Act of War

CHAPTER ONE

The White House, Washington, D.C.

That same time

The President’s National Security Adviser, Robert Hall Chamberlain, strode into the White House Situation Room ahead of a wall of military officers, civilian advisers and analysts, and Secret Service agents. They had to scramble to stay out of Chamberlain’s way as he quickly entered the room and took his seat, not at the center of the oblong table but just to the right of the seat apparently reserved for the President of the United States. A former oil executive with TransGlobal Energy, an expert and adviser in foreign affairs and commerce, a wealthy political supporter and friend of the President and many other world leaders, Chamberlain had been described as having the geopolitical savvy of Henry Kissinger, the military affairs expertise of Condoleezza Rice, the wealth of Bill Gates, the charisma of Colin Powell…and the ruthlessness of Saddam Hussein.

“All right, let’s get started,” Chamberlain said brusquely. He was of average height and size, but he made up for his lack of physical stature by his high degree of energy—it always seemed as if he had someplace else he had to be; and in this current emergency situation, he was moving twice as fast. “Just to bring you all up to speed: the President, Vice President, most of the Cabinet, and the congressional leadership have been evacuated. The President, his chief of staff, SECDEF, SECSTATE, CJCS, and the congressional leadership went aboard Air Force One; the VP, Attorney General, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and a few other senior Cabinet officials went aboard a C-37B, the Vice President’s transport; the congressional leadership are in alternate secure locations throughout the East Coast. All are safely away and secure, and it is our opinion that the continuity of government has been assured to the best of our ability. As you all know, the President has already made one radio broadcast from Air Force One and plans on making another in a few hours. Except in southern Texas, the nation seems to be as calm as can be expected after a horrifying attack like this.”

Chamberlain then turned to the woman beside him to his right, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Before we begin, I want to extend my personal condolences to Secretary of Homeland Security Calhoun, whom I understand lost some family members in Kingman City. It is truly a devastating loss, and I for one intend to see it avenged and the guilty persons destroyed. I thank her for staying here in Washington to oversee the defense and security of the United States. I’ll postpone her briefing for a few…”

“No…no, I’m ready, Mr. Chamberlain,” Calhoun said, wiping her eyes. She took a deep breath but kept her eyes on the table. Donna Calhoun was tall and statuesque but fragile-looking in her current emotional state. “Let me begin with a short synopsis: the attack occurred approximately three hours and twenty minutes ago, at three-thirty P.M. Central Time. We have no details of the incident itself yet, only the aftermath. The destruction, the death toll, is…is immense. Approximately three square miles has been destroyed or dam…damaged.” She had to choke back a wimper, trying like hell to replace her sorrow with anger. “Estimated casualties are in the…thous…” This time she couldn’t hold back the tears no matter how hard she tried.

“That’s okay for now, Donna,” Chamberlain said. He waited a few moments until her weeping subsided, then turned with a stony expression to the three-star general across from him. “General Hanratty?”

Lieutenant General Colin Hanratty was deputy commander of U.S. Northern Command, or NORTHCOM, the unified military command responsible for the defense of the fifty states; the commander of NORTHCOM was also triple-hatted as the commander of NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command, the joint U.S.–Canada military alliance defending the entire North American continent; and also commander of U.S. Space Command, in charge of all of America’s satellites and space boosters. “The commander of NORTHCOM, General Joelson, is at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex and is on duty with the senior duty controller monitoring the global military status and assessing North America’s defense readiness. Although we are in constant communications with the Mountain, at the present time it is sealed up and ready to cut itself off from all outside communications and utilities at a moment’s notice.”

One of the wide-screen monitors on the wall showed a map of the world, with several annotations across mostly green shading. “The map shows the global defense status as of the latest observations, none of which are more than two hours’ old,” Hanratty said. “Our strategic adversaries are at normal defense configurations and we have observed no unusual strategic weapon movements. All of our detection, warning, intelligence, navigation, communications, and surveillance spacecraft are operating normally. Consequently, at this time Northern Command believes that this incident was a singular act of terrorism and not a coordinated attack or prelude to any sort of military action against the United States.

“As the lead military organization in the defense of the homeland, NORTHCOM was asked by the FBI to do some initial analysis of the explosion itself,” Hanratty went on. “We estimate it was a point seven-five kiloton thermonuclear blast—a so-called ‘backpack nuke,’ actually about the size of a very large suitcase, with approximately ten kilos of fissile material, comparable to a Soviet-era one-hundred-and-thirty-millimeter tactical nuclear artillery shell. The double-pulse characteristic of a small but potent thermonuclear blast was detected from space by our thermal and nuclear detectors.”

“Are you saying the weapon was Russian, General?” Chamberlain asked pointedly.

