only declare war on another nation.”

“You of course have read that in the statutes, Miss Collins?”

“It’s not in the law, Mr. Chamberlain, but it’s common sense and logical,” Collins said.

“State agrees,” Secretary of State Christopher Parker chimed in, speaking via secure videoconference from a Continuity of Government location in Virginia. “Organizations that operate within a particular country take on the legal status of that country. Countries like Libya and Syria sanctioned and even supported groups we considered ‘terrorists’ for many years. The U.S. can declare war on that country in retaliation for something an extremist organization does while operating there, but it is incorrect to declare war on the organization itself.”

“Justice does not agree,” Attorney General George Wentworth interjected. “The invasion of Afghanistan to eliminate the Taliban and al Qaeda was a combat operation against a terrorist organization…”

“But the Taliban was never considered the legitimate government in Afghanistan,” Collins argued, “and we certainly did not ‘declare war’ on either the Taliban or al Qaeda…”

“What about Hamas in Libya and Lebanon, al Qaeda in Afghanistan and Iraq…?”

“Making war and declaring war are two different things, Mr. Chamberlain, and you know it,” Collins interjected. “The President has full authority to take action against anyone or anything that threatens the peace and security of the United States, within the limits of the War Powers Act. But if the President wants authority and funding to pursue terrorists around the world for the next ten years, he needs an act of Congress.”

“In your opinion.”

“In my opinion, yes,” Collins said, “but so far the staff concurs.”

“You concur because it’s the safest and most politically nonconfrontational path, not because it’s right,” Chamberlain admonished. He turned to the President and went on, “Mr. President, I believe you can act at any time. The rumors have been circulating for weeks that you intend to do this: TV commentators have been examining the issue from top to bottom and I haven’t seen one roadblock presented yet…”

“Except the fact there’s no legal precedent for it,” Collins interjected. “Mr. President, let the staff do their job. Delay your decision awhile longer. Let us keep the topic alive with hints, rumors, and questions, and let the press and the pundits address the questions for us.”

“And how many more attacks do we have to endure like this before we act, Miss Collins?”

“What about your Task Force TALON?” Collins asked with the same acidity with which Chamberlain queried her. “That was supposed to be the prototype antiterrorist unit, sweeping out around the world hunting down the bad guys, and as far as anyone knows they’re still sitting on their hands in New Mexico.”

“They are most certainly not ‘sitting on their hands’…!”

“My last report tells me that there is a significant policy and leadership rift between the people you chose for that unit,” Collins said. “I’ve been told that half the unit doesn’t even train together and there is almost constant infighting because of a general disagreement on how the unit should be organized, led, and deployed.”

“Where are you getting this information, Collins?” Chamberlain asked. “Have you been briefed by either myself or Sergeant Major Jefferson…?”

“That’s not important. What is important is if the information is accurate or not. Is it?”

The President looked at Chamberlain, silently ordering him to answer. Chamberlain shot Collins an evil glare, but nodded toward the commander in chief. “There has been some…friction between the military and nonmilitary elements, Mr. President,” he conceded. “That was expected and it is being cleared up as we speak.”

“Robert, everything hinges on that team being ready when I go before the congressional leadership to announce my intention to ask for a declaration of war against terrorism,” the President said, the concern evident in his voice. “We have to be ready to act as soon as I get the vote, and I mean out the door and in action, not just ‘ready’ to get started. What’s the problem?”

“It’s the first dedicated full collaboration between the military special-ops community and federal law enforcement, sir—there were bound to be difficulties in establishing set procedures, tactics, chains of command, and exchange of intelligence,” Chamberlain said. “We’re attempting something that’s never been tried before: one command that controls both civil and military personnel, rather than two separate entities that attempt to work together but in fact have completely different priorities and procedures.”

“They’re all professionals, and they’re all federal employees—they know how to follow orders, don’t they?” Collins asked. “Just tell them to get their asses in gear and get the job done!”

“It’s not as simple as that, Miss Collins,” Chamberlain said. “They are professionals, and the last thing they need is an un-elected bureaucrat from Washington with no military or intelligence training telling them how to do their jobs…”

“Then maybe we picked the wrong man to form this task force,” Collins interjected.

“I serve at the pleasure of the President, same as you—he can remove me at any time and for any reason,” Chamberlain shot back at her. “But it goes to show how little you know of how experts work…”

“Experts? Mr. Chamberlain, correct me if I’m wrong, but you picked a young female FBI agent with very little field experience, and a young army major with absolutely no field experience, to lead this task force…”

“I picked a dedicated group of professionals with unique talents to head this task force, Miss Collins,” Chamberlain said resolutely. “I have every confidence in their abilities.” An Air Force communications officer dropped a message in front of him. While glancing at the message, Chamberlain went on, “It’ll just take time to get them ready for action. They will…” His facial expression became more and more disbelieving as he read, until finally, he said, “Excuse me, Mr. President, let me take care of this.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number, his voice shaking slightly as he gave the communications officer the number.

As he was speaking on the phone, Secretary of State Parker took a message handed to him by an aide: “Mr. Chamberlain, I’ve just received a message from the foreign minister of Brazil that I think you should know about…”

“I’ll be there in a sec, Chris.”

“What is going on, Chris?” the President asked.

“Sir, the Brazilian foreign ministry wants to know why we’ve sent a strike team with an armed robot down to Brazil to kill federal military police forces.”

The President turned to look at Chamberlain…but the National Security Adviser was already sitting with his mouth agape in surprise as he listened to his aide’s report. “Robert…”

“Tell them to get their asses back here, on the double!” he hissed into his phone.

“Mr. Chamberlain!” the President shouted.

“Do it!” Chamberlain snapped into the phone, then hung up. He took a deep breath, then said, “Mr. President, I’ve just received a report from my aide, Sergeant Major Jefferson. He is in São Paulo, Brazil, with elements of Task Force TALON.”

“What?” the President exclaimed. “Who in hell authorized this?”

“I did, sir, on my own initiative,” Chamberlain replied.

“Explain.”

“The cocommander of the task force, Major Richter, received information from a highly reliable civilian source of the location of a senior member of a terrorist group known as GAMMA that may have been responsible for the nuclear blast in Kingman City,” Chamberlain explained. “Without prior authorization, Major Richter prepared to take one of his robotic units, what he calls a CID, or Cybernetic Infantry Device, down to Brazil to capture this suspect. Sergeant Major Jefferson intercepted the major before he could depart.”

“So how did they end up in Brazil?”

“I verified the information Major Richter had with Kristen Skyy’s producers and top executives at SATCOM One News in New York,” Chamberlain went on. “The information was good, so I authorized the investigation.”

“With a damned armed robot?”

“No, sir. I told Sergeant Major Jefferson this was to be an investigation only. They apparently decided to bring their manned robot weapon system with them.”

“Are they crazy?” Secretary of State Parker exclaimed. “What in hell is going on with this unit of yours, Chamberlain? Are they out of their minds?”

“Under whose authority did he think he was operating, Chamberlain?” chief of staff Collins asked heatedly. “Yours?”

“I wasn’t privy to his decision-making logic, Miss Collins,” Chamberlain said distractedly.

“Oh, great…!”

“In any case, the task force did find this terrorist leader, who had been captured by government troops…”

“And our guys fought with the Brazilian army?”

“The troops were apparently trying to kill the terrorist leader, not arrest him, on orders of an unidentified foreign fighter,” Chamberlain said. “I’m unclear as to the details, but the bottom line is that the task force captured the terrorist second in command.” To the President, he went on: “Sir, they are now requesting permission to pursue leads that might result in the capture of the terrorist leader himself. They are requesting that the rest of the task force deploy to Brazil to assist.”

“Not only should they not deploy—they should all be court-martialed!”

“For what, Collins—doing their jobs?” Chamberlain asked. “They said they had concrete evidence linking this terror organization with the blast at Kingman City, and they acted. That’s exactly what they should be doing. I may not agree with them doing this without coordinating with me, but at least they acted.”

“That’s enough,” the President said. “Robert, make sure the task force members stop what the hell they’re doing and await further orders. No other contact with local law enforcement or the Brazilian military until I give the word. Brief State and Justice right away on the task-force members down there and their capabilities—especially that robot thing that’s tearing the place up.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said, picking up the telephone and looking immensely relieved.

To the Secretary of State, the President said, “Chris, speak with the Brazilian Interior Ministry about getting our guys official sanction while they’re down there before the world press thinks we’ve just started an invasion of Brazil.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And talk to him about getting them permission to hunt down terror suspects down there. If our guys are pursuing the ones who planned and carried out the attack on Kingman City, I want full cooperation.”

São Paulo, Brazil

A short time later

Ray Jefferson closed his cell phone. “That’s it,” he said. “We’ve been ordered to stand down and await further orders. No other task force deployments authorized.”

“This could be our only hope to capture Ruiz before Khalimov gets him,” Kristen Skyy pointed out.

“We’ve exceeded our authority as it is,” Jefferson said. “Mount up and let’s get out of here before more PME troops arrive and they decide we’ve broken the law—which I’m sure we’ve done.”

Jason Richter hesitated. Then, he turned to Kristen: “Do we have enough fuel to get to Abaete, Kristen?” he asked.

“Sure.” Kristen saw the look on Jason’s face, and her own expression turned serious. She shrugged and added, “Maybe just enough. We should stop there to refuel.”

