Act of War

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

That same time

We found him!” Special Agent Ramiro Cortez shouted in the phone.

Kelsey DeLaine looked at the time on her cell phone display; about four A.M. local time. “Who, Rudy?”

“Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”

She was instantly awake, swinging her feet off the lumpy mattress in a flash. “Talk to me, Rudy,” she said, stepping quickly over to Carl Bolton’s room next door and pounding on the rickety door; he was awake and dressed in moments.

“Homeland Security was tracking down citizens, visa holders, naturalized citizens, or resident aliens who recently entered theU.S. from overseas but whose fingerprints collected during customs inprocessing didn’t match in the national database,” Cortez said. “They were focusing on males traveling from South or Central America with advanced degrees or skills such as pilots, chemists, physicists, and so forth, matching Zakharov’s general description. There’s one guy on a flight from Mexico City to San Jose, California; came in last night—commercial pilot, resident alien, but he has no prints on file.”

Kelsey could feel the excitement rising in her gut—this one sounded very promising. “Is it him?”

“It’s a Mexican citizen and three-year resident alien. Real documents, not fakes. Has rented a room from a lawyer in San Mateo for the past year and a half.”

“But you faxed Zakharov’s picture to customs in Mexico City and San Jose, and…”

“Bingo. Positive ID.”

Kelsey punched Bolton’s pillow excitedly. “Did you get an address on him? Did you pick him up?”

“The San Francisco SAC decided to set up a surveillance unit first until he could get an arrest warrant,” Cortez explained.

“If they have his place under surveillance and he hasn’t shown up since last night, it means he probably picked up the surveillance and bugged out.”

“But now we got a new identity and hopefully a whole new set of clues as to his whereabouts,” Cortez said. “He’s an aircraft sales rep for a firm in San Jose, named Tomas Estrada, goes by ‘Tom.’ He travels frequently to Central America…”

“Easy enough to hop on down to Brazil from anywhere in Central America,” Kelsey pointed out.

“Credit cards, frequent flyer account, bank account, all legit and well established,” Cortez went on. “Commercial pilot, Mexican and U.S. licenses. Speaks fluent English and Spanish. Well known to the airline ticket agents and local flying businesses around the Bay area. They’re still checking around to see if Estrada or anyone matching his description has any other places he frequents in the area.”

“An arrest warrant for a suspected terrorist linked to Kingman City should be a slam-dunk for any federal judge these days, for God’s sake,” Kelsey said. “Rudy, I need to get the hell out of here. Hasn’t the director met with the White House yet? Chamberlain needs a good bitch-slapping right about now.”

“The meeting is supposed to happen this morning,” Cortez said. “Don’t worry—you’ll be out in a couple hours. I’ve got a jet on the way that’ll take you to San Francisco to meet up with the SAC.”

“Are you sending Zakharov’s picture…?”

“To every airport, bus, rail, ship, and state police office west of the Rockies—as we speak,” Cortez said. “If he doesn’t surface within twenty-four hours, we’ll go nationwide.”

“Go nationwide now,” Kelsey said. “This guy’s mobile. If he’s a pilot, you’d better include fixed-base operators at as many general aviation airports as you can. He might have his own plane.”

“Good point. I’m on it.”

“Any other clues come up?”

“Nothing, except the Estrada character was legit all the way,” Cortez said. “Lots of paper pointing to a regular hardworking guy taking advantage of all the fine things our country has to offer.”

“Hiding out in plain sight, you might say.”

“Exactly. This guy’s smart, Kel. Real smart.”

“He’s a stone killer with his hands on one and possibly more nuclear weapons,” Kelsey pointed out. “I’m going to talk with Richter and Jefferson again to find out if they can tell me anything else about Zakharov and his henchman, Khalimov.”

“I’m wondering why the guy came back to the U.S.,” Cortez said. “Why take the risk, especially since he was almost nailed in Brazil?”

“Only two good reasons I can think of,” Kelsey said. “Either he didn’t get paid and he’s looking to collect, or…”

“He’s not finished blowing things up in the U.S.,” Cortez said ominously. “Or both.”

“Get me the heck out of here, Rudy,” Kelsey said. “Keep on pestering the director until he sees the President himself.”

“Get packed—you’ll be out of there soon,” Cortez said, and hung up.

Kelsey filled in Bolton as she put on her boots. “Where are you going?” Bolton interrupted her when he realized what she was doing. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” Kelsey stopped in surprise—in fact, that’s exactly what she was going to do, and Bolton knew it. “Are you crazy? No way, Kel! As soon as the director can fix it we’re out of here. As far as I’m concerned, the task force is dead. Rudy gave you privileged FBI information—you can’t share it with anyone outside the Bureau.”

“But…”

“But nothing, Kel,” Bolton insisted. “You can’t even go out there now asking them questions, because they’ll figure you just got some hot information and they’ll want to know what it is. I suggest you keep it to yourself, Kel.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and kicked off her boots again. She found it surprisingly hard to roll back into bed. “Why do I feel like I’m withholding important information?” she asked.

“You don’t owe them jack, Kel,” Bolton said from the other side of the hallway. “This task force thing has been nothing but a royal cluster-fuck from day one, because Richter thought his shit didn’t stink. He abandoned us first…”

“He tried to get me to listen,” Kelsey said. “He told me and Jefferson what he wanted to do.”

“He told you about this hot information he had, sure—and then he left the base without any authorization and was getting ready to go to freakin’ Brazil…!”

“They almost got Zakharov.”

“They almost got themselves killed,” Bolton insisted, “and they still did it without authorization. Why are you defending them, Kel? They screwed up, but it’s our careers on the line! Just forget about these guys, Kel. By lunchtime we’ll be in Washington tracking these terrorists down, and we’ll do it the right way.”

Kelsey fell silent. If she had any hope of falling asleep again before dawn, she was disappointed.

The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

Later that morning

Attorney General George Wentworth, National Intelligence Director Alexander Kallis, Secretary of Defense Russell Collier, and FBI Director Jeffrey F. Lemke stepped into the Oval Office and found Robert Chamberlain standing right beside the President of the United States, going over some documents. Victoria Collins was on the President’s phone, noticeably apart from the others.

That, Lemke thought, was not a good sign.

“C’mon in, guys,” the President said, standing and motioning to the chairs and couches in the meeting area in front of the fireplace. A steward brought in a tray of beverages and fixed one for each of the attendees according to their preferences. Again, Chamberlain sat on the chair just to the President’s right, the chair normally reserved for the Vice President. He took that chair not only because the Vice President was not in Washington—it had been decided after the attack in Kingman City to have the Vice President stay out of Washington and move locations to ensure the continuity of the government in case of an attack in the capital—but also to highlight the status and power the National Security Adviser held in this meeting.

Robert Chamberlain was in no uncertain terms the de facto vice president—and many in Washington, like Wentworth and Lemke, would say he was more like the copresident.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Wentworth said. “We have some positive news to report, and a request.”

“Go right ahead, George,” the President said, taking a sip of tea. Wentworth outlined the details of the search for Yegor Zakharov in the San Francisco Bay area. “Interesting he decided to come to the States,” the President observed.

“Any reasons for that would be speculative, Mr. President,” FBI Director Lemke said, “but I think it was a mistake on his part. It’ll make it that much easier to nail him.”

“Robert has been reviewing Zakharov’s background with me,” the President said, motioning to the folder he and Chamberlain had been looking at before the meeting began. “As commander of this Russian tactical nuclear missile battalion, he would certainly know where the warheads were stored, who was guarding them, and who to bribe to get his hands on some.”

“Do you need me to bring you up to speed on Zakharov, Alex?” Chamberlain asked.

“Zakharov was commander of a regiment of short-and intermediate-range nuclear ballistic missiles near Kirov, northeast of Moscow,” Kallis said before Chamberlain could begin. Alexander Kallis had degrees in international relations from Dartmouth and Harvard. He joined the CIA after receiving his master’s degree and quickly rose through the ranks to become a deputy director in charge of policy before being nominated to serve as the National Intelligence Director, the office that combined all the federal, civil, and military intelligence activities of the United States of America. “After the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty was put into effect in 1988, his unit was deactivated. Zakharov publicly denounced the treaty and was quickly retired.

“He entered politics and joined the new Liberal Democratic Party of Russia in 1990, which was started by ultranationalist Vladimir Zhirinovsky,” Kallis went on. “Zakharov was the party boss in Kirov Oblast, the district in which his unit was headquartered, and was considered a major factor in Zhirinovsky’s rise to power and a candidate for a major office in Zhirinovsky’s government, perhaps minister of defense. But he obviously saw the handwriting on the wall, because after Zhirinovsky’s defeat in 1991, even though Zhirinovsky and the LDPR were still very powerful, Zakharov left politics and became a vice president of a pretty good-sized independent Russian oil company, KirovPyerviy.

“Zakharov became very wealthy, and combined with his military and political following, was starting to enjoy another tremendous surge in popularity,” Kallis said. “That might explain why the Russian government just a few years ago announced the decision to allow a foreign company, TransGlobal Energy, to acquire a majority stake in a private Russian oil company—and why that company turned out to be KirovPyerviy. Zakharov left KirovPyerviy…”

“No, Director Kallis—Zakharov went berserk,” Chamberlain interjected, quickly tiring of being upstaged by the youngster Kallis. “He threatened to blow up his wells, stage a coup, kill the Russian President, kill our President, kill Kingman…”

“Did you ever meet him, Mr. Chamberlain?” Kallis asked. “Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“I met him once, at an energy conference in Scotland,” Chamberlain said dismissively. “He was full of himself, all right—acted like he still had the Red Army uniform on. We dismissed him as a stressed-out nutcase and figured he’d just drink himself to an early grave, like most of the nouveau riche in Russia.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Kallis said. “He sold off all his shares, took his fortune, and disappeared. He then shows up aligned with GAMMA, an environmental and human rights group based out of Brazil, helping the terrorists bomb dams and energy facilities, most of which belonged to TransGlobal Energy.”