Jefferson shot an angry glance at Richter. “Major, I warned you…”

“Sir, Abaete is north of here,” Jason interjected quickly. “We need to make a fuel stop as we head northbound, don’t we? Abaete is just as good a place to stop as any.”

“There’s a restaurant at Abaete Regional Airport that serves the best churrasco—Brazilian barbecue,” Kristen said with a twinkle in her eye. “You boys will love it.”

“You clowns got it all figured out, don’t you?” Jefferson asked irritably—but he nodded: it was exactly the excuse he was looking for. “All right, mount up. And get that CID unit fixed as best you can, Dr. Vega—I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

Abaete, State of Minas Gerais, Brazil

That evening

“I see you chose to disobey orders and stop in Abaete after all, eh, Sergeant Major?” Robert Chamberlain remarked via their secure cellular phone.

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson replied. He knew that their cellular phones had a GPS tracking system that continuously broadcast their exact position; he would have reported their stopover point in any case. “I can explain.”

“It’d better be good.”

“Sir, Kristen Skyy’s information has been dead on so far,” Jefferson said, “and we have every reason to believe our captive’s information is good too. We already have a large quantity of intel on this terror group and its links to Kingman City—there was no way we could simply overfly this location on our way north without checking it out.”

“Sergeant Major, that’s just not good enough to send a classified military strike team into a sovereign nation and have them blasting up the place,” Chamberlain said. “I don’t have any clearances for you yet. The Brazilian government has authorized you to be in the country with PME escorts, but you have no authority to go out searching for Ruiz or the Russians or anyone—you must turn over all information you have to the PME immediately or your authorization to be there will be revoked and you could be arrested if you have any weapons on you at all. If you get caught, the U.S. government can’t protect you. Make this just a fuel stop and get out of there as quickly as you can.”

“Sir, we have a Brazilian military police officer with us who has procured landing rights and authority for us to travel with our equipment, including the CID unit…”

“He can’t authorize you to take the CID unit into battle.”

“No, sir, but he hasn’t said we couldn’t.”

“Playing fast and loose with the rules now, Sergeant Major? Doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“As I said, sir, I believe we’re close to making a very large break in the terrorist organization that attacked Kingman City,” Jefferson said. “I think it bears investigating.”

There was a long pause on the line; then: “Is the CID unit operational?”

“They’re still working on it, sir, but I think it’s down permanently. It took quite a beating in São Paulo—I’m still amazed Richter survived it. But the robot is definitely broken.”

“Probably just as well—I can’t imagine the shit-storm if you used that thing again down there without authorization.” There was a momentary pause. Then: “Very well, Sergeant Major. I’ll try to expedite getting you some kind of official clearance to be there, but for the time being you’re going to have to rely on Miss Skyy’s press credentials and whatever authority your PME officer has to get close to this Jorge Ruiz character, if he’s still alive. Try to avoid any contact with any more of the local gendarmerie. Grab Ruiz if you can, collect any intel on this GAMMA organization you can find, and get back here on the double.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t need to tell you that most everyone in the White House wants your head on a platter right now,” Chamberlain went on. “You should have stopped the team from going to Brazil. If Kristen Skyy had truly actionable information, we could have gone through official law-enforcement channels, grabbed those GAMMA operatives, and maybe even enhanced international relations. You could win this battle and still lose the war by getting the task force canceled and yourself and your team members kicked out of the service—or worse.”

“I understand, sir. I had a decision to make, and I made it. In light of the attack on Kingman City, I felt it was the only option I had.”

“I hope you’re right, Sergeant Major, but I wouldn’t count on too many happy moments for you and your people once you get back to the States,” Chamberlain said seriously. “Just remember, until I get you some kind of emergency authorization, you’re down there on your own. If you leave that airport, I can’t protect you.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I don’t think you do, or if you do I haven’t changed your mind,” Chamberlain said with a slight bit of sardonic humor in his voice, “so I’ll say it one more time: I strongly suggest you bring your team back to the States ASAP. Let the FBI, CIA, and INTERPOL handle GAMMA, Ruiz, and Khalimov. You received the information I sent on Khalimov and Zakharov?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you should know, Sergeant Major, in case you haven’t figured it out, that you’re playing with some very, very bad dudes out there, and I don’t believe you’re equipped right now to handle them,” Chamberlain went on, his voice showing astonishment at Jefferson’s lack of reaction. “We’re not sure what Zakharov’s game is—he’s pretending to be a big supporter of GAMMA but we think he’s got another agenda. But there’s no doubt at all about Captain Pavel Khalimov: he’s a trained military and government assassin, linked to hundreds of killings around the world over the past eighteen years for the KGB in the Soviet years, for the Russian Internal Security Service, and lately as an assassin for hire. If he’s got PME troops on his payroll, he’ll be unstoppable.”

“I understand, sir,” Jefferson repeated, “but again, the opportunity to grab the head of this terror group and find out exactly who was responsible for Kingman City is paramount. We have to try.”

“I could order you not to do it.”

“Yes, sir, you could,” Jefferson said. “I believe Kristen Skyy would still demand to go.”

“You could force her to stay.”

“Yes, sir, I believe I could, and I believe her flight and production crews would not fight me on this,” Jefferson said. “But then Jorge Ruiz would probably be killed….”

“You told me you think he’s dead already.”

“We don’t know for sure, sir,” Jefferson said. “It’s only logical to think that Pereira would be a secondary target and Ruiz the primary, but perhaps Khalimov went after Pereira first in São Paulo because he’s the harder target and more of a threat to Zakharov. I don’t know. But Abaete was on the way, we’re here, and I think we should proceed.”

“Kristen Skyy won’t be able to save Ruiz even if he is alive.”

“But if I and a few PME troops go along with her, sir, we might get lucky.”

“It’s too risky. We have all the intel we need, Sergeant Major. We don’t need Ruiz…”

“Yes, sir, but it would sure be helpful if we had him,” Jefferson said. “I have no intention of letting this get out of hand, Mr. Chamberlain. We’ll be careful, sir.”

There was a very long pause on the line; then, in a very reluctant voice, Chamberlain said, “I don’t like it, Sergeant Major, but I agree that this is an opportunity we can’t pass up to get the guy who masterminded the attack on Kingman City. I’ll advise the President of what you intend to do and try my best to sell him on the idea. If there’s anyone who can take on the likes of someone like Pavel Khalimov, it’s you.”

“Thank you, sir,” he responded, but the connection was broken before he got all of the words out. He closed the flip and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Major Richter.”

“Yes, sir?” Richter replied. He and Ariadna Vega were both leaning inside the CID unit with tools and flashlights; an electronic diagnostic device was attached to an access panel, with several rows of readouts flashing red numerals. Their jet was parked by itself on an isolated part of Abaete Regional Airport’s parking ramp, about three hundred meters from the terminal building. A blue plastic tarp was slung over the rear fuselage near the open baggage compartment to hide the CID unit from observation, but this section of the ramp was pretty deserted. The PME officer traveling with them had spoken to the local PME patrols, and together they were keeping everyone away. One local PME soldier roamed around the aircraft itself, while two more in a U.S. military surplus Jeep patrolled the ramp area, chasing away curious onlookers.

“Any progress?”

“A little,” Jason replied. “We’ve replaced the hydraulic power pack, but seawater has damaged a lot of other circuitry so we can’t test it yet. We have no idea how long it will take to get it dried out and going again. Maybe not until we get it back to Fort Polk.” Ari looked at Jason with serious concern all over her face.

“Well, you gave it a try, Major, Dr. Vega,” Jefferson said. “Mr. Chamberlain is still advising us to return to the States.”

“Just ‘advising’ us? Sir, he’s not ordering us to return now?”

“He was on board Air Force One before and was reacting to the news of us being in Brazil,” Jefferson explained. “Now that he understands we’re on the trail of the organization that might have been responsible for Kingman City, he’s backed off.” Jason nodded; Ari’s concerned expression only darkened. “So it’s up to us. He has not gotten us any official government support—he says most of the White House still wants us in prison.”

“But he’s not ordering us to return anymore,” Jason observed. “It sounds like he’s secretly urging us to press on, sir.”

“That would be my guess as well, Major,” Jefferson said. “However, Chamberlain maintains that without the CID unit, we could be in real trouble without backup. I agree with him: it’s too dangerous. We should leave it to the PME, State Department, and CIA to get those guys.”

“It may be dangerous, Sergeant Major, but you’re not making the decisions here,” Kristen Skyy said. She and her crew had been unloading her equipment into an old panel van she procured from the airport manager with a lot of cash and a little womanly schmoozing. “It’s my plane, my crew, and my story. The locals will protect you and the plane while you’re here. I’m taking my crew and going out to Ruiz’s farm to try to locate him.”

Jason climbed down off the CID unit. “Khalimov will certainly be out there, waiting for you,” he said, stepping over to her. “Don’t go. The sergeant major’s right: it’s too dangerous.”

“This is the hottest story of the decade, maybe even of the century,” Kristen said. “The story is out there, not here at this airport. I’m going.” She noticed the look of extreme concern on his face and smiled appreciatively. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve been in lots of dangerous places before—I don’t think a farm in Brazil will be one of them.”

“Kristen…”

She reached out, touched his face, and smiled. “Hey, look at me—I’ve got a man worried about me. That’s a nice switch.” She motioned to the PME officer from São Paulo, now behind the wheel in the van. “I’ve got my friend Alderico there too, so I don’t think we’ll have any trouble if we run into any local PME.”

“What’s your plan, Kristen?” Jason asked.

“I want to make contact with the farm’s new owners and see if anyone else other than the PME has been sniffing around,” she replied. “I intend to look around first, do a little surveillance, and check it out carefully before I go in. That farm is surely under twenty-four-seven surveillance by several Brazilian and other government agencies…”

“And Zakharov and Khalimov,” he reminded her.

She held up a pair of night-vision binoculars, and tapped her chest indicating her bulletproof vest. “Standard issue stuff in our line of work. Don’t worry about me. I suggest you be ready to blast off as soon as I radio you—I might be high-tailing it out of there.”

Sergeant Major Jefferson drew his forty-five-caliber Smith and Wesson pistol from its holster on his right hip, checked the safety was on, then holstered it again. “I’m going with you,” he said.

Kristen looked at the big Ranger and nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

Jason looked surprised. “You want him to go with you?”

“Hell yes. Do you think I’m stupid? I’ll take as many guns as I can with me.”

“Then I’ll go too,” Ariadna said, unholstering her SIG Sauer P220. Kristen was about to ask if she knew how to handle it, but Ari checked that she had a round chambered in the gun and reholstered it almost as fast and as expertly as Jefferson. Kristen nodded, impressed, and made sure she got a bulletproof vest, one with the letters “TV” outlined in tape on it.

“Ari…!”

“I’m no use here until all that seawater is dried up inside the CID unit, right, J?” Jason looked at her carefully, not believing what she was saying. “Right?”

“Yes, right.”

“Then let’s do it,” Kristen said.

“Eu irei protegê-lo. I will go and protect you,” Manuel Pereira said.

Kristen nodded, and a PME officer gave him a bulletproof vest, a beat-up looking shotgun, and a box of shells; he loaded his gun quickly and stuffed the remaining shells into his pockets. To Jason, Kristen said, “The flight crew can watch over you and the plane and make sure the PME doesn’t try anything. It’ll take us no more than twenty minutes to drive back from the farm. When we radio you, have the crew fire up the engines and taxi to the hold line—we’ll go right to the end of the runway and jump on board so we can be off the ground as soon as the door’s shut.”

Everyone headed to the van to load up; Jason grasped Ariadna’s arm before she climbed inside. “Keep your damn fool head down, Ari,” he said.

“I will,” she replied. She looked at him carefully. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, J?”

“Let’s go, boys and girls,” Jefferson prompted them.

Jason shrugged. “I’ll get back to work on El CID,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

“Just get it fixed, J,” she said seriously, and climbed inside the van. Jason immediately returned to work on the crippled robot, working as fast and as hard as he could.

Less than thirty minutes later, they passed over a cattle grating and four-strand barbed-wire fence with a whitewashed wooden archway over the driveway. Kristen scanned the area with her night-vision equipment—nothing seemed out of place. A dog barked in the distance—typical of any farm—and a peacock screeched, a bird often used by Brazilian farmers like watchdogs. “This is it,” Kristen said. “My crew and I are going in. I’ve contacted the new owners, and they’ve agreed to meet with us off-camera, although they say they have nothing to say about Jorge Ruiz or GAMMA.”

“Did you detect any kind of duress?” Jefferson asked.

“They were definitely nervous when I mentioned Ruiz,” Kristen said, “but it also seemed to me they were accustomed to doing interviews about Ruiz and GAMMA—rather, giving interviews but not talking about Ruiz. They did invite us inside, though. He’s a retired federal judge; I think I’ve met him before.”

“Think Ruiz is here? Think they’re protecting him?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” She turned to Pereira. “Manuel, onde nós encontraríamos Jorge? Where would we find him?”

“Cemetery da sua família…his family cemetery, the place of the sepulturas, the gravesites, before the government dig them up,” Pereira replied. “The graves are no longer, but the Rocha da Paz, the Rock of Peace, is there. That is Jorge’s place of prayer.”

“That’s the last place you should go—if the PME or Khalimov is here, that’s exactly where he’ll be waiting for us,” Jefferson said. “Manuel and I will scout it out. We’ll meet up with you in the farmhouse.” The Ranger took their short-range FM walkie-talkie, keyed the mike, engaged the “HOT MIKE” locking switch keeping the mike button depressed, tested it, and told Ariadna to hook it on her pants out of sight. “I’ll be able to hear everything you say, so if you get in trouble I’ll know. You’re a producer or an assistant; you’re from Mexico; you speak Spanish and not much Portuguese; your English is very poor. Got it?”

“Si, señor,” Ari replied weakly.

“You want to give me your gun? If they find it on you, they’ll likely make it very difficult for you—it’ll be harder to convince them you’re just a journalist.”

Ari swallowed hard, but shook her head and smiled bravely. “I’ll keep it. ¿Una muchacha consiguió protegerse, no? A girl’s gotta use protection, right?”

“How will we know if you’re okay, Sergeant Major?” Kristen asked.

“Manuel, how long to get to the cemetery from here?”

“Não muita hora. Ten, fifteen minutos.”

“Give us no more than thirty minutes to scout out the cemetery,” Jefferson said. “If you don’t hear from us, assume we’ve been captured or killed, and get the hell out. Get on the jet and blast off—don’t try to set up a rescue mission or talk to the PME, just get out of Brazil.”

“Make it forty-five,” Kristen said. “Thirty minutes is not enough time for me to…”

“Thirty minutes, Miss Skyy,” Jefferson maintained, “or you’re risking your life and that of your crew and Dr. Vega. I would take it personally if any of you are hurt because you stayed to ask one last question or took one last ‘reaction’ shot.” Kristen noted the big Ranger’s stern voice, remained silent, and nodded.

“Shouldn’t we all scout out the farm first before we go in?” Ariadna asked.

“You’re a film crew from the United States here to do a piece on Jorge Ruiz and GAMMA—why would you be skulking around the place first?” Jefferson asked. “Let us do our recon, and you do your interview. Forget that we’re out there.”

“Okay,” she said, handing him her night-vision goggles. “You’ll need these.”

“Thank you.” Jefferson turned directly to Kristen and said, “I know this is your job and your career, Miss Skyy, but these men are killers, and no story is worth your life or the lives of your crew or Dr. Vega. Pavel Khalimov is a military-trained assassin for hire. If you suspect anything is wrong, turn around and get out. Is that clear?”

“I’ve done interviews with genocidal dictators, mass murderers, mobsters, gang-bangers, and every kind of human scum that’s ever existed—most times on their own turf,” Kristen said. “My crew and I have been shot at dozens of times; my cameraman Rich there has pieces of a camera still embedded in his eye socket after a bullet missed his head and his camera was shot out of his hands while he was filming. We’ll be careful, Sergeant Major—but we’re here to get a story, not sightseeing. The story is learning the whereabouts of, or perhaps rescuing, Jorge Ruiz. If I can’t do that story, I’ll get out—but not before.”

Jefferson looked at her grimly, then glanced at Ariadna. “Her attitude the same as yours, Doctor? You still want to go with her?”

“Si,” Ari said. “Usted dos es los comandos, no yo. You two are the commandos, not me.”

“All right, let’s do it,” Jefferson said. They checked their watches, and he and Pereira disappeared into the darkness at a fast trot.

“Here we go,” Kristen said, and they drove ahead toward the farmhouse. After about a kilometer on a bumpy gravel road, they came across a corral with two horses, a two-story barn, a small adobe cottage, and a low rock wall surrounding a very nice pink stucco single-story house with a tile roof. An older couple had been on rocking chairs on a tile-covered patio seated beside a low fire pit, and they got to their feet as the van approached. Two men who appeared to be farmhands approached the van, one in front left and one from the right rear, both carrying small-gauge shotguns—useful for scaring off coyotes or shooting snakes and not much else.

Kristen emerged from the front passenger seat. “Are you Miss Skyy?” the old gentleman called out from his patio.

“Sim,” Kristen replied. “Eu sou Kristen Skyy, SATCOM One News. Senhor e senhora Amaral?”

“Sim,” the gentleman replied. “That is Jose, and the other is Marco. They are my men. Who else is with you, menina?”

“My crew, Rich, Bonnie, and Ariadna,” Kristen replied. She motioned to the PME officer behind the wheel of the van. “Tenente Quintao is here just as an escort, not in any official capacity. He is from São Paulo. He won’t interfere.” The worker named Marco opened the van’s side door, stepped away, and waved the others out; the PME officer wisely put his hands atop the steering wheel so the first farmworker wouldn’t get too nervous.

Amaral saw the cameras and recording equipment and waved his hands. “Nao câmeras, nao retratos,” he said.

Kristen nodded to the cameraman, who put his camera back in the van—then, while the sound person Bonnie and the PME officer screened him, Rich put the camera up onto the glare shield pointing toward the farmhouse and turned it on. Thankfully the dome light didn’t work and Marco, intent on watching Kristen, didn’t notice. “Nao retratos,” Kristen said. She held up her palm-sized digital recording device. “I would like to use a recorder, but it is only for my own personal use—I will not broadcast your or your wife’s voice. Nenhuma transmissão de suas vozes, aprovação?”

Amaral nodded and waved for them to come up to his patio. His wife had a pitcher of cold guarana fruit juice and a bowl of salada de fruta on a small table between them. There was only one chair, but Rich and Bonnie were accustomed to melting away into the background while Kristen worked. One of the farmhands, Jose they assumed, stayed somewhere behind them in the darkness on the other side of the rock wall; Marco was nowhere to be seen. “Obrigado vendo nos hoje à noite, senhor, senhora,” Kristen said, taking a sip of the sweet green fruit juice.