“According to the report from your task force that went down to Brazil, Mr. Chamberlain,” Lemke said, “this Zakharov is not just ‘aligned’ with GAMMA—he’s taken over and tried to assassinate both leaders of the group.”

“It would appear so.”

“And now he’s back in the United States,” the President observed. “Any idea where he could have gone or what he might be up to?”

“No, Mr. President,” Wentworth said, “but it’s imperative that we do everything we can to hunt this guy down. At one time this guy commanded a force of hundreds of battlefield nuclear weapons ranging in size from ten to two hundred kilotons. Stripped of their safety devices, fusing mechanisms, and reinforcements, making them suitable for mobile ballistic missile use, the warheads he commanded would make ideal portable nuclear weapons. He’s apparently not only got his hands on some, but he’s managed to bring them into the United States—and it’s obvious he’s continuing to exact his revenge on TransGlobal Energy.”

“I would agree, Mr. President,” Chamberlain agreed. “We need to find this guy right away. It should be our top priority.”

“What do you suggest, George?” the President asked.

“The biggest worldwide manhunt since the hunt for Osama bin Laden, centered right here in the U.S.,” the Attorney General said. “A joint coordination effort of all Cabinet-level agencies and Homeland Security military forces, headed by Director Kallis, reporting directly to you. All operations coordinated by Director Lemke from Washington for the U.S.”

Chamberlain shifted in his chair and nodded slightly but said nothing. “I delegated operational control of antiterrorist activities to the National Security Adviser,” the President said. “Director Kallis can continue to coordinate his activities with me through Mr. Chamberlain.”

Both Wentworth and Lemke looked decidedly uncomfortable at that point. Wentworth finally took a deep breath and said, “Mr. President, we feel that Mr. Chamberlain’s efforts at organizing and directing our nation’s antiterror activities have been completely ineffectual, and we request that you take control away from him and give it to Directors Kallis and Lemke.”

Chamberlain’s face remained impassive. The President glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction but was unable. “Robert?”

“The Attorney General is referring to Task Force TALON, I’m sure,” Chamberlain said. “I admit that the team hasn’t lived up to expectations…”

“ ‘Lived up to…’ Chamberlain, are you serious?” Lemke exploded. “The task force never came together—there’s been infighting and a lack of coordination right from the beginning. Then several members of the task force—including the commander you picked, Jefferson—head off to Brazil…”

“I authorized that mission and got White House approval…”

“Chamberlain, those people nearly started a war in Brazil—not just in one city, but two,” Lemke went on.

“They were hot on the trail of this Zakharov character and nearly got him…”

“But only succeeded in almost getting everyone killed,” Wentworth said. “SATCOM One News has agreed to keep the story quiet for now, but they won’t do so for long. I’m afraid the government’s liability in this incident is extreme…”

“Bull, George,” Chamberlain said. “Skyy would’ve gone anyway, you know that—she’s got a reputation to uphold. If Richter and Jefferson didn’t go with her she would’ve gone alone and possibly gotten herself killed right away in São Paulo.”

“The unfortunate truth is that Jefferson and Richter did go, which could lead many to believe that it was a secret government-sanctioned action,” Wentworth said. “We’d be forced to defend the decision, defend the task force, reveal the task force…”

“So what, George?” Chamberlain interjected. “Americans want to see the United States government act. Americans are being greatly inconvenienced and challenged on their own soil every day because of restrictions, government intrusions, a loss of freedom and rights; some are suffering. I think they would feel better knowing their government is out there with our best technology hunting down the terrorists.”

Wentworth fell silent and looked at the President. They all knew that the President hated long arguments in the Oval Office—he wanted each side to present their arguments and then shut the hell up and wait for a decision. The President turned to Chamberlain. “What’s the status of Task Force TALON, Robert?” he asked.

“I confined them to their training base in New Mexico indefinitely until my office completed its investigation…”

“An investigation which so far does not include the FBI, CIA, or any other agency except for the office of the National Security Adviser,” Wentworth said. “The execs at SATCOM One News are screaming bloody murder—they are completely incommunicado with their people. At best we’re going to make some enemies in New York. At worst…well, we’d start with false imprisonment, habeas corpus, violations of the First, Third, Fifth, Sixth, and Eighth Amendments…”

The President looked suspiciously at Chamberlain, but apparently decided his actions, although extreme, were warranted. “I think the quicker we hush this thing up, the better,” the President said. “Robert, I’m disbanding the task force.”

“But, sir…”

“You can continue your investigation if necessary, but I’m going to turn the military guys back over to their units,” the President said. To Secretary of Defense Collier, he said, “Russ, you’re in charge of the task force personnel. If any indictments come down, refer them for punishment under the UCMJ; for the rest, issue them constant warnings to keep their mouths shut or else they’ll be cleaning up polar bear shit in Greenland.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Collier said.

“George, assist Robert on investigating what happened with the task force in Brazil,” the President ordered. “But I have a feeling these guys were just trying to do their jobs and they got a little overzealous. The FBI and civilians involved will still be included in the Justice Department and military investigations, of course, but they can be released immediately pending the outcome.”

“I agree, Mr. President. I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”

He paused for a moment; then he shook his head resignedly. “I think, given what’s happened with the task force lately and Mr. Chamberlain’s investigation into this Russian terrorist connection, it makes sense to hand off running the antiterror operation to other agencies. George, give your proposal to Victoria, let us staff it for a few days, and we’ll give you a decision. Robert will, of course, be able to add his input to it, as usual.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Attorney General said.

“Robert, you know I hate to go only halfway and turn around on anything,” the President went on, “but your task force’s actions leave me no choice. Complete your investigation, send any recommendations for criminal or punitive action to Justice and the Pentagon, then dissolve the task force.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” he said simply.

“Anything else for me?” the President asked. When no one replied, he asked, “What’s the status of my proposal for a declaration of war on terrorism, George?”

“Mr. President, I’m afraid it’s a nonstarter,” Wentworth said. “We simply cannot find any legal, legislative, or historical precedents for such a thing. For a congressional declaration to have the force of law, it must meet the basic legal structure: a victim, a crime, a loss, but more important a perpetrator. We simply can’t indicta…a state of mind.”

“The word I’m getting from the congressional leadership says the same thing, Mr. President,” White House chief of staff Victoria Collins said. “Your supporters say the American people won’t stand for any more hardships in their lives that declaring war on terrorism would certainly bring. Plus, if your request for a declaration of war is defeated in Congress, it would be a crushing defeat for you and your party, and they’re not willing to risk their political futures on it. Your detractors say it would be perceived as nothing but grandstanding on the worst possible level, and win or lose they would be sure to present it as inflaming the nation’s emotions for nothing but political gain. It’s a loser either way.”

The President turned to Robert Chamberlain. “Robert?”

“You know my thoughts already on this, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said. “I don’t care about historical precedents or the political fallout—we need to act to defeat terrorism, plain and simple. Sure, the American people are getting tired of the restrictions, hassles, surveillance, and intrusions—but I don’t think they would get so tired of it if the President and his Cabinet made an all-out commitment to defeating the forces that threaten their lives. If we don’t at least go before Congress and the American people and make the case for all-out war against terrorism, people will forget why we’re doing this…and soon, it’ll just be our fault for making their lives miserable, not the terrorists.”

The President nodded his thanks, fell silent for a moment, then said, “George, I’d like you to stay on it.”

“Mr. President…”

“Mr. Attorney General, instead of looking for precedents, how about let’s come up with reasons why we should set a precedent,” Chamberlain interjected. “Instead of finding out that no one’s ever done it before, how about some good reasons why we should do it?”

“When I need your advice, Mr. Chamberlain, I’ll ask for it, thank you,” Wentworth said acidly.

“That’ll be all, everybody, thank you,” the President said quickly, rising to his feet. Wentworth, Kallis, and Lemke departed the Oval Office silently, firing angry glares at Chamberlain.

“Well, I think you’ve succeeded in alienating just about everyone in the Cabinet now, Robert,” Victoria Collins remarked.

“What’s the use in even having a Cabinet if they won’t do what you tell them to do, Mr. President?” Chamberlain asked. “I understand this is no small task, but all I’ve heard so far is why it can’t be done. Why don’t you just do it and let the American people decide if they’ll accept it or not?”

“I want the entire Cabinet squarely behind me before I proceed, Robert,” the President said. “It’s getting harder to get there when you browbeat and insult them like that.”

“I apologize, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said. “I’ll stop antagonizing them. But I wish they’d show some backbone, that’s all.”

The President looked at his National Security Adviser for a few moments, then nodded noncommittally and went back to the papers on his desk. “Thanks, Robert.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said, and departed the Oval Office.

The President waited a few minutes, then buzzed his inner office secretary. “Bring him into my private office, please.” He went into the private room adjacent to the Oval Office and stood behind his desk. A few moments later the door opened, and the President straightened his suit jacket and smiled. “Welcome, Harold,” he said, moving around to the front of his desk and extending a hand in greeting. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”

“No problem at all, Sam,” Harold Chester Kingman, president of TransGlobal Energy, said. “Your staff made me very comfortable.”

The President motioned to a leather chair in the small office as a tray of coffee was brought in and beverages were served. “You’ve been briefed on the situation with these Russian terrorist suspects?”

“Yes, I have,” Kingman said. “I appreciate being kept informed very much.”