“You may speak English, Miss Skyy,” the man said, “although your Portuguese is very good.”

“Muito obrigado,” Kristen said. “I believe we’ve met, senhor. You were a federal judge when Jorge Ruiz had his environmental workshops here, no?”

“I do not know where Jorge Ruiz is,” Amaral said quickly. “I have not seen him in many years.”

“But you do allow him to come back, don’t you, Advocado?” Kristen asked. “You know he comes and visits the site of his family cemetery, the Rocha da Paz, don’t you?” Both the Amarals’ eyes widened in fear, and they shook their heads—but it was obvious in their faces that they knew. Kristen held up a hand. “Don’t be afraid, senhor. We are not here to capture Jorge—in fact, we are here to help him.”

“We know nothing of Jorge Ruiz,” Amaral repeated woodenly. His wife shook her head, afraid to speak but anxious to support her husband’s claim.

“Has the PME or any agents of the government or of TransGlobal Energy come out here searching for Jorge, sir?”

“Muitas vezes. Many times. They think he still come here. I have not seen him in a very long time, since the days of his faculdade ambiental, his environmental college, here.”

“Do you believe Jorge Ruiz is a terrorist?”

The gentleman sighed deeply, then nodded somberly. “The police, the TransGlobal Energy corporation, they did terrible things to him and his family,” he said. “I believe his mind was torcido, twisted, by the violence. Any man would be filled with such horrible anger to see his wife and children burned alive in his own house.” But he shook his head. “But even this does not excuse his actions. Revenge is one thing: continued violence all over the country, possibly all over the world—this is not right.”

“You have heard of the nuclear bomb attack in the United States?” Amaral and his wife nodded fearfully. “Do you think Jorge could plan and carry out such a thing?”

“Nunca!” Amaral retorted. “Yes, Jorge and his followers have killed a few corrupt police, foreign security officers, and bureaucrats when he bombs dams and bridges—and yes, he has even killed innocent bystanders, for which he must answer to God and to the law. But Jorge would never, ever consider using a nuclear weapon! It is against everything he holds sacred.”

“I have reliable information that Jorge Ruiz’s organization, GAMMA, orchestrated both attacks.”

“I refuse to believe it,” Amaral insisted. “Nao. Jorge is strong-willed and dedicated, but he is not an assassino louco. Now you must leave.”

“Judge Amaral…”

“Nao. You are like all the others…you believe what you wish to believe to sell your papers and be on television! Marco! Jose! Vindo aqui! These people will be leaving now.”

Guns at the ready, Jefferson and Pereira approached the old gravesite, about a hundred and fifty meters east of the farmhouse. A few cows snorted and mooed in the darkness as they moved along, but except for a few lights at the farmhouse, it was completely quiet and still.

Jefferson listened intently to the walkie-talkie broadcast from the others as they moved. “Sounds like Skyy has just about worn out her welcome,” he whispered. Pereira could not understand him, but looked at him with an inquisitive glance. “We must hurry,” Jefferson summarized. “Hurry. Rapido.” He hoped Pereira knew enough English and his pidgin Spanish to make himself understood.

Through the night-vision goggles, Jefferson could finally make out the rock at the old gravesite, a huge boulder about the size of a large desk, with a bronze plaque embedded into the face…and, to his surprise, there was a man kneeling before it, his hands clasped atop the rock, his head bowed in prayer. He wore a simple farmer’s outfit of coveralls and frayed, muddy knee-high boots. “There’s someone there,” Jefferson whispered. “Un persona over there.”

“Jorge?” Pereira asked excitedly.

“I don’t know,” Jefferson said. “No sé. He’s praying. Praying.” He didn’t know the Spanish word, and Pereira didn’t seem to understand him, so Jefferson made the sign of the cross on himself with the muzzle of his .45 pistol. “Praying.”

“Deve ser Jorge!” Pereira said excitedly, and he trotted past Jefferson.

“No!” Jefferson hissed.

But it was too late—Pereira rushed past Jefferson before he could stop him. “Jorge!” he said in a quiet voice. “É você?”

“Manuel?” the man replied, half-turning toward him and rising to his feet. “Eu não posso acreditar que é você! I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Jorge, we must get you out of here,” Manuel said, stepping quickly over to him. “Khalimov is after us. He tried to kill me and my…”

Through the night-vision goggles Jefferson saw the man move, but it was too late to call out a warning. Just as Manuel reached him, the man spun, kicked Pereira’s legs out from under him, pinned his bad arm behind him, and ground his face into the dirt so he couldn’t cry out. “At least now I get a second chance to finish the job, Manuel,” Pavel Khalimov said. Pereira struggled, but Khalimov had the loop of a nylon handcuff already around one wrist and was about to pull the other wrist through the loop…

“Hey, asshole.” Khalimov looked up at the unexpected American voice—and the steel toe of a leather combat boot caught him squarely in his right temple, knocking him unconscious.

“I believe Jorge’s innocent, Judge Amaral,” Kristen insisted. “Please believe me. I believe he’s being used as a scapegoat by one of the men in his organization.”

“I know nothing of any of this…!”

“You were a federal judge here in Minas Gerais, senhor,” Kristen said. “You were involved in almost everything that happened in Jorge Ruiz’s life since he returned from the United States. You presided as he built the environmental and human rights forum here in Abaete and founded GAMMA—I believe you even assisted in projects that helped grow that institution, such as expanding the regional airport and improving the roads so more people would come here from all over the world. You know him as well as anyone…”

“I said go!” Amaral shouted. “Marco! Jose! Onde estão você? Vindo aqui…!”

“Judge Amaral, I have information that one of Jorge’s lieutenants, a man by the name of Zakharov, engineered the nuclear attack in the United States,” Kristen said quickly. “I don’t believe Jorge knew about this attack beforehand. I believe this man did this under the name of GAMMA without Jorge’s knowledge or authorization. I don’t know why he would do this, but…”

“I know nothing of this Zakharov!” Amaral cried out. “Jose! Marco…!” He peered into the darkness, obviously wondering where his men were. “Vindo rapidamente! Eu necessito-o…!”

“Espera, pai,” they heard in a soft voice. Kristen turned…and saw Jorge Ruiz himself appear out of the darkness around a corner of the farmhouse.

“Jorge, nao…”

“Todos endireitam, pai,” Ruiz said. He clasped Amaral on the shoulder and gave Amaral’s wife a kiss on the forehead, then turned toward the others. “Kristen Skyy from SATCOM One,” he said in a soft, almost accent-free voice with a tired but sincere smile. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“I’m glad to see you’re alive, Jorge,” she said. “Why did you call Judge Amaral ‘father’?”

“Because he is my father, my natural father,” he replied. “He used his position to keep the adoption records secret, but he shared them with me after my adoptive parents’ murder.”

“And he used his position as a federal judge to get this land when the government seized it,” Kristen said, “knowing he could protect you and tell you when the PME had it under surveillance?”

“Sim,” Jorge said. “But after the attack in the United States, the whole world will have this place under careful watch. It is too dangerous for them to be here. I came back to warn them to leave.”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Kristen said. “You are in serious danger. A Russian by the name of Khalimov was ordered to assassinate Manuel Pereira in Santos. I believe he’ll be after you next.”

“Is Manuel dead?” Kristen looked at Ariadna, then feigned a disappointed expression; Ruiz immediately interpreted it as a “yes.” “I am so sorry,” he said. “He tried to warn me about Zakharov and Khalimov. I thought it was just competição, Zakharov being a colonel and Manuel only being a sergeant. I thought…”

“Zakharov is a colonel?” Kristen asked. “A Russian colonel?”

“The questions can wait, Kristen,” Ariadna said. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled the walkie-talkie from her jeans. “I hope you guys can hear me…”

“Now, who might you be talking to, menina?” a strange, heavily accented voice asked. Out of the darkness behind Ruiz walked Amaral’s two farmhands, Jose and Marco, with their hands on their heads, their shotguns nowhere in sight, followed by two men with silenced automatic pistols aimed at their heads. They were followed by a huge barrel-chested, square-jawed man in a dark hunting jacket, dark pants, and gloves, carrying an immense sniper rifle. “We must get acquainted. I insist.”

The Policia Militar do Estado Jeep approached the SATCOM One News jet in its isolated spot on the parking ramp at Abaete Regional Airport and stopped beside the outer perimeter guard, driver-to-driver as cops on patrol did all around the world. If the inner guard stationed by the jet had been paying any attention, he might have noticed two bursts of light inside the second Jeep, but he was standing behind the tail of the jet, a few meters away from the little blue vinyl tent erected there by the American engineers working on their device, having a cigarette and staring out across the ramp toward the terminal building, wishing he was inside having a beer.

The oncoming Jeep shut off its headlights, then briefly flashed its amber parking lights a few moments later, not enough to get the inner guard’s attention. Unseen by the lone guard, a man dressed completely in black, hidden in the brush just outside the airport perimeter fence, slipped through a cut already made in the chain-link fence, lay flat on the ground at the very edge of the tarmac about fifty meters from the jet, and raised his sniper rifle. The scope’s light-intensifying optics showed the lone guard in clear detail in the sniper’s crosshairs, his body illuminated only by his cigarette…

A few moments later, one of the men in the oncoming Jeep heard “Dal’she” in Russian in his headset. “The last guard’s been eliminated,” he told the driver. “Let’s go.” They dismounted from their Jeep and walked toward the vinyl tent quickly, trying not to appear rushed or excited, their Beretta M12 submachine guns with sound suppressors affixed slung behind them, readily accessible but out of sight. There was a dim light on in the cockpit, probably from a reading light. The entry door was open, and there appeared to be a light on somewhere inside the cabin. There was a powerful light on under the blue vinyl tent in the back of the plane, and they could see some instrument with blinking red lights and an occasional electronic tone, and what appeared to be a lone individual sitting on a chair inside.

The two men drew their weapons as they approached the jet. One crouched beside the open entry door, covering the interior, while the other stepped quickly around the left wing tip, his weapon trained on the tent. Once he was in position, the first assailant near the entry door said in English, “This is Sergeant Cardoso, Policia Militar do Estado, Minas Gerais. I need to speak with the pilot, please.”

“Just a sec,” a voice said from inside. “He’s in the lavatory.”

“It’s important,” the first assailant said.

“Okay. Stand by.”

The second assailant crouched low so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside through the windows and followed the trailing edge of the left wing, ready to fire. He had strict orders not to shoot the plane itself because the boss was going to fly it out of there tonight, so he didn’t want to fire toward the left engine, which was partially obscured by the tent. He could see and hear the jet moving as someone stepped down the aisle. Now he was almost at the fuselage, and he could see enough of the engine out the tent’s front opening that he knew he wouldn’t hit it. The footsteps behind him were louder—the pilot or whoever was inside was almost at the entry door. He could see the blinking test equipment, the canvas camp stool, and now the open baggage compartment door…

…but there was no one underneath. “Huyn’a!” he swore in Russian into his headset. “Poostoy!” He moved toward the tent—no one there at all. There was a duffel bag on the camp chair with a jacket placed atop it to make it look like a person sitting in the chair! “Bayoos shto nyet!” He dashed around it toward the tail, aiming his rifle back at the entry door, waiting for whoever it was to come out…and then realized that his comrade was gone.

He heard a rustling sound and quickly aimed his rifle at the sound. It was the lone PME guard who had been stationed near the plane, the one he thought had been shot by his sniper, kneeling beside the unmoving form of the sniper out at the edge of the pavement! The guard got to his feet and started looking around, unsure of which way to run. The Russian aimed at him and set the fire-select switch to three-round burst…

…when suddenly his Beretta submachine gun flew up and out of his hands before he could squeeze the trigger. He turned and saw a massive dark figure standing beside him…then a blur of motion, just before he felt the blow to the side of his head. His vision was obscured by a curtain of stars, then nothing.

Jason Richter, inside CID One, destroyed the Beretta submachine gun with one quick twist of his robotic hand as he made his way to the entry door. “Captain!” he shouted. The pilot appeared from behind a seat, a pistol in his hands. “Get this thing ready to fly! If anyone else comes near this plane, kill them!”

“Hey! Where are you…?” But the robot was completely out of sight before the pilot could even get out of the plane.

“Yegor!” Ruiz exclaimed. “What in hell is going on? Release those men! What are you doing here?”

“Weren’t you listening, Jorge? I’m here to kill you,” Zakharov replied matter-of-factly. The two men with Zakharov pushed the farmworkers toward the Amarals and made them kneel down, hands on their heads. Zakharov went over to Ariadna and took the walkie-talkie away from her. “But first I’m going to learn a little more about your new friends here. Miss Kristen Skyy of course needs no introduction. Who is this lovely lady in the bulletproof vest?”

“Mi inglés no es tan bueno, señor,” Ariadna said.

“Absurdo. Pienso que su inglés es excelente, señorita,” Zakharov said in very good Spanish. He quickly searched her and immediately found her pistol. “Reporters these days are armed very well, I see—body armor and a pistol. Who are you?”

“I…I’m with Kristen,” Ariadna said in English. “SATCOM One News. You must be Yegor Zakharov…Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”

“Kristen Skyy’s bodyguard? Lover? What?”

“Producer.”

“Producer. Ah, I see. And who were you talking to?”

“Our security officer, in the van.”

“If you are speaking of Lieutenant Quintao, I’m afraid he won’t be answering you,” Zakharov said. “He wasn’t very trustworthy anyway—I found him nearly asleep behind the wheel. I believe I taught him a valuable lesson: never fall asleep on guard duty.” He stepped toward Ariadna menacingly. “But he did not have a walkie-talkie with him, just a video camera. So who were you talking to?”

“I have some questions for you, Colonel Zakharov,” Kristen interjected. “Let’s you and me talk. She isn’t in charge of this crew: Iam.”

“Oh, believe me, Miss Skyy, we will be talking together, quite extensively,” Zakharov said. “But I know you very well already, of course; and you have two people over there that, if I may hazard an observation, look like members of your production crew. I would even venture to say they are not armed. But you were armed, menina. And pardon me, but you do not look like a journalist to me. Now, who are you?”

“I told you, Colonel, I’m a…”

The butt end of the Dragunov sniper rifle flashed in a blur of motion, and in the blink of an eye Ariadna lay on her back on the stone patio floor, blood streaming from her mouth. “It is going to get very, very ugly for you, lagarta, unless you talk,” Zakharov said. “It is a simple question: who are you?”

“Bastard!” Ariadna swore, wiping blood from her mouth. She was unable to speak for several moments, dazed from the blow; then, she replied weakly, “Vega. My name is Vega.”

Zakharov’s eyes widened in surprise—it was clear that he recognized the name. “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Dr. Ariadna Vega?” It was Ari’s turn to look shocked. “I am surprised to see you here. You are not at all what I expected. A female civilian scientist and electrical engineer working for the United States Army—I expected either a tattooed dyke or an ugly one-hundred-and-fifty-kilo nerd with glasses as thick as icebergs.”

“What are you talking about, Colonel?” Kristen asked. “Do you know her? What’s going on here?”

“We will have our conversation soon, Miss Skyy,” Zakharov said in a menacing tone. “For now, please do not interrupt us.” He withdrew a military walkie-talkie from underneath his coat and keyed the microphone: “Kapitan? Zayaveet. Ana zdyes.” To Ariadna, he said, “We did not expect you to accompany Miss Skyy, so it created a little confusion out at the airport.” Ari’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh yes, we located your jet and your friends at Abaete airport, and they should be well taken care of by now. The PME was not very cooperative at first, but we convinced them quite easily of how much we wanted to greet our visitors from New Mexico.” He keyed the mike button again: “Kapitan? Zayaveet!”

“If you’re trying to call Captain Khalimov, Colonel, don’t bother—he’s right here.” Half-hidden by a corner of the farmhouse, Sergeant Major Jefferson emerged with his pistol aimed at Khalimov’s head. “Now drop your rifle and order your men to drop their guns.”

“I suggest you drop your weapon before there is a bloodbath here,” Zakharov said casually, aiming the captured pistol at Ariadna. “We have you outgunned.”

“Não exatamente, Zakharov,” Manuel Pereira said, using his commando skills to remain hidden in the darkness although he was less than a dozen meters away. “And if there is to be a bloodbath, you will be the first to die. Eu garanto-o.”

“Manuel!” Ruiz shouted. “Thank God you’re alive.”

“Do it, Zakharov!” Jefferson ordered. “Drop your weapons, or I’ll blow this fucker’s head off, and Manuel will do the same to you.”

“You mean, all that’s standing between my seven hostages and you is Captain Khalimov there? Ya huy na nivo palazhyl. Here’s what I think of that.” In a blur of motion, Zakharov pocketed the pistol, swung the Dragunov sniper rifle up, and fired. Khalimov screamed and flew backward, the round hitting squarely in his chest like a hammer.

The ensuing battle took only seconds, but the carnage was enormous. Zakharov immediately sprinted to his right and took cover behind the van. His two gunmen fired bullets into the heads of the two Brazilian farmworkers, killing them instantly. One of them turned his gun toward Kristen Skyy and fired. Kristen screamed, took a couple of steps toward Jefferson, then dropped to the ground. The Russians died moments later when Pereira fired two three-round bursts from Khalimov’s submachine gun and made perfect hits.

Zakharov fired a round toward the corner of the farmhouse where Jefferson was, making him duck for cover, then retrieved Ariadna’s pistol from his pocket and fired at where Jorge Ruiz had been standing near the Amarals. At the first shot, Ruiz turned, ran at full speed, and body-tackled his parents, sending them and himself over the other side of the short stone wall surrounding the patio. Kristen’s crew members leaped over the wall themselves, disappearing into the darkness.

“Stop!” Zakharov shouted from behind the van. “Stop or I’ll kill Skyy and Vega!” Ariadna was still too dazed to move—she had simply curled up in a fetal position when the bullets started flying over her, with her hands over her ears and her eyes tightly closed.

“Give it up, Zakharov!” Jefferson said. “You’re not going anywhere!”

“And neither are you!” Zakharov said. “I knew about your jet at the airport, and I had everyone there executed. The jet and all your equipment is mine.”

Jefferson found he had stopped breathing—could he be telling the truth? “Bullshit!” he finally shouted. “Pereira! Flank that bastard and kill him!”

“If I even suspect he’s moving against me, I’ll kill her.”

“If you kill Vega, I’ll spend the rest of my life hunting you down!” Jefferson said. “Pereira! Get that son of a…!”