“We definitely believe the terrorists are targeting your company around the world, Harold,” the President said, “and we want to do as much as possible to protect your company. You and your company are very valuable to our nation’s energy future. You heard our conversation in the Oval Office?”

“Yes,” Kingman said, taking a sip of coffee. “Zakharov is in the United States? That’s very worrisome. How could Chamberlain and your Homeland Security people miss that guy?”

“Apparently he had an airtight alias, developed many years ago—completely legitimate. Basically he used his money and connections in the Russian government—and his position in TransGlobal Energy, I’m afraid—to get passports and visas into Mexico. He got himself a legitimate business, got his American visas and entry documents. Then he turned himself into a sleeper agent, going about his normal activities right under our noses, just waiting to activate himself.”

“My lack of faith in this country’s immigration system has been fully justified.”

“You remember this guy?”

“Of course,” Kingman said casually. “Think of Joseph Stalin on a good day. The guy’s a heartless, ruthless psychopathic killer. I cannot overemphasize the incredible danger we’re in to have him loose in America, especially if he has valid identification and financial resources. And I remember Pavel Khalimov too, his ‘enforcer’ in the KirovPyerviy oil company—he’s even worse. At least Zakharov would consider your value to himself and his schemes first before putting a bullet in your head: Khalimov wouldn’t waste the brainpower.”

“Why didn’t you have Zakharov eliminated yourself, Harold?” the President asked. He knew that Harold Chester Kingman certainly chose murder as one of his tools for corporate success—and he also knew that he was probably the only man in the world that Kingman would allow to ask him such a question.

“He got away and disappeared before I could tag him—to South America, it now appears,” Kingman replied. “I should have searched for him harder, but he had tons of money from his Russian oil company and he paid better than I did in Brazil.”

“What’s Zakharov after, Harold?”

“Me,” Kingman replied matter-of-factly. He lit up a cigar without asking the President’s permission—payback for him asking such uncomfortable questions. “He’s a twisted egomaniacal son of a bitch, Sam. He’s engineered dozens of killings and attacks against TransGlobal facilities all over the world for months, and now he’s after me here in the U.S. Only a wacko could ever believe he’d get away with it. If he can’t get me, he’s content to kill thousands of innocent persons.”

“What’s his next likely target?”

“Since he was based in the Bay area and returned there, I’d say he’s lining up something out there,” Kingman said. “Our corporate headquarters is in San Francisco, but it’s a relatively useless target—we’ve dispersed corporate functions out to dozens of different and more secure locations long ago. An attack there would be mostly symbolic—and Zakharov doesn’t really do ‘symbolic’ stuff. He likes to go for the jugular. He’s already gotten TransGlobal’s number-one petroleum and natural gas facility in the U.S. at Kingman City, Texas. Our number-two facility is in Atlantic City, New Jersey, but our number three is in Long Beach, California, and our number-four is in Richmond, California. My best guess: Richmond. He’ll kill several birds with one stone there: disrupt our Bay area oil terminal, along with five other companies’ facilities; take a swipe at my corporate headquarters; and attack right in my hometown.”

“We’ll deploy investigators and protective forces to all of your facilities in the U.S. and as many overseas as they’ll allow, Harold,” the President said, “but we’ll concentrate on Richmond. If he’s there, we’ll get him.”

“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that.”

“You and TransGlobal are important to America, Harold—it’s in the government’s best interest to protect you the best we can.”

Kingman nodded, letting the obvious buttering-up routine slide off his back unnoticed. “So, how’s Chamberlain working out for you?” he asked after a few more puffs.

“He’s a great asset to me, Harold.”

“He seems to have matured a bit working for you in the White House, Sam,” Kingman observed. “When he worked for me he was an insufferable scheming weasel who liked to prove to everyone how important he was, although he was competent enough. You mentioned to me several months ago about that task force you were going to place him in charge of—I take it it’s not working out?”

“It was a great concept, but Robert seems to have picked some…unusual characters to be part of it,” the President responded. “I left it up to him, thinking he had thought about it extensively and picked the absolute cream of the special-operations crop to spearhead it, but it turns out he just picked a bunch of untested paper shufflers and lab-bound mavericks that couldn’t work well together.”

“Chamberlain can be an egotistic putz sometimes,” Kingman said, “but I always found him to be a pretty good judge of character—picking the wrong guys for the job doesn’t sound like him. Maybe he just got sloppy when he went into government service. I imagine being in Washington and having to deal with the brainless bureaucrats around here will do that to a man.” The President closed his eyes and chuckled, letting that comment slide off his back. “That’s why I stay away from this place as much as possible.”

“A couple of the task force members broke ranks and went down to Brazil to track down that environmentalist group, GAMMA,” the President went on, ignoring Kingman’s remarks, “and they stumbled across Zakharov and Khalimov. Got themselves shot up pretty good.”

“But they did track down this GAMMA and caught up with Zakharov? Sounds like they might have something on the ball after all.”

“Half the Cabinet wants their heads on a platter.”

“As I said, Sam, my complete and utter lack of faith in most of the government and its leadership has been more than justified lately,” Kingman said, filling the air over his head with pungent smoke. “Myself, I’d put my money on those guys that went down to Brazil, and fire everyone else.” The President nodded but said nothing, prompting Kingman to move on so he could get the hell out of there. “Anyway, Sam, I wanted to talk to you about this energy summit that’s coming up in Washington. You know I’m a big supporter of your alternative energy proposals, especially your nuclear power initiatives, which you’re putting before Congress this fall, but I’m not so sure that it’ll be safe enough here in Washington for this confab.”

“It’ll be secure, Harold, I guarantee it,” the President said. “It’s important this be held in Washington—I want this to be a U.S. government–sponsored initiative, not a corporate one or something sponsored by another country or OPEC.”

“So why do I need to be involved?”

“There’s no more powerful alliance we can think of than TransGlobal Energy and the U.S. government,” the President said. “I want to show the world we two are standing together: the world’s most powerful nation and the world’s most powerful energy company, working together to give our nation and the world the energy it needs. You are TransGlobal Energy, Harold. You have to be there.”

“I don’t go for these political dog-and-pony shows, Sam.”

“The world needs to know who the players are, Harold. If you just send some junior vice president of corporate communications or something, they’ll lose interest.”

“What about the environmental and antimultinational corporate lobbies? Aren’t you afraid of pissing them off? They represent a pretty substantial bloc of voters.”

“Yes they do, which makes it even more imperative that we stand together on this,” the President emphasized. “The American people react emotionally to the environment and to abuses of big corporations—but what they want are cheap and plentiful gasoline, heating oil, and electricity. We’ll convince them that with our domestic energy initiative we’ll give them what they need and be conscious of the other stuff too. We’ll talk about preserving and safeguarding the environment, but what we’ll do is start building nuclear power plants and natural gas-fired power plants and storage terminals again.”

“You’re the talker here, Sam—you always have been. Let me be the doer.”

“Do this summit for me, Harold, and you’ll have your pick of the best contracts before they go out for bid,” the President said. “I can also get you a heads-up on any congressional or regulatory agency probes coming out of the chutes.”

“I’ve already got all the spies I need on Capitol Hill, Sam.”

“Harold, do this for me, please,” the President said. “You and me together on stage—it’ll confuse the hell out of all your detractors. They’ll think you’re going to run for public office.”

“Hell, Sam, I’d shoot myself in the head first, and they know it,” Kingman said. He took another deep drag on his cigar, then shot a last cloud of smoke at the President of the United States. “Tell me more about this task force that Chamberlain was heading. Who’s in charge?”

“An Army Special Forces sergeant major by the name of Jefferson.”

“Chamberlain put a noncom in charge of a task force? That’s odd. Who else?”

“That army major who rescued those people in Kingman City.”

“The guy inside the robot? That was pretty darn cool, Sam,” Kingman gushed. “The robot too?”

“Of course. That’s what got Robert interested.”

“He always did like the high-tech toys.”

“There’s an FBI special agent too by the name of DeLaine co-commanding the unit. Runs an intelligence office out of FBI headquarters.”

“Military and FBI in the same unit? Chamberlain’s showing extraordinary imagination,” Kingman admitted. “It’s a weird combination—I’m not surprised it didn’t work out—but Chamberlain at least showed he still has an original thought in his head.” Kingman fell silent for a moment. Then: “And you’re shutting down this task force, even though they almost got Zakharov?”

“It was pretty obvious that Robert lost tactical control of them,” the President said. “They got a little too…rambunctious, I’d say. Loose cannons. We thought for a second they stole a bunch of equipment and hightailed it to Brazil.”

Kingman nodded thoughtfully again. “I’ll do your circus in Washington, Sam, on one condition—you lend me this task force.”

“ ‘Lend’ it to you?”

“Call it a plant and port security assessment visit,” Kingman said. “Let me have them for…oh, a year. They’ll be ordinary citizens, no federal powers; I’ll pay their salaries and provide a secure location for them to train. Who knows—I might even snare Zakharov for you.”

It was the President’s turn to lean forward in his seat this time, and he did so, just as Kingman expected him to do. “It’ll cost you more than a couple days in Washington, Harold,” the President said.

Kingman nodded—he enjoyed playing these quid pro quo games. “Collins happened to mention to me that she’s forming your reelection committee soon. I think TransGlobal would like to see to it that your committee is properly set up and running…shall we say, three million?”

“Let’s say ten million, Hal,” the President said.

Kingman made a sigh as if he had just been outmaneuvered, but inwardly he was thinking that he was getting off cheap: he would’ve paid twenty million to get his hands on that super-strong bulletproof robot technology. “You got it, Mr. President,” Kingman said. “How quickly can you load them up and send them on their way?”

“Where and when do you want them?” The President held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess: San Francisco Bay area—today.”