At that moment, a military helicopter appeared out of nowhere, a bright Nightsun searchlight sweeping across the patio. “Uyedu na-hui! About fucking time!” Zakharov swore to himself. He pulled out a portable radio, keyed the mike button, and said in Portuguese, “Este é Zakharov. Escute acima! Target one on the northwest corner of the farmhouse; target two somewhere in the weeds west of target one; targets on the move on the east side of the farmhouse. Mate-os todos!”

The Nightsun light zeroed right in on Jefferson, and a gunner aboard the helicopter opened fire with an assault rifle. Jefferson ducked out of the way just in time and ran behind the farmhouse. Pereira switched his submachine to full automatic and swept the sky with bullets toward the helicopter until the magazine was empty, then ran out toward the highway. The helicopter wheeled right and maneuvered in that direction to follow him.

“Nao!” Zakharov shouted in Portuguese. “Comece outro! Get the other one! I want target one!” The helicopter wheeled hard right again and started searching for Jefferson. Switching to Russian, Zakharov shouted, “Keptan! Pashlee! Tyepyer!” Pavel Khalimov rolled painfully onto his back to catch his breath, then rolled again and struggled to his feet, rubbing the spot in the center of his chest where the sniper round had impacted his bulletproof vest. He half-collapsed on the hood of the van that Zakharov was hiding behind. “Are you all right, Captain?” Zakharov asked.

Khalimov wiped half-dried blood from around his left eye, but nodded. “It feels like my sternum is broken, Colonel,” he gasped, “but I can travel and fight.”

“Serves you right for getting yourself captured, Captain,” Zakharov said, only half-joking. “Next time you do that, I’ll aim higher.” A switchblade appeared in Zakharov’s hand out of nowhere; he cut Khalimov’s wrists free and gave him the pistol. “Kyem? Who is he?”

“He is military,” Khalimov replied. “Older, but very well trained.”

“Jefferson. United States Army Ranger. Bardak,” Zakharov swore. “Looks like our airport team failed.” He raised his walkie-talkie to his lips, keyed the mike button, and asked in Portuguese, “Where are the ground units?”

“Pulling onto the ranch now, Colonel,” the helicopter pilot responded.

“I want every one of those bastardos captured and executed!” Zakharov shouted. “No one is to be left alive, do you understand?”

“Compreenda tudo, senhor. We have one of them in our sights now.”

They looked over and saw the helicopter stabilize just a few dozen meters away, the Nightsun searchlight focused on the east side of the farmhouse. The door gunner opened fire with several three-round bursts. The helicopter descended until it was less than ten meters aboveground, and the door gunner opened fire again. From that range, Zakharov thought, he could not miss. “Well?” he radioed. “How many did you hit?”

“Uh…senhor, nos temos um problema aqui,” the pilot radioed back. Both Zakharov and Khalimov turned toward the target being highlighted by the searchlight…

…just as a strange figure leaped up onto the roof of the farmhouse! It was larger than a man, standing over three meters tall, but it moved with amazing agility and speed. The helicopter swooped down, almost right over him, the door gunner firing on it in full automatic mode now. “Shto yobanyy eta?” Zakharov shouted.

“That’s it! That’s the robot I reported to you, sir,” Khalimov said excitedly.

“The one that was supposed to be broken?” Zakharov shouted. “The one that you were supposed to have captured at the airport?”

But the assassin didn’t have a chance to answer because seconds later, just as the gunner stopped to reload, the robot leaped off the farmhouse roof and flew right into the helicopter’s open door. Moments later the door gunner flew headfirst out of the door, and thick smoke started streaming from inside the helicopter. The robot figure leaped clear of the aircraft as it started to spin uncontrollably; Zakharov helped Khalimov run away when the craft crash-landed just a few meters from where they had been.

“My…God,” Zakharov breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“They must have repaired it on the way here from Santos,” Khalimov said. “I crushed it under a bulldozer and dropped it into the ocean!”

“No, I was told that it was inoperative just before we came out here!” Zakharov roared. “That’s the last time I listen to intelligence information from someone who’s sitting on their ass thousands of miles away.” At that moment, heavy-caliber machine gun fire erupted, followed by a racing diesel engine and then a loud explosion. “Let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong, Captain.”

A squad of six Jeeps raced up the gravel driveway to the farmhouse, with three PME soldiers and a gunner on board manning a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on a pedestal in the back. The Jeeps were fitted with searchlights, operated by the soldier in the passenger seat. Three of the Jeeps veered off the road to the east and started their pursuit as the soldiers spotted Ruiz, the Amarals, and Kristen’s crew members running down into a grassy gully. The gunners took aim on Ruiz and…

…at that moment a huge figure landed on the hood of the lead Jeep, reached out with a hand, and snapped the machine gun off its pedestal with one twist. Using the forty-kilo machine gun as a club, the figure smashed the Jeep’s steering wheel and driver’s side instrument panel with a single tremendous blow, then jumped off and ran after the second Jeep. Jason ran beside the second Jeep and swung the machine gun again, destroying the windshield. The driver and passenger ducked just in time to avoid the weapon, but the driver lost control and flipped the Jeep over.

The third Jeep wheeled left to try to run the robot over while the gunner tried to draw a bead on him. Just as Jason was going to make a leap that would take him on top of the gunner, a warning indication flashed in his electronic visor: less than thirty minutes of power remaining. Moments earlier it said he had over an hour of power remaining. Something was happening: he was losing power at a tremendous rate, probably due to a short-circuit somewhere caused by being immersed in seawater. At this rate, he could be out of the fight in just a few minutes—he might not even have one more jump. And there were still three more PME Jeeps out there.

Heavy-caliber bullets began peppering his composite armor shell as the Jeep barreled toward him. Jason crouched down into a ball, making himself as small a target as possible, but the Jeep kept right on coming. As it hit, Jason extended his arms, letting the vehicle slide up and over him, then shot to his feet. The Jeep did two complete rolls, spilling PME soldiers in all directions, before landing upside-down several meters away.

Thankfully, the other soldiers in the PME Jeeps saw what had happened to their comrades and stayed away, firing their machine guns from long range. Jason picked up a tire that had come off the last Jeep and threw it at one of the Jeeps about fifty meters away, caving in a windshield and showering the driver and passenger with glass. After that, the PME soldiers lost the desire to fight and sped away out of sight. Jason made sure they were safely away, then went over to the group of escapees in the gully. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Sim, agradecimentos a você,” Jorge Ruiz said.

“Stay here until I find out if there are any more soldiers nearby,” Jason said, and ran off in the direction of the farmhouse. He found Jefferson, Kristen, and Pereira helping Ariadna up. “Ari, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” she replied, giving him a crooked grin. “I see you got El CID working. Thanks for the ‘help.’ You can help pay for my new set of teeth.”

Jason scanned the area quickly with his on-board millimeter-wave radar. “I see two persons rendezvousing with those PME Jeeps that bugged out of here. I’m going after them.” But he took just a few running steps in that direction before stopping.

“Don’t let them get away, Major!” Jefferson cried.

“One vehicle is racing away at high speed, and the others are heading back here,” Jason said. “I’ll be lucky if I have enough power to get you guys back to the airport.” They saw the robot’s massive shoulders slump dejectedly. “I can’t leave you guys alone out here. Let’s get back to the airport. I’ll radio the jet to be ready for takeoff.”

The van had been hit by gunfire but was still operating. They removed the body of Lieutenant Quintao and laid him next to the bodies of the farmhands and the two dead Russians, then drove over to where the others were hidden. “Let’s go, everyone,” Jefferson said. He looked around. “Where the hell is Ruiz?”

“Ido, senhor,” Judge Amaral said.

“Gone?” Kristen’s producer Bonnie exploded. “He can’t go! He’s the whole reason why we’re here! He’s Kristen’s story! Without him, she has nothing! Jason, can you…?”

“I see him,” Jason said, “but I also detect more radio chatter on the PME command channel. There may be other troops coming.”

“Everyone, load up,” Jefferson said.

“Sergeant Major, wait. I can…”

“Major…Jason, no more arguing,” Jefferson said. Jason was about to argue again, but the approaching troops and the CID unit’s status told him that Jefferson was right and he had no choice. They piled into the van and headed off to the airport.

The jet was already at the end of the runway, its right engine idling, the entry door opened. The copilot, carrying a pistol, waved them in. Kristen and her crewmen helped Ariadna into the plane, while Jason dismounted from the CID unit, folded it, and stowed it into the baggage compartment with Jefferson’s help. Once everyone was on board, the copilot closed and dogged the entry hatch, the pilot started the left engine…

…and it wasn’t until then that they realized Pereira was gone. “Where did he go?” Kristen shouted. It was obvious he wasn’t on board. “That was our last hope! The story is ruined!” She turned to her cameraman. “Rich, please tell me…”

“We got some tape,” Rich murmured. “I haven’t checked it yet, but I got the camera, and it was running.”

“Thank God…”

“And I’ll be sure that the film is confiscated by the Defense Intelligence Agency, CIA, and Justice Department upon our arrival,” Sergeant Major Jefferson said. “It’s evidence we’ll need to indict Zakharov, Khalimov, and the rest of his gang.” Bonnie looked at him with a stunned expression, but the jet started its takeoff roll and she took a seat, mentally and physically drained, and chose not to argue.

After they were safely established in the climb, Jefferson got up and checked Ariadna. “How is she?” he asked Jason.

“Bruised and sore, but I don’t think she has a broken skull or a concussion…”

“I’m fine,” she responded weakly, half-opening her eyes to look at them. “Thank you for saving me, Sergeant Major.”

“It was pure dumb luck that we’re not all dead,” Jefferson said. He looked carefully at Richter. “Or maybe not. You told me the CID unit was broken, Major.” Richter nodded. “Why the bogus story? We could’ve been killed out there. The CID unit could’ve detected all those killers long before they attacked us. Two innocent people were needlessly killed. Your own engineer was beaten and could have been killed too.”

“I took a chance, sir,” Jason replied. He turned to Ariadna. “I’m sorry, Ari, but I had to do it.”

“A chance? What are you talking about?”

“A chance to give out some false information so we’d draw out the bad guys,” Jason said. “Everybody but myself and Ari thought that the CID unit was down. That means…”

“That means that someone we told about our plan to go to Abaete to hunt for Ruiz without the CID unit ratted us out to Zakharov,” Jefferson said. “I only told the National Security Adviser, and it was on a secure circuit.” He turned to Kristen. “Who did you talk to?” he demanded.

“Our executive producer…the chief of the news division…the president of SATCOM One…”

“Jesus…!”

“Even I can’t just go traipsing all over South America without getting permission,” Kristen retorted. “The news was sent all the way up to the president’s office before we knew it. What did you expect…we were just going to whip out our credit cards and pay for this trip ourselves?”

“And how many persons could they have told?”

“They don’t blab about our movements, Sergeant Major…”

“Who? How many could have known?”

Kristen glowered at Jefferson and shook her head, but lowered her eyes and shrugged a few moments later. “Any number of people,” she said finally. “At least three associate producers and one or two editors just in the television news division; they could have sent funding requests to Finance; they would have gotten in contact with officials in Washington; fact-checkers, researchers, legal guys…who the heck knows, Sergeant Major? It’s a big organization…”

“And over an unsecured telephone,” Jefferson added. “Half of New York and Washington could have been listening in. I’m surprised there wasn’t a news crew out there in Abaete covering the battle live.” He swore silently, then impaled Jason with an angry glare. “Dammit, Richter, you never should have gotten a reporter involved in this. Task Force TALON has been blown wide open. The whole damned world will know what we’ve done by the time we get back to Cannon.”

“I don’t think it was Kristen or SATCOM One that leaked our whereabouts,” Jason said. “I think it was someone in Washington—maybe even someone in the White House.”

“How do you figure that, Major?”

“Sir, I didn’t trust this whole setup right from the beginning—something smelled from day one,” Jason said. “This whole thing was doomed to fail right from the start. I’m positive of it now.”

“This task force was formed by the National Security Adviser himself,” Jefferson said. “Chamberlain has been our strongest and probably our only supporter.”

“Then someone in his office, sir…or someone right here in this plane, has sold us out,” Jason said. “Someone involved with the project right from the start…”

“The only other ones involved early on have been…Special Agents DeLaine and Bolton,” Jefferson said.

“And you, Sergeant Major,” Kristen pointed out. Jefferson glared at her but said nothing.

“DeLaine and Bolton were working on the GAMMA angle when we first had the demonstration at Andrews Air Force Base,” Jason said. “Ari and I intercepted Kelsey’s cell phone conversations with her office, before and after the demo, and they talked about Brazilian terror groups then. She never liked me from day one, and she and Bolton have done everything possible to exclude us from their activities. I threw a monkey wrench into her entire GAMMA investigation, something she and her office had been working on for months.”

“Chamberlain certainly would’ve informed Kelsey of what we were up to in Brazil,” Jefferson said. “There could be a leak in her office…”

“If she hurriedly tried to pick up the pieces of her investigation into GAMMA and gotten operationally sloppy, she could have tipped off sources in the Brazilian government or PME…accidentally, I mean,” Kristen said. “How well do you know this person? Could she be a snitch or on Zakharov’s payroll?”

“No way,” Jefferson said. “She’s a well-known and respected FBI agent. She’s the deputy special agent in charge of counterterrorism in Washington, for Christ’s sake…!”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t be dirty, Sergeant Major,” Ariadna said.

“I don’t think it’s Kelsey,” Jason said. “It has to be someone higher up…”

“All right, that’s enough,” Jefferson said. “We’re not getting anywhere arguing about this. Once we get back to the States, I’ll have a full investigation launched. We’ll find the leak and shut it down, I guarantee it.” He picked up the satellite telephone. “I’m going to notify Chamberlain’s office of our arrival and what happened…”

Jason shook his head. “Sir, what if…?”

“Major, I heard what you said, but I don’t have the authority to launch an investigation of this magnitude,” Jefferson said. “We need the FBI, CIA, Defense Intelligence, Homeland Security, andU.S. Northern Command in on this—Chamberlain will have every investigating agency possible working on this. They’re going to work separately, independently, to get answers. No one office or individual can influence every one of them.” No one had enough energy to argue.

Several hours later, shortly after dawn, the SATCOM One jet landed at Cannon Air Force Base in New Mexico, closely monitored by Patriot antiaircraft missile batteries and Avenger short-range air defense units surrounding the entire base. The Amarals were taken away in separate vehicles by the FBI, while the others were piled into Air Force blue Suburbans. Heavily armed Security Force Humvees escorted the passengers to the task force training area. They were met by each and every member of the task force…and by National Security Adviser Robert Chamberlain himself.

There was only one way to describe the mood of the place: funereal. Jason never expected a celebration on his return, but he didn’t expect so many glum faces either. Chamberlain was obviously here to deliver really bad news.

Chamberlain stepped up to the door of the Suburban as it came to a stop. Sergeant Major Jefferson was the first out of the vehicle; Chamberlain extended a hand and shook his warmly. “You’ve had one hell of a time in South America, haven’t you, Sergeant Major?” he remarked, smiling at his own joke. Jefferson said nothing. Chamberlain shook hands with Richter, Vega, Kristen Skyy, and her crew. “I’m sure you guys are tired, but we need to get the debriefing sessions out of the way as soon as we can. We have teams from my office inside waiting to speak to you.”

“I need to get in contact with my network, Mr. Chamberlain,” Kristen said. “Jefferson wouldn’t let us use the phones on the jet—he said it was per your order—and…”

“The chief of the debriefing team will let you know when you can make calls, miss,” Chamberlain said. “You won’t be unduly inconvenienced, but they have an investigation to run. Your network has been advised that you’re safe and that you’re in the direct care of my office. Have a little patience while we get all this sorted out, and everything will be fine in a very short time. You will eventually be allowed…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Chamberlain, but that’s not acceptable,” Kristen said. “We’re not allowed to make any statements to any law-enforcement or government agencies without a SATCOM One News attorney present if the incident involves our work. I understand you’re in charge of a very important investigation and that it concerns national security, sir, but the network takes our First Amendment rights very…”

“Miss Skyy.” Chamberlain now had turned his whole body toward the SATCOM One crew. Kristen was no shrinking violet, but she was clearly starting to wither under the slow but definite change in Chamberlain’s mood. “We’ve unfortunately gotten off on the wrong foot here. I’ve apparently failed to make myself clear, and for that I apologize. Let me start all over again, and I’ll try to elucidate my thoughts better:

“You are all material witnesses in an investigation into the terrorist attacks on Kingman City,” he said sternly—all traces of friendliness and relief that the team members were home alive were completely gone. “You will be questioned by various government authorities. You will be held as material witnesses for as long as necessary, and obviously if you refuse to answer, to protect your First Amendment rights or any other damn fool reason, that will just extend the time you’ll be held by us…”

“You don’t have to do it this way, Mr. Chamberlain,” Kristen said. “We can sit down with our execs and attorneys and work together to get you the information you need while preserving freedom of the press. We’re all Americans too: we want to see the ones who planned the attacks brought to justice. We can do this without trampling on the Constitution or the Bill of…”

“You may be an American, Miss Skyy, but I don’t believe for an instant that you care more about America than you do about your network’s shareholders, ratings, reputation, or bottom line,” Chamberlain interrupted. “I used to be a corporate executive, and I know how big companies go into self-protection and disaster-prep mode when the government is involved. I’m not saying that’s evil, but it certainly doesn’t help the government’s investigations. There are lives at stake here, Miss Skyy. Protecting the American people from another attack trumps the press’s right to report a juicy story.”

“Mr. Chamberlain, I’m telling you, we can work together on this,” Kristen maintained. “Call my network—they won’t shut you out, I guarantee it. We’ll agree to sit on the story for as long as necessary until you catch Zakharov, Khalimov, and whoever is financing or supporting them. We’ll turn over every scrap of tape and notes we have to…”

“Miss Skyy, every scrap of tape, video, recordings, or notes will be turned over to us immediately, or we will take them away from you by force,” Chamberlain said. “The chief of the investigation team has a briefcase full of warrants for the information, and he has a federal judge standing by ready to issue more warrants twenty-four-seven. I don’t need your network’s permission or coordination to get the information. And if there’s any information that you’ve already transmitted to your network, that will be turned over to us as well, or we’ll shut down your entire network on the spot.”