“Great minds think alike, Mr. President,” Kingman said. He leaned forward a bit and added, “And maybe Chamberlain doesn’t need to know about our deal?”

“I’ve already ordered him to wrap up his investigation and let them go,” the President said. “I think he’s pretty much washed his hands of them. He’ll find out. But I don’t want to see robots marching down the middle of Fisherman’s Wharf or the Embarcadero, Harold. Don’t make me look bad on the Left Coast.”

“They’ll be out of sight, Mr. President, I promise.” He got to his feet, approached the President’s desk, and extended a hand. “Thank you for a very productive meeting, sir.”

The President rose and shook his hand. “Have fun with your new toys, Harold,” he said. “If you happen to find this Zakharov guy, squash him for me, will you?”

“Gladly, Mr. President. Gladly.”

Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

A short time later

She waited until Bolton was taking his turn in the shower, then got up and left to see where the other members of the task force were. She didn’t sleep one bit, and the information she got from her colleague in Washington was like a leech sucking her blood—but at the same time, she didn’t want to confront Bolton about it again.

There was a fair amount of activity happening for a disbanded military unit who were under criminal investigation, Kelsey DeLaine thought as she went out to the aircraft parking apron. Jefferson, Richter, Moore, the staff officers, and the TALON strike platoon looked like they were just getting ready to begin an early-morning run complete with rifles, Kevlar helmets, combat boots, and body armor with ammo pouches and CamelBak water bottles clipped to them; Ariadna Vega, her face still bruised and bandaged but already looking better, was handing out gear from the back of a Humvee. Kelsey hurried back to her barracks, put on a pair of fatigue pants, an athletic bra, black T-shirt, and boots, and ran out to go with them.

“Nice of you to join us, Agent DeLaine,” Sergeant Major Jefferson said.

Kelsey went over to him, very aware of all the angry, accusing eyes around her. “Mind if I tag along, Sergeant Major?” she asked.

“Rumor has it the FBI Director and the Attorney General are going to get you pulled out of here today,” Jason Richter said. “Sure you wouldn’t rather be packing to go?”

“I want to go with you guys,” Kelsey said.

“How touching,” Ari said. “Or do you just want to take another shot at Jason?”

“Dr. Vega, put a cork in it, draw her some gear, and let’s get going,” Jefferson said gruffly. Ari hesitated, glaring coldly at her, then picked out some gear and threw it on the ground behind the Humvee. The helmet and body armor were too big and the CamelBak was empty, but Kelsey didn’t complain as she went over to fill up her bottle, then donned her gear and got in line. They did some stretching and a walk around the big hangar to warm up, then started an “Airborne Shuffle”—a sort of a slow jog designed to cover long distances while wearing a heavy backpack or parachutes—out among the sagebrush and sand dunes of the Pecos East training range.

They took a break after about a kilometer’s jog. “How are you guys holding up?” Kelsey asked Jason after she sipped water from her CamelBak.

“Fine.”

“Are they letting you work on the CID unit?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to talk to me just in one-word phrases from now on, Jason?”

“What do you want from me, Kelsey?” he asked. “I’ve taken full responsibility for everything I’ve done and I’ll take my lumps. If it hurts anyone else…well, I’m sorry. But I still feel we’re getting screwed, and I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Zakharov or Khalimov. I don’t know when or how, but they’re going to strike again, and soon.” Kelsey’s mouth turned dry when Jason said that, but she held her tongue, took a deep drink of water, and got ready for the next leg of their run.

The next two kilometers was a fast jog instead of the “Airborne Shuffle,” and now there was a lot more huffing and puffing at the rest stop. Kelsey drifted around near Jason, hesitating, then finally made up her mind and went over to him. “I wanted to let you know, Jason: we think Zakharov is in the United States,” she said.

Jason nearly spit out a mouthful of water. “What?” he exclaimed. “Zakharov is here?” Now everyone’s attention was fixed on them. “How? When did you find out?”

“Early this morning,” Kelsey replied. “He has a resident alien alias that he’s been using for years. He’s had full entry and exit privileges.”

“Where?”

“San Jose International.”

“What in hell is he doing in the U.S.?” Air Force Captain Frank Falcone asked.

“We don’t know.”

“What’s his alias?” Jason asked.

“He’s a Mexican national with resident alien status,” Kelsey replied. “Brokers and flies helicopters between the U.S. and Central America. Lives in San Mateo, California—has for years.”

“Jee-sus…!”

“Haven’t the Fee-Bees picked him up yet?”

“We had his apartment under surveillance but missed him,” Kelsey said. “He either didn’t return there or spotted the surveillance team and took off.”

“So now he’s loose in the United States!” Jason exclaimed. “My God…” He turned to Jefferson and said, “Sergeant Major, we need to get the task force loaded up and sent out to the West Coast as soon as possible. He’s going to strike somewhere out there, and we’ve got to be ready.”

“We’re not authorized to do anything except cooperate with the investigators, Jason,” Jefferson said.

“We’ve been sitting around here for two days, and all they’ve been doing is asking us the same questions over and over again,” Jason said. “Something’s going on, Ray. We’re being chopped out for some reason.” Jefferson fell silent, and Jason saw something that he’d rarely ever seen in the sergeant major before: doubt and confusion. “Kelsey, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Zakharov. Who is he? We know he’s an ex-Russian colonel and has apparently taken over this radical environmental group, but what else is he? We need some clues before we can take this guy down.”

“The FBI is tracking him down…”

“Kelsey, the guy used a nuclear weapon in the United States and is more than likely going to do some other attack—and if he’s got access to more nuclear weapons…”

“He might,” Kelsey said hesitantly. “He commanded a Soviet tactical nuclear rocket battalion back in the eighties.”

“Oh, my God…!” Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken breathed.

“After that, he was the head of a large private oil company in Russia and a powerful right-wing political operative.” She paused before adding, “He joined GAMMA when his oil company was bought out by…”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess: TransGlobal Energy,” Jason said. “That’s why he’s attacking all of those TransGlobal facilities in Brazil and the U.S.—he’s on some sort of revenge kick. And now he’s back in the U.S., on the West Coast…”

“TransGlobal Energy is headquartered in San Francisco,” Kelsey said, “and they have a major terminal and storage facility in the Bay area…”

“That’s his target—it’s got to be,” Jason said. “We’ve got to deploy the task force out there and hunt this guy down.”

“We’ve got the FBI, customs, Coast Guard, the National Guard, and every state and local law-enforcement agency within a hundred miles of San Francisco on the alert and after him,” Kelsey said. “We’re setting up surveillance on every possible target. What is the task force supposed to do that they can’t?”

“Kelsey, you’re acting as if this guy is just some sort of common criminal,” Jason said. “He’s a psycho with knowledge and probably access to military weapons, including nuclear weapons. You don’t fight him with guys with a pistol and a badge—you fight him with superior firepower. You can’t go out there expecting to apprehend him—you’ve got to go in expecting to hunt him down, battle it out, and kill the sonofabitch.”

“And what makes you such an expert, Major—the outstanding job you did down in Brazil?” Kelsey asked irritably. “Listen, Jason, we’ve got folks on the case who figured this stuff out a long time ago and they’ve been on the move and setting up ever since…”

“Oh, really? How long have you known about this, Special Agent DeLaine?”

“…and Task Force TALON is alive in name only,” she went on. “Let the professionals handle it.”

“Zakharov brought six squads of paramilitary troops, antitank weapons, and a helicopter gunship, all led by a former Russian commando, just to nab one guy—if he’s going to attack a heavily armed target in the heart of a major city in America, he’s going to bring a lot more firepower than that,” Jason said. “He’ll be no match for the police department.” He turned to Jefferson. “Ray, we’ve got to find a way to get out of here,” he said. “Who else can you talk to besides Chamberlain? How about Secretary of Defense Collier?”

“I can try to contact him through friends of mine in the Pentagon,” Jefferson said. This time, there was no argument about trusting Chamberlain—he knew something was wrong. “I’m friends with the command sergeant major working in the office of the director of the Joint Staffs. He might be able to get a word to the SECDEF.” He pulled out his secure cellular phone and dialed. After a few moments, he closed the phone, and for the second time Jason saw a very uncommon sight—a confused look on his face. “You’re not going to believe this, sir,” he said. “We’ve just been ordered to prepare to deploy—the entire task force. A C-17’s on the way to pick us up.”

“Where are we going?” Jason asked—but when he saw Jefferson’s face, he knew instantly: “You’re shitting me: San Francisco?”

“I shit you not, sir. San Francisco. They’re calling it a ‘security assessment’ for…”

“For TransGlobal Energy,” Jason said. “Did they plant listening devices on us, or what? Let’s get back to the training area, Sergeant Major. Let’s go, folks.”

“What if they’re wrong about San Francisco?” Kelsey asked as they started jogging back to base. “Zakharov could be anywhere.”

“I don’t think he’d fly into San Jose and then risk flying somewhere else to do whatever he means to do,” Jason said. “Whatever he’s doing back in the States, he’s going to do in the San Francisco Bay area.”

“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“C’mon, Special Agent DeLaine, you’re in the FBI, remember?” Jason said. “Use your incredible powers of deductive reasoning, logic, and investigation. All you have to do is put this guy within smelling range of Task Force TALON, and we’ll take him down—hard.”

San Francisco, California

Early the next day

Anyone who commuted regularly to the city of San Francisco knew that if you needed to be in the office by 8 A.M. you had better be actually on the Golden Gate Bridge from the north or on the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge from the east, and actually pointed at the city itself, by 7 A.M., or you weren’t going to make it on time. But folks who hadn’t heard about the even more intense security setup on all three approaches to the City by the Bay would still never make it on time even if they allowed the full hour to cross the bridges.