“Don’t do it, Mr. Chamberlain,” Kristen insisted. “You’ll have the entire country turned against you once it comes out that you’ve done this. The world press will condemn you…”

“I really don’t care about the world press, Ma’am—I only care about the United States of America,” Chamberlain said. “And you obviously have no idea about the mood of the American people right now. They want to do everything possible to stop this wave of terrorist violence sweeping this country, and they’re doing everything necessary to help accomplish that. They’re donating their money, time, and most important their full support to the cause, and they don’t think kindly of folks like you in the press who think they have some special privilege. You have information that can help us protect this country, and you will turn it over to us immediately and completely or we will take away your freedom and your rights as citizens until you do. It’s as simple as that.”

He turned to Jefferson, Richter, and Vega: “Of course I expect the utmost cooperation from you three. Major, Doctor, you two face very serious criminal charges, but your cooperation in our investigation is more important right now, so you will not be charged with a crime. That means you can be held indefinitely as material witnesses. The criminal charges will be addressed after the investigation is complete, which could take a very long time.

“Needless to say, Task Force TALON’s future was in serious question as of the day you three left this base to go off on your own,” Chamberlain went on. “I haven’t been specifically ordered to shut down the task force, but I doubt if the President will allow it to continue if its commanders are found guilty of a crime. I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. I’ll do everything I can to keep it alive, but I’m sure I’ve lost all credibility with the White House as far as you’re concerned.”

“Sir, we have got to sit down with you and tell you what we learned in Brazil,” Jason said. “We have information that will prove…”

“It’s too late for that, Major—you should have come to me immediately,” Chamberlain said wearily. “We could have taken this right to the White House. In less time than it took you to organize this stunt with Kristen Skyy, we could have mounted a full frontal assault on all the suspects you were after—it would have been fully sanctioned and supported by both the American and Brazilian governments. We could have descended on all those locations at once and set up an airtight trap for those Russians. It would have been Task Force TALON’s first and best operation, an example of what a true military-civil cooperative team could do. Instead, you decided to go off on your own, and now we’re all paying for your mistake. You blew it, Major—it’s that simple.”

He glared at Richter suspiciously, then shook his head sadly. “This is the most egregious, the most outrageous, the most foolhardy example of abuse of power and authority I’ve witnessed in all my years of government service. You were America’s best hope to track down terrorists all over the world, Major Richter. I trusted you. I wanted this thing to work, and I was hoping that technology like your CID unit would be the key. Unfortunately, you thought you didn’t need to work as a team. Not only will you and your fellow teammates, but all of America, pay the price for your lack of judgment. I should have provided better leadership.”

He looked around at all of the assembled task force members and said, “This training area has now become your detention facility, folks. All of your weapons will be impounded here and used as evidence. You are all material witnesses, and you will be held here indefinitely until our investigation is complete. You will retain your current rank, pay grade, and privileges until formal charges are levied against you. Until then, I expect nothing less than your full cooperation.” And with that, Chamberlain walked away and into his waiting vehicle and drove off.

After he was gone, the others started to drift away, murmuring comments quietly to one another, until eventually only Jefferson, Richter, Vega, Skyy, Kelsey DeLaine, Carl Bolton, Doug Moore, and Kristen’s camera crew remained.

Moore was the first to approach Richter. “I trusted you, sir,” he said simply before he walked away.

Kelsey walked over to them, looked at the wounds on Ariadna’s face with a look of concern…then turned to Richter and slapped him hard across the face. “You stupid jerk!” she shouted. “You egotistical ignorant childish bastard! You not only destroyed this task force but the careers of each and every person here!”

“You guys still don’t get it, do you?” Jason asked. “This is a setup. We’re being framed…”

“We’re not listening to you, Richter!” Bolton interjected. “You’re nothing but a crazy-ass flake. I’d sleep with one eye open from now on if I were you, buster, because folks are going to realize that their lives would be pretty much back to normal if you got yourself fragged.”

“That is enough!” Sergeant Major Jefferson shouted.

“Hey, Sergeant Major, I’m not going to listen to a damned thing you have to say either!” Bolton retorted. “You could have stopped Richter before he left the country with the CID unit! Then, when you got your clearance to go to Brazil, you over-stepped it by going to chase down that other GAMMA terrorist. You have absolutely no right to be ordering us around. You’re just as responsible for us getting shut down as he is…!”

“I am still in command of this task force…”

“Didn’t you hear, Sergeant Major—there is no task force any more, thanks to you and Richter! There’s nothing here but a bunch of soldiers and engineers in a detention facility!”

“Mr. Chamberlain did not disband this task force—until he does, I retain command of this unit, and we will continue to organize and train as before, with any equipment and resources we are allowed to have,” Jefferson said hotly. “If we’re not given any equipment to use, we’ll use sticks and stones; and if we’re not allowed to use those, we’ll do PT; but we will continue to train.”

“This is bullshit, Jefferson,” Bolton said. “It’s a waste of time. I’m not doing anything you tell me to do.”

“Until I am relieved of command, I am in charge here,” Jefferson said in a low, menacing voice, “and my first directive is aimed squarely at you, Agent Bolton—if you touch Major Richter or anyone else here with the intent of causing them any physical harm, I will personally beat you to a bloody pulp and hang your carcass on the barbed-wire fence. And if you don’t follow my orders to the letter, I’ll make your existence here at this facility extremely uncomfortable. Do I make myself clear?”

Bolton stepped over to Jefferson and stood face to face with him. Bolton was much taller than Jefferson and probably had ten to fifteen kilos on him—it would be a spectacular fight, if one broke out.

But with one look at Jefferson’s icy warning glare, Bolton blinked and backed away. “Tell me, Sergeant Major—why do you give a shit so much about that loser?” Bolton asked in a low voice. “He hasn’t been part of this team since day one; he’s succeeded in getting us all canned and ruining our careers. What do you care what happens to him? If he ends up with his teeth pushed in so he can’t talk anymore, this whole thing would be over, wouldn’t it?”

“Not by a long shot, Bolton,” Jefferson said. “If that happened, I would be extremely suspicious of the guy who did it. It would make me wonder why that guy would want to make sure Richter was permanently silenced.”

“You think I had something to do with Richter taking the CID unit to Brazil?”

“No, I’m sure that was the major’s idea, along with Miss Skyy there,” Jefferson replied. “But I’m wondering about how we got ambushed so well out there. Someone knew we were coming and tipped off the terrorists…”

“And you think I did it?”

“I don’t know who did it, Bolton,” Jefferson said. “But until I do, everyone is a suspect—and I’d consider the guy who threatens to bump off Richter the number-one suspect.” Bolton looked as if he was going to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent. “Now I’m going to repeat my order just one more time: anyone who harms any other person in this facility will deal with me. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” Jefferson affixed an angry glare on every face around him, then shouted, “I said, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the others responded loudly.

“Until we receive orders to the contrary,” Jefferson went on, “we will continue to study our tactics, develop and refine our TO&E, and maintain our training schedule. Everyone trains, or they will get to experience the feel of my boot on their ass—and that includes you, Bolton. You will all cooperate fully with the investigators…” He turned to Kristen’s crew and added, “and that includes you too…”

“Like hell it does, Sergeant Major,” Kristen said. “We have our orders, same as you, and our orders say we don’t speak with anyone unless we have an attorney present. Just tell us where our quarters are—that’s where you’ll find us.”

“Miss Skyy…”

“And don’t give me that ‘boot up my ass’ crap, Sergeant Major,” Rich the cameraman interjected. “I was a Marine—I can dish it out better than I can take it.”

Jefferson knew there was no use arguing with them—he had absolutely no authority over them at all. “Very well. I’ll see to quarters for you. You will be restricted there at all times except as required by the debriefing teams. I’ll post a guard if necessary.” Kristen, Rich, and Bonnie could do nothing else but shoot Jefferson evil glares and walk away. Jefferson checked his watch. “Pass the word along to everyone else: our training schedule resumes after lunch. In the meantime, I want an update on our training and readiness, and I will brief the staff on what we learned in Brazil. That is all. Dismissed.” Soon just Jefferson, Richter, and Vega remained on the parking ramp outside the hangars.

“Sergeant Major, we need to talk about what’s happened,” Jason said. “We need to file a report with the intelligence agencies, the FBI, and probably Interpol or somebody…”

“You have your orders, Major.”

“Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect, can you get off your macho command-sergeant-major high horse for a moment here?” Jason asked.

“Don’t push me now, Major…!”

“Sergeant Major…Ray, have you forgotten already?” Jason asked, almost pleading with him to listen. “We know who planned the bombing at Kingman City! We know there’s a terror cell in Brazil that has somehow managed to get their hands on a nuclear device and set it off inside the United States!”

“I’m sure that’s what we’re going to be questioned about over the next several days and weeks, Major.”

“ ‘The next several weeks’? Do you think we can afford to waste that much time, sir?” Jason asked. That gave Jefferson some pause. “Think about it, Ray: we had two witnesses in our hands that made Zakharov as the planner of both attacks. We had them—and the National Security Adviser to the President of the United States just drove away, leaving us in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico for God knows how long. He’s got all the evidence we brought back from Brazil, too—the Amarals and Kristen’s videotape. All that’s left is us four, and no one’s going to believe us because we’re the ones who took the CID unit to Brazil. It’s a setup, sir.”

“Major, Mr. Chamberlain’s actions have more to do with your decisions than with what we found or suspect we found in Brazil,” Jefferson said. “Just stay in your quarters like I ordered. I’ll keep on top of things.” He held out his hand. “And give me that remote control thing for the CID units.” Jason reluctantly handed over the wrist remote control device for the CID unit. “Try doing it my way for a change, Richter.”