Army National Guard Specialist Nick Howard walked between two lanes of traffic, not really fearing being struck by oncoming traffic because he was walking far faster than the traffic itself was moving. He was in full combat gear with body armor over his battle dress uniform, Kevlar gloves, and helmet. Clipped onto his body armor was his usual light-patrol field equipment, including radio, flashlight, ammo pouches for his M-16 rifle and Beretta M9 pistol, CamelBak water bottle, and first-aid kit. He also carried some specialized law-enforcement-style equipment such as plastic handcuffs, a can of pepper spray, cellular phone (his own, not government issued), and notepad and pencils.

The one thing he wished he had was a gas mask to help protect him against the carbon monoxide automobile exhaust fumes he had been sucking on for the past two hours while out here on patrol.

Howard looked at the faces behind all those windshields and saw nothing but anger and resentment. He couldn’t blame them too much, but this was a national emergency. In civilian life Specialist Howard was a warehouse foreman in Berkeley, formerly a truck driver himself, and he knew that time spent idling was completely wasted. On the other hand, the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge was certainly a major target for any terrorist. It would not only cripple San Francisco, but jam up most of the cities and freeways in all of Northern California. Certainly that was worth a little patience here.

“Senegal One to Senegal,” his command radio squawked. “Be advised, CHP advises the wait lines to cross the tollbooths are exceeding ninety minutes, and they’re recommending we speed up inspections. Go to one every twelve trucks. Advise on any other suspicious vehicles. Senegal One out.”

Howard sent a short “Echo Eight” in response. He knew that had to happen. Their initial instructions that morning were to inspect every fifth multiaxle vehicle or any vehicle that looked suspicious—i.e., ridden in by anyone looking as if they were wearing military gear, who looked nervous, or any vehicle that showed any sign of unusual activity, such as grossly overweight, rocking unsteadily as if lots of persons were moving around inside, or any vehicle suddenly changing lanes to avoid scrutiny. The inspections nabbed several suspicious vehicles, such as a small U-Haul moving truck with at least twenty Hispanic men and women inside the cargo compartment, probably undocumented workers heading off to work. But mostly it only nabbed rolling eyeballs, shaking heads, and a few epithets muttered behind Howard’s back.

It took a very, very long time to search those vehicles, and the parameters had to change quickly or else they were going to be there all day. It went from one every five vehicles to one every seven and currently one every twelve; now they had to just “report” suspicious vehicles, not search them. And the commute had been going on only for two hours, with at least two more hours to go—it would only get worse. Howard believed they’d have to go to at least one inspection every twenty trucks to get through this mess quickly enough.

Of course, he thought, these folks could help themselves by carpooling. At least 90 percent of the private vehicles in this huge traffic jam were driver-only. Commuters too stupid to use BART or carpool deserved to sit in line like this.

The traffic inched forward less than a car-length. The ninety minutes his ops officer mentioned was ninety minutes to go two stinking kilometers—God, getting caught in this mess would drive him absolutely bonkers, as he was sure it was doing to most of the drivers trapped here. The cars he was walking near had already cleared the tollbooths, which made most drivers think that the congestion was over and it was clear sailing from here on out. No such luck.

Time to do another inspection. Although he had lost count of how many trucks it had been since he last did an inspection, the National Guard specialist eyed his next target: a five-ton plain white local delivery truck, with two guys in the cab, that had just pulled out of the toll plaza and was in the section of the bridge on-ramp where it started to narrow from twelve lanes to four. He liked to pick the trucks without logos or advertisements on them, because that meant the drivers were usually nonunion, and Howard was a die-hard third-generation Teamster. As he approached the truck it seemed to him that the men inside were looking a little nervous—and then he saw one of them, the passenger, reaching down under his seat for something. He was desperately trying to remain upright, not bending over but staying upright, but he was definitely trying to get his hands on…

“Hey, bub,” he heard a gruff voice beside him yell. The sudden sound startled him, and he jumped. The driver of the red Ford compact car, about three cars ahead of the white truck, seemed to take some delight in seeing the soldier jump like that. “Hey, what’s the problem here?” he asked. “I haven’t moved one freakin’ foot in ten minutes!”

“Security inspections, sir,” Howard said, keeping his eyes on the men in the white panel truck. Keeping his right hand on the hand grip of his M-16 rifle, he reached up to key the mike button on his headset transceiver. “Senegal, Echo Eight…”

“Hey, soldier, I’m askin’ you a question,” the driver of the red Ford shouted. “I’m gonna be fuckin’ late for work if we don’t get movin’ here, and I’ve been sittin’ here for thirty minutes already!”

“Senegal Echo Eight, Senegal, go,” came the reply.

“Excuse me, sir,” Howard said to the irate driver. “Senegal One, be advised, I’ve got sierra-alpha, two white males in a white GMC five-ton panel truck, license number…”

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!” the driver of the Ford shouted. “I paid my damned ten bucks, and I need to get goin’! Why are you on this side of the tollbooths anyway? This is a pretty stupid place to be!”

“Sir, please lower your voice,” Howard said. “I’ll get to you in a minute. Thank you.” Howard took a few more steps toward the truck. The passenger was scrunched way down in his seat, with only his head and shoulders visible now; the driver was making nervous glances down at the floor between their seats. He keyed the mike again: “Senegal One, Echo Eight, request backup on my pos.” The code phrase “sierra-alpha” meant “suspicious activity” in their parlance, and the phrase certainly fit in this case. He could practically see the sweat pouring out of the guy in that truck.

“Echo Eight, Senegal, say license plate number for that vehicle.”

“Senegal One, Echo Eight, target vehicle has California plates, one-six-delta…”

Suddenly he heard, “Fuck you, asshole!” and he felt a sudden burning sensation on the back of his neck. Howard reached up with his left hand as the burning intensified and started creeping down his back. He looked at his gloved hand and found some sort of dark liquid…coffee! The driver of that red Ford just threw coffee on him!

Something exploded in Howard’s brain. Without thinking, he whirled and raised his rifle, pointing it at the driver. “You! Let me see your hands!” he shouted.

“Don’t point that thing at me, asshole!” the driver shouted. “Back off!”

“I said let me see your hands, now!”

“Fuck you! You can’t do anything to me!”

A fuse blew in Howard’s head. He raised the muzzle of his rifle above the roof of the red Ford, flicked the selector switch on his M-16 from Safe to Single with his thumb, and fired one round. The driver—and every other driver within twenty meters—jerked in surprise. “One last warning: let me see your hands!”

“Echo Eight, Echo Eight, this is Senegal One! What’s going on? Report!”

“Jee-sus!” the driver said. He immediately stuck both hands out the driver’s window of his car, a stainless steel Porsche coffee mug still in his left hand.

“Senegal One, Echo Eight, request immediate assistance!” Howard radioed.

But the driver of the red Ford had stopped paying attention to what he was doing when the gunshot rang out, and his car crept forward as he unconsciously took his foot off the brake and hit the car ahead of him. Startled again, Howard lowered the smoking muzzle of his weapon back down to the driver. “Don’t you move!” he shouted, his eyes bugging in surprise. “Stop!” But the red Ford rolled about two meters forward and hit the car in front of him.

The sudden impact made the stunned driver drop his coffee mug, and it made a loud clattering sound when it hit the pavement. The driver unconsciously leaned out of the car window as if he was going to try to catch the mug in mid-air, arms flailing. Already hot-wired for extreme danger, Howard reacted…by pulling the trigger of his M-16 three times. The driver’s head exploded into a cloud of bloody gore, and the corpse was tossed into the empty passenger side of the car. Howard immediately raised the muzzle and flicked the selector switch to Safe, but of course there was no way to recall the bullets. Pandemonium immediately erupted. Car alarms and horns blared; men and women screamed and started leaving their cars in droves, running in all directions; more cars hit each other as panicked drivers fled, creating even more confusion.

In the white panel truck not far away, the two men in the cab nearly jumped right out of their seats, watching in horror as the soldier opened fire on the civilian. “Nu ni mudi!” the passenger swore in Russian. “He just shot that guy!” He looked around at the almost instantaneous confusion. “Shit, everybody’s panicking! People are getting out and running across the damned freeway!”

The driver of the white panel truck looked over and saw something even more horrible—several more soldiers running toward them, rifles at the ready. He made an instant decision. He picked up his walkie-talkie and keyed the mike button: “All units, this is Charlie, baleet zheeyot, repeat, ‘stomachache,’ ‘stomachache.’ Out.” He put the truck in Park, pulled a pistol from under his jacket, hid it in his front pocket, and got out of the truck. The passenger’s face was blank with surprise when he heard the order, but after a moment’s hesitation he too got out, his hands inside his coat pocket.

Hundreds of frightened people were running hysterically off the Bay Bridge toward the tollbooths—some so scared that they were throwing themselves over the side and plummeting several stories to the pavement below. The police were reacting quickly. “Stay in your vehicles!” they shouted from public-address loudspeakers. “Do not panic! There is no danger! Stay in your vehicles!” But after 9/11, when the rumor that loudspeakers in the World Trade Center towers were telling workers not to panic and to go back to work just before the towers collapsed, nobody listened—in fact, it only seemed to intensify the panic.

The two Russians walked quickly amid the crowds, walking quickly enough to not get trampled but not too quickly so as to draw attention to themselves. CalTrans officers were emerging from the toll plaza, arms upraised, urging folks to go back to their vehicles so they could be moved. As hard as they tried to avoid them, one CalTrans worker appeared in front of the lead Russian. “Sir, where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” the hefty woman shouted. “Go back to your vehicle, right now! You can’t leave your…”

“Yop tvayu mat!” the Russian said. He pulled his pistol from his pocket, keeping it low and as out of sight as possible, and put two bullets into the woman from less than a meter away. The new gunshots didn’t just create a new wave of panic—they created a virtual human stampede. Terrified drivers ran in every direction, trampling anyone who was unlucky enough to be trying to head in the opposite direction.

The two Russians followed the surging human tidal wave past the toll plaza, steering themselves toward the north side of the on-ramp where a new east span of the Bay Bridge was under construction. Stunned construction workers scrambled onto machinery and trucks as the mass of humanity surged closer. The Russians climbed atop an immense dump truck at the base of a concrete support structure. Moments later, several construction workers joined them. “What happened?” one of them asked.

“We heard gunshots,” one of the Russians replied in a pretty good American accent. “When we saw everyone else running, we ran too.”

“Shit, man, this is the biggest panic I’ve seen since the eighty-nine earthquake,” another worker said. “What did you see?”

“A huge explosion,” the Russian replied. “A huge fireball, as big as those suspension towers.”

“What?” the worker asked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see no explosion.”

“Oh. Uyobyvat! Are you kidding!” And at that, he pulled out a small cell phone, hit a speed-dial button, then pressed the green Send key—and the white panel truck, loaded with almost two thousand kilos of high explosives, detonated in a massive fireball. The entire easternmost section of the Bay Bridge blew apart, sending hundreds of vehicles flying through the air and crashing down to the edge of San Francisco Bay. The toll plaza and hundreds more cars were swallowed up by the fireball, with thousands of liters of gasoline adding their fury to the tremendous blast.

But that was not the last explosion to occur on the Bay area bridges that morning.

When the terrorists’ emergency call went out, a second terrorist team already caught in heavy traffic on the westbound span of the bridge west of Yerba Buena Island in a large Chevy panel van also exited their vehicle, ran through traffic toward San Francisco, and detonated the explosives by remote control when they saw police officers up ahead in their path. The terrorists had a brief firefight with police before both terrorists were killed—but not before another section of the Bay Bridge, this time high above San Francisco Bay, collapsed. Another explosion farther east on the eastbound deck of the bridge also created havoc as several dozen vehicles plunged hundreds of feet into the Bay through the decimated bridge.

The Golden Gate Bridge to the northwest was not spared. Another truck filled with explosives detonated in the northbound lane several meters from the toll plaza, and a second truck bomb exploded almost exactly at mid-span in the southbound lanes. The suspension bridge twisted wildly, several of the cables holding the span snapped, and huge chunks of the roadway fell into the straits, but the bridge somehow held.

Market Street in the heart of San Francisco came under attack moments later. Huge explosions ripped just two blocks from theU.S. Mint, collapsing part of an old hotel onto the busy street, and another explosion on Market Street east of the U.S. Mint ruptured a natural gas line, sending a column of fire into the early-morning sky. Pedestrians scattered, pushing and shoving others in a frenzied attempt to get off the street before another explosion occurred.

Through clouds of smoke wafting in all directions, six Humvees and two large sports-utility vehicles made their way through the debris and craters in the street. Each Humvee had a soldier in regular-looking green camouflage fatigues in the gunner’s turret, manning a fifty-caliber machine gun. Two Humvees blocked the intersections of Drumm, California, and Market Streets, deploying two terrorists from each vehicle. The terrorists hid small remote-control explosive devices in trash containers or under parked vehicles, then took up defensive positions on opposite street corners. The four remaining Humvee and the SUVs continued down Drumm Street to a high-rise just west of Justin Herman Plaza, overlooking the San Francisco Ferry Building and World Trade Center on the waterfront.

“Inner security units, report,” Pavel Khalimov ordered on his secure FM transceiver. One by one, each Humvee and dismounted reconnaissance commando reported in. “Very good. Keep your eyes open and report any movement. Remember you are U.S. soldiers—tell anyone who approaches, including police, that you are army soldiers and order them away from the area. That should dissuade most of them. Engage only if they’re stupid enough to stay. Strike team one, proceed with insertion.”

One Humvee and two SUVs proceeded right up to the front of the high-rise building—the Harold Chester Kingman Building, world headquarters of TransGlobal Energy. Two soldiers got out of the vehicle, retrieved TOW antitank missiles, aimed, and opened fire on the front doors of the building. While one soldier provided cover, the second carried two backpack-like satchel charges inside. Gunshots rang out, but otherwise the high-rise was quiet for several moments; then, the two terrorists ran back outside. Moments later the ground shook and thick clouds of smoke blew out the front of the building as the two high-explosive charges detonated.

“Elevators and main stairways eliminated,” came the report. The terrorists returned to the Humvee to retrieve several remote-control explosive devices, and then planted them around the outside of the building. Meanwhile, the two SUVs drove through the shattered front entryway and into the immense lobby of the Kingman Building.

“Security two, patrol cars coming,” one terrorist reported on the FM frequency. Seconds later a loud explosion erupted east of their position as the terrorist detonated one of his remote-control roadside bombs, completely obliterating one San Francisco Police Department patrol car and overturning a second.

“Security Eight, two patrol cars on Market near Beale,” another terrorist reported. “Looks like they’re setting up a perimeter.”

“Security Ten, another one going up on California near Davis,” another reported. They heard several gunshots, then a loud explosion. “Responders down, huyisos,” the terrorist radioed moments later. “Fucker tried to take a shot at me! More patrol cars setting up on California out to Frost Street now.”

“Strike team is out,” the terrorists reported after leaving the two SUVs in the lobby of the Kingman Building. “Device is in place.”

Khalimov entered the lobby, opened the back cargo doors of the first SUV, worked for a few moments, then carefully closed the cargo doors. “Stand by to evacuate,” Khalimov radioed.

“Security Twelve, I’ve got something out here, Drumm and Washington,” another terrorist team radioed. “It’s a dune buggy, but it looks military.”

Khalimov looked north up Drumm Street, couldn’t see it, but he didn’t need to—he had a feeling he knew who it was. They were here. “Anyone else?”

“Yes. Another one, Market and…wait one…gas, gas, Market Street, heading east fast!” The little dune buggy raced down Market Street, firing gas canisters up the street ahead of it, obscuring it from view. “I lost it!”

“Stand by to repel, boys,” Khalimov said. “All teams, follow plan Alpha, repeat, plan Alpha. Go! Go!” He turned and started to race down Drumm Street toward Market. As he reached the corner of Drumm and Market he saw the two dismounts running toward their Humvee stationed on Market Street…

…just as a streak of fire appeared down along Main Street and hit the Humvee, blowing it into a red-orange fireball!

“Security Eight is under attack!” Khalimov radioed. “Let’s move, move, mo—!”

And then he saw it, running up to the intersection of Market and Main Streets—the robot. It wore an immense backpack, but it moved as quickly and with the same agility as he first saw it in Porto do Santos. He saw what appeared to be a cannon barrel over its right shoulder, swiveling from side to side but finally centering on him. “It is here,” he radioed. “The fucking mashina cheloveka is here. All units, plan Alpha and evacuate. Repeat, plan Alpha and evacuate!”

Khalimov ran up Drumm Street while the Humvee that had been stationed at Drumm and California drove beside him to pick him up. He heard a sound and turned, just in time to see one of the military-looking dune buggies stopped at the intersection. A soldier was standing on the back, aiming a wicked-looking large-caliber machine gun or grenade launcher at him. The Humvee gunner opened fire, and the dune buggy returned fire and sped away, firing what appeared to be gas canisters at the terrorists.

“Everyone, get your gas masks on,” Khalimov ordered, quickly donning his own mask.

The Humvee gunner let loose a long burst of machine gun fire, then shouted, “Captain! Pasmatryet!” Khalimov turned…and saw a second robot standing at the intersection of Drumm and California Streets, also wearing a grenade launcher backpack! Behind him, several soldiers in pixilated desert camouflage fatigues moved from corner to corner, guns trained on the Humvee.

“Get that bastard!” Khalimov shouted. The machine gunner in the Humvee opened fire on the robot. “Not with that! Bullets won’t hurt it! Use the TOWs!” Khalimov’s soldiers jumped out of the Humvee with shoulder-fired TOW missile launchers, took quick aim, and fired. The robot moved too fast and both missiles missed—but both missiles hit the facade of the building behind it, causing most of the front of the three-story building to come down on top of the robot.

“We got it! We nailed it!” one terrorist shouted. But just as the terrorists began to celebrate their apparent victory, the robot started to climb out from under the collapsed building.

“Time has run out, tovarischniys,” Khalimov said on his secure FM transceiver. “When it gets up, it will be after us, and it is virtually unstoppable. Anyone who is not on his way to point Alpha will be on his own.” He climbed inside the Humvee and screamed at the driver, “Pashlee! Move out!”

“Are you all right, sir?” Doug Moore in CID Two radioed. He had run over to where Jason was just now pulling himself out from the the building debris.

“Yes…maybe,” Jason Richter in CID One replied. “I’ve got a warning tone somewhere—probably that access panel again, damaged in the blasts behind me. My grenade launcher is damaged too. You got that Humvee in front of you?”

“I’ve got him, sir.” His electronic crosshairs were locked on the retreating Humvee in front of the Kingman Building.

“Nail him, Sergeant,” Jason Richter responded.

“Roger,” Moore radioed, and rapid-fired two forty-millimeter grenades from his backpack grenade launcher. The M430 high-explosive dual-purpose grenades shot one per second from the cannon and hit the Humvee dead-on, disintegrating the right front tire and somersaulting the vehicle over completely before it came to rest on its left side.

Khalimov opened the smoldering right rear passenger side door, and he and one surviving crewman scrambled out. Stunned and shaken, Khalimov and the other terrorist slumped to the ground beside the overturned Humvee. Khalimov coughed thick, acidic smoke out of his lungs. His face felt as if it was burned, and every joint in both legs ached. He looked up and saw the first robot standing beside the second one, just now crawling out from under the bricks and steel of the collapsed facade.

Those things were unstoppable, Khalimov thought. There was only one way to stop them…andhehaditrightinhishand.He had no choice, he thought as he pulled the remote detonator from his pocket, pressed and held the button, then ran as fast as he could down Market Street toward the Embarcadero. His joints and muscles ached, his vision was blurred, but he clutched that detonator with all his willpower, praying that the colonel’s range estimate was correct. All he knew was he had to get the hell away from there, before…

Doug Moore helped Jason climb the rest of the way out of the rubble. “Thanks, Doug,” Jason said. He disconnected the damaged grenade launcher backpack and let it drop to the pavement.

Jason had opened a small window in the front of the CID unit at the top of the robot’s “chest,” covered in bulletproof glass, and Doug could see Jason’s face behind the glass, partially obscured by the oxygen mask–like breathing apparatus they both wore. “Can you breathe okay in there, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Jason replied. “Looks like my electronic visor failed, and I’m still getting a warning about the hydraulic power pack losing pressure, but I’m still operational. I’m going after these guys on foot…”

“I’ll go, sir,” Moore said. “You’re damaged…”

“These guys on foot won’t be much of a threat to me,” Jason said. “I need you to search around and find any other terrorists in the streets, and then disarm as many of these booby traps as you can locate. Have all TALON units stay in position in case the terrorists try to make a break for it. We need to get the first responders organized so we don’t have any terrorists try to slip in and out if they’re still in disguise.”

“I’ll get on it, sir,” Doug said.

Jason ran down Drumm Street to Market, and then down Market toward the Embarcadero, just three blocks away. The CID system was still working, although his limb movements were starting to get a little spasmodic. Terrified civilians ran out of his way, although a few excited bystanders pointed down toward the waterfront. Jason kept going.

Khalimov and one of the terrorist soldiers were helping each other escape the carnage behind them. They had just crossed the wide boulevard at the Embarcadero when they heard two helicopters flying overhead. “Right on time,” Khalimov said. One helicopter touched down between Pier One and the Ferry Building, while the other hovered nearby. Both helicopters had twenty-millimeter machine guns mounted on the skids, ready to engage any police or military responders. Khalimov headed toward the helicopter on the ground. He didn’t know how far he was from the warhead test kit, but he doubted if it wasn’t anywhere near two kilometers—he would have to get on the helicopter and fly directly east to be as safe as…

…and at that moment he saw the second helicopter gunship wheel in his direction, bearing down on a target behind him. “Don’t look, just run!” Khalimov shouted, just as the helicopter’s machine guns opened fire. The shells felt as if they were whizzing directly over their heads, which made them run even faster.

Jason dodged right and the first fusillade of bullets missed him, but the damaged microhydraulic actuators in the CID system couldn’t keep up with his demand for even faster lateral movements and momentarily failed. At the same instant the helicopter pilot wheeled left, and Jason was sprayed by machine gun bullets. More warning tones blared. He sprawled on the pavement, unable to move—his legs felt as if they were locked in place.

He hurriedly commanded the CID system to shut down and then restart the microhydraulic system, hoping that resetting the system would remove whatever gremlins were running around in there. The helicopter gunship pirouetted in mid-air, lining up again to strafe the CID unit again. The composite armor was holding, but he didn’t know how many more strafing runs he could survive before the “magic bullet” would find a chink in his armor.

Back near the Kingman Building, Doug Moore in CID Two heard the gunfire just a few blocks away and started moving in that direction. “Major, are you okay?” he radioed.

“My hydraulic system is resetting,” Jason replied. “Head over to the Embarcadero on the double. Khalimov and the other terrorists are getting away by helicopter!”

Moore started running in that direction—but as he passed in front of the Kingman Building, Lieutenant Jake Maxwell, the TALON platoon leader, waved him down. They went inside the demolished front lobby of the building. “We checked out the vehicles that crashed inside here, Sergeant,” Maxwell said. “The one on the right is filled with high explosives, over a thousand kilos of some really nasty shit. We’ve disarmed the detonators, so I think we’re okay. But check this one out.” Maxwell carefully opened the back cargo doors, exposing a steel box…they found a large cylindrical device inside, with the test kit attached. A steady green light on the control panel read Power, and another steady red light read Armed; a blinking green light was labeled Active and a blinking red light read Fire.

“Is that what I think it is?” Moore asked.

“I think so,” Maxwell said. “Any idea how to deactivate this damned thing?”

“No clue, sir,” Doug admitted. “But I suggest you notify the police and evacuate this area as fast as you can.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll radio for help,” Doug said. “If someone can talk me through disarming it, I will. Get going, sir.”

“I’ll stay,” he said. He ordered his men out to clear the entire Financial District of anyone who still might be in the area.

Moore put in a call to Ariadna to contact someone in the military who could help identify and disarm the device, then turned to Maxwell. “You’d better leave, sir. I’ll handle this.”

“As you were, Sergeant—I’m staying,” Maxwell said. “I think my fingers can maneuver around on this thing better than yours anyway.”

The big robot looked at him and nodded. “Thank you, sir,” Moore said.

“Just don’t forget to pick me up when you run the hell away from here, Sergeant,” Maxwell reminded him.

Khalimov and his soldier had reached the helicopter on the ground and piled in. He looked to check whether anyone else was on the way, but quickly saw that the two of them were the only ones. “Idi slanu yaytsa kachat!” he shouted. “Let’s go before that bastard gets up!” The helicopter gunship took one last shot at Jason, missed, and zoomed overhead, chasing the first helicopter over Pier One and over San Francisco Bay north of the stricken San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge toward Berkeley.

After the microhydraulic system restarted, Jason found most of the warning tones gone, and he was able to get to his feet—although he was still getting spurious inputs from the microhydraulic system to his limbs, he was in control of them. The helicopter had just lifted off, and Jason sprinted after it. The helicopter was picking up speed, and so was he—but he was running out of dry land to run on. Just before reaching the edge of the wharf between Pier One and the Ferry Building, Jason made a last-ditch leap…and grasped the left skid bar on the helicopter.

Holding on with his left hand, he reared back and punched at the belly of the helicopter with his right. His blow easily pierced the thin outer aluminum skin and continued on through, rupturing the helicopter’s fuel tank. The engine sputtered and sounded as if it was going to quit, so Jason let go of the skid bar, fell about twenty meters, and splashed into San Francisco Bay just a few hundred meters from the piers.

He was able to swim easily to the nearest pier, where a crowd of stunned onlookers watched as the robot climbed out of the bay. But when he looked to see the crash, he found the helicopter was still flying along.

“Doug, the Department of Energy at Lawrence Livermore Labs has dispatched an Accident Response Group to your location, ETE twenty minutes,” Ariadna radioed to Doug Moore. “They’ll be able to defuse the device. They’ve looked at the images from your cameras. They can’t positively identify it but they say it appears to be a nuclear device, probably a nuclear missile or artillery shell warhead.”

“Oh, shit,” Moore breathed.

“They’re also dispatching a NEST crew to search for any other devices the terrorists might have left there.” NEST, or Nuclear Emergency Search Team, was a squad of trained engineers and scientists who used sophisticated sensors and other devices to locate nuclear weapons or components.

“Anything we can do while we’re waiting?” Maxwell asked.

“According to the readouts on that yellow box attached to the device,” Ari said, “the DOE guys say the warhead appears to be armed but the fusing is either not set or disrupted somehow. There is a radar transmitter in front of the device that can set it off, and it can also be detonated by impact or shock, so don’t touch anything.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Maxwell said.

“They’re familiar with the yellow box attached to the device: it’s a maintenance test kit, used to check those things before deployment,” Ari said. “The blinking Fire light has them a little confused, and it might be a modification that the terrorists made so they could set it and then have time to get out of the area.”

“What are you saying, Ari?” Doug asked.

“If it’s blinking, it’s a good thing.” Ari replied. “If it comes on steady…well, you’ll probably never see it come on steady, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“The ARG guys say most likely it’s a gun-type fission weapon, which means there are two chunks of uranium-235 on either end of the thing,” Ari went on. “There’s a mechanical safety device that’s supposed to keep the two halves apart if it’s accidentally triggered. If you can find that safety device and engage it, it won’t detonate even if it’s triggered. The ARG guys are setting up a video feed as they head out to you, so keep your CID cameras on the weapon and let them study it.”

“Rog,” Doug replied. He examined the device carefully. “I see a space where a safety device might have gone, but it’s been removed. Why don’t I just break the sucker in half?”

“Better wait for the word from the ARG team,” Ari said.

“I’m okay with that.” He turned to Jake Maxwell. “Sir, I think I’ve got it from here. Why don’t you get your men together and help the major?”

“If he needs our help, we’ll go,” Maxwell said. It was pretty weird talking to the big robot like this, but since they had all been stuck at Pecos East together he had started thinking of the men inside the robots rather than just the machines themselves. “I’ll stay here for now. Okay, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

A few minutes later: “Doug, the ARG guys are about ten minutes out,” Ari radioed. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, Ari,” Doug replied.

“I miss shooting with you, Doug,” Ariadna said. “You taught me a lot. You’re a good teacher.”

“I had a very good student.”

“We’re going to keep on training after this is over, aren’t we?” she asked. “You said you’d teach me assault weapons and heavier stuff next.”

“I can’t wait, Ari,” Doug said. “Not just the gun stuff, but…”

“But what, Sarge?”

“I can’t wait to be with you again,” Doug said. “I miss you.”

“Hey, I miss you too, Doug,” Ari said. “It’s not just the gun stuff at all. I like being with you.”

“Ari, I wanted to tell you something a while ago, before all the stuff in Brazil happened…”

“You can tell me now, big boy.”

“I wanted to tell you…” Instead, he stopped……because the Fire light on the test kit stopped blinking.

Moore didn’t hesitate—he immediately karate-chopped the device right in the middle, his microhydraulically powered hand crushing the steel-encased device as easily as a beer can, blocking the slug of uranium in the front of the gun before it could reach the second slug in the rear, form a critical mass, and create a thermonuclear reaction.

That was the last action he would ever remember—but it saved the lives of millions of souls that morning.

The explosive charge in the warhead exploded milliseconds after Moore crushed the cannon. The ten kilos of high explosive blew into a tremendous fireball, scattering debris from the two uranium-235 slugs into the atmosphere. The explosion triggered a second explosion—this time, in the backup blasting caps embedded in the one thousand kilos of octanitrocubane explosive in the second SUV. Both Moore and Maxwell were vaporized in the second explosion.

Buildings in San Francisco and most of the Bay area are designed to withstand tremendous side-to-side motions to guard against earthquake collapse, but this design makes them vulnerable to upward and outward forces. The first satchel charges set off by the terrorists weakened the main stairwell and elevator shafts, whose structures were the principal interior support structures for the entire building except for the earthquake-resistant outer shell…the ONC explosion would take care of the rest of the building’s interior support.

The fireball created by the ONC explosion traveled directly upward through the entire thirty-two-story building like an immense cannonball racing through an old iron cannon, incinerating everything in its path. Once the fireball reached the roof, pressure built up within the building, shattering every window and completely gutting the interior of the building, leaving the reinforced outer shell intact—but without any interior supports, the building would never stand. Seconds later, the Kingman Building started to collapse inside itself like a planned demolition implosion. Within seconds, there was a huge pile of steel and concrete at the place where the Harold Chester Kingman Building once stood.

Jason Richter had just started jogging as fast as his malfunctioning CID unit could go back toward the Kingman Building when the ONC explosion ripped it apart. He watched in horror as the Kingman Building went down in a huge cloud of dust and debris. The sound was deafening. People were screaming behind him, running in all directions in panic. The fogbank of debris rushed over him, but he was still too stunned to move.

“Jason!” Ariadna radioed. “Can you hear me? Jason!”

“I hear you, Ari,” he replied solemnly. Jason took a deep breath inside the CID unit. Soon the dust and debris was so thick he couldn’t see a thing.

“What happened? I lost the video feed from Doug. Can you see him out there?”

He was being pummeled by chunks of flying steel, glass, and concrete as well as by the windblast created by the collapsing building, but he still could not make himself move for several long moments.

“Jason…!”

“He’s gone, Ari,” Jason finally said. “The Kingman Building blew up…he’s gone. Doug is gone.”

“Wha…what?” Ari asked. “Say again, Jason? What happened?”

“Zakharov has got to be stopped,” Jason said. “We have got to pick up his trail and track him down fast, before he kills any more innocent people. We have to think of a way to find this guy before he strikes again. We have to take the fight to him this time.” He paused, taking another deep breath, then turned and started walking out of the river of debris swirling all around him. “Sergeant Major Jefferson.”

“Sir?” Jefferson radioed from his spot on one of the “Rat Patrol” dune buggies, which had evacuated on Maxwell’s orders uptown on California Street.

“Recall Task Force TALON to Pecos East immediately. We’ve got work to do.”

“I’m sure the feds and the state of California will want a debriefing on…”

“Sergeant Major, I gave you an order,” Jason said. “Assemble the team at Pecos East immediately.”

“What about Lieutenant Maxwell’s and Sergeant Moore’s bodies, sir?”

“When they’re recovered, we’ll return and take them back to their families,” Jason said. “Our job is to get that sonofabitch Zakharov. Move out.”

Ray Jefferson liked the sound of the voice on the other end of that radio conversation. “Yes, sir,” he responded, smiling. “All Task Force TALON squads, secure your locations and assemble at rally point Delta. Move!”

Washington, D.C.

A short time later

This time there was none of the usual pomp and ceremony when the President of the United States visits Congress: no ceremonial banging on the chamber door requesting admittance; no loud announcement of his arrival by the sergeant-at-arms; no welcoming applause; no handshakes. The assembled members of both houses of Congress simply rose to their feet and remained silent as the President, surrounded by Secret Service, walked quickly down the aisle to the podium.

The Vice President was not there, still in a secure location outside the capital due to security concerns; his spot was taken by the Senate majority leader. The Speaker of the House was in his usual position, behind and to the President’s left; the bulk of the bulletproof vest he wore obvious beneath his suit, as was the case with most of the ranking members of Congress. Most of the Supreme Court justices, Armed Forces chiefs of staff, Cabinet members, and White House senior staff were in attendance, as were the members of Congress themselves. There were just a few observers allowed. Every door was guarded by a uniformed U.S. Marine Corps soldier with full battle gear and assault rifle.

“Mr. Chairman, Mr. Speaker, members of Congress, thank you for responding so quickly to my request to address a joint session,” the President began moments after reaching the podium. “I know over the past several weeks you have been informally debating the idea of declaring war on terrorism. Today, that’s exactly what I’m asking Congress for this afternoon: I wish Congress to issue a declaration of war against terrorism.

“I have already declared the entire San Francisco Bay area a federal disaster area and have activated the Joint Civil Response Force to help the state of California deal with the emergency. As commander in chief, I have federalized the California National Guard and Reserve Forces Command to help local and state authorities in rescue, recovery, medical, relief, and security efforts; I have directed the Secretary of Defense to assign active-duty units based in the U.S. to U.S. Northern Command and to be made available for defense and security assignments throughout North America; and I have ordered the highest possible level of security for all oil and gas, chemical, power production, water, and transportation facilities all across the United States.

“But all of this not enough—not nearly enough. Our resources, which were already stretched thin after the attack on Kingman City, are now at the complete exhaustion point. My only option is to request from Congress full war authority to muster resources to defend our nation and to deploy worldwide to hunt down and destroy these terrorists. I am asking Congress for a declaration of war on terrorism.

“Specifically, I am asking Congress to authorize all available resources of the United States of America to investigate, indict, pursue, capture, or destroy terrorists anywhere in the world. I specifically refer to the man known as Colonel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, whom we believe was the mastermind and weapons procurer of the nuclear attacks on Kingman City, Texas, as well as the attacks this morning in San Francisco. This resolution also pertains to his coconspirators around the world, and to any person, group, organization, or nation that harbors, protects, assists, or facilitates his movements or activities, past or present.

“I am also requesting one more thing from Congress: repeal of the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878,” the President went on. “The act was designed to keep federal military troops from violating the people’s constitutional rights by acting in a warlike manner to civilians on American soil without due process. What it has succeeded in doing, however, is to keep America incapable of defending itself against an attack on its own soil. The President needs the authority to deploy the full range of military forces anywhere, at any time, for any and all purposes in order to defeat this enemy. It cannot be restrained or hampered by the fear of crossing state or local jurisdictions.

“The war is no longer ‘over there’; the oceans no longer insulate us; and the enemy is using weapons and tactics that were once reserved only for the most extremely desperate battlefields. We are not fighting in the aftermath of a civil war—we are fighting a strong and determined enemy that can destroy this nation if we allow it. It is time for the U.S. military to be given the authority to use its power right here on our own soil to defend our great nation. As commander in chief, I promise I will not waver or shirk my responsibility to defend our nation; but I must be given the tools I need to combat terrorism wherever I find it, whether foreign or domestic.

“I therefore ask Congress…no, I demand that you pass a war resolution against terrorism, and that you repeal the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878 and allow U.S. military commanders and the forces under their command to take any and all measures necessary to defend and protect the United States of America right here at home. Time is of the essence; the very future of our nation is at stake. May God bless and protect the United States of America.”

As the stunned members of Congress got to their feet, the President stepped off the dais and walked out of the chamber without speaking or shaking hands with anyone. He was escorted under very tight security to his waiting armored limousine. His chief of staff and National Security Adviser were already in the limo waiting. The President took a deep breath and loosened his tie, slumping in his seat. “I picked one hell of a day to quit drinking,” he said wearily. “When do you think the vote will come in?”

“They have a quorum, but they still might send the draft resolution down to committee,” Victoria Collins said.

“They won’t do that—not with almost continuous images of San Francisco being played on TV,” the President said. “What’s the latest straw poll?”

“The war resolution is evenly split,” Collins replied. “Repealing Posse Comitatus…still three to one against.”

“But that was before San Francisco,” Robert Chamberlain reminded her. “They might change their votes now. There was a nuclear bomb planted right in downtown San Francisco, for God’s sake!”

“They see enough National Guard troops in their cities, airports, and bus terminals now—they might think that’s plenty,” Collins said uneasily.

“I’m done waiting around here,” the President said resolutely. “Where do we start, Robert?”

“Task Force TALON is back at their base in New Mexico, sir,” Chamberlain replied. “They’re investigating several possibilities. The FBI is interviewing tollbooth operators to see if anyone can identify Pavel Khalimov, but we’re fairly certain that he was involved in the bombings in San Francisco.”

“Be sure TALON is fully reconstituted and ready to fight,” the President said.

“Does that mean I get control of the unit back, sir?”

“Damn right it does. I don’t want them on the backside of the power curve any longer—I want them right up front, wherever the investigation takes them. Get them moving, Robert. Find Zakharov and destroy him. Wherever it leads them, whatever it takes—find him and destroy him. They get anything they want: aircraft carriers, bombers, tankers, transport planes, troops, the works. But they find this Zakharov guy and destroy him.”

“Yes, sir,” Chamberlain responded. “It will be my pleasure—my extreme pleasure.”