“I have no information on its origin, Mr. Chamberlain. I was just making a comparison. But I’ve read lots of reports of former Soviet military weapons on the black market, including weapons of mass destruction, and since I’ve never heard of a Western WMD up for sale I can only assume it was Russian.”

“Let’s not leap too far ahead here yet, folks,” Chamberlain said. “Before we know it, this will leak out and the Russians will be screaming denials at us, and that will only ratchet up the pressure for military action. I don’t need to remind you all that everything discussed in this room stays in this room. The press will be clamoring for an explanation and what we’re going to do about this, and we need to give the President the time he needs to make some hard decisions. Move on, General. What about fallout?”

“As far as we know, sir, serious, but not catastrophic,” Hanratty said. “Prevailing winds are from the southwest—New Orleans, Little Rock, Shreveport could all be affected, perhaps even as far north as Memphis or St. Louis. I haven’t seen the reports yet from environmental analysis and atmospheric testing, but my guess would be that the explosion was not large enough to cause a very large volume of radioactive material to be dispersed into the atmosphere.”

“Compared to Hiroshima, how big was this blast?”

“Quite a bit smaller, sir—in fact, about ninety percent smaller,” Hanratty said. “The effects are similar but on a proportionally smaller scale. Also, this explosion was in a mostly industrial area of Houston, quite a distance from populated areas. Kingman City is mostly oil refineries, petroleum and natural gas storage, docks, and inland waterways. The destruction might be horrible, but the loss of life will be relatively small. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were major population areas.” He nodded to the assistant secretary of Homeland Security. “With all due respect for your loss, Madam Secretary, the loss of life is probably a lot less than 9/11.”

“That may be some small comfort to the nation as a whole, but it is not any comfort to me at all,” Robert Chamberlain said angrily. “I will accept for now that this is not a prelude to a traditional military attack, but my recommendation to the President will clearly state that this is most assuredly an attack on the nation, and that we should respond accordingly.”

The “hotline” phone rang just then, and Chamberlain answered it on the first ring. “Chamberlain…yes, go ahead, Signal…I’m here, Mr. President. I’ve assembled representatives of the National Security Council here in the Situation Room.”

“Thank you, Robert,” the President of the United States, Samuel Conrad, began on the secure line. “I’ve got the secretaries of State, Defense, and Transportation with me, along with the chairman of the joint chiefs, the Speaker of the House, and the majority and minority leaders of the Senate. The Vice President, Attorney General, and some of the other Cabinet members are also patched in.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said. “We’ve just been briefed by General Hanratty of Northern Command, and he tells us that there appear to be no indications of any nation mobilizing its armed forces. It looks like we were the victim of another terrorist action—but this time with more dire implications.”

“Christ…” the President breathed.

“I strongly recommend you return to Washington immediately, sir,” Chamberlain said forcefully, glancing at the drawn, shocked faces of the men and women around him in the Situation Room. “There’s no imminent danger, and you have already made it clear to the world that you and the government are safe. You need to get back to the White House and take charge, in person, right now.”

“Are you sure it’s safe, Robert?”

“Safety is not the issue, sir—leadership is,” Chamberlain replied. “You need to get back here so the American people can see you not just alive and safe, but in charge and leading the defense. Now I advise you to tell the chief of staff to turn the plane around and get back to the White House as soon as possible. I’ll advise the press you’ll be on the ground at Andrews and back at the White House shortly.”

“I…all right, Robert,” the President said hesitantly. “I plan to address the American people immediately as soon as I arrive back at the White House, Robert,” he went on a moment later, “and I want a full situation briefing and intel dump as soon as I get off the plane.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Is there any information on who did this? Anyone claim responsibility yet?”

“No, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said. “We hope to have more by the time you return. We’ll transmit a complete casualty and damage report, defense status report, and up-to-the-moment world situation report to the chief of staff so he can have Communications draft an address for you.”

There was silence for a few moments; then: “I want to hunt them down and slaughter them, Robert,” he said angrily. “I want every resource of the United States of America mobilized to find those responsible and eliminate them. I’m not interested in bringing them to justice. I want them gone.”

“Everything will be done that can be done, sir…”

“That’s not good enough, Robert,” the President said acidly. “I’m tired of America being the target, the hunted—I want America to be the hunter.” He paused, then went on, his shaking voice evident even over the secure telephone connection: “Robert, I want to declare war on terrorism. And I don’t mean a ‘war’ like our ‘war on drugs’ or our current ‘war on terrorism’…” He paused again, and Chamberlain could hear a slow uptake of breath before he said, “I propose to go before Congress and ask for a declaration of war against terrorism.”

“A…say again, sir?” Chamberlain responded in shock and confusion. “Mr. President, I…I don’t know…”

“Robert, I intend to ask Congress for a declaration of war against terrorism,” the President said firmly. “The attack on Kingman City may or may not be state-sponsored; it may be radical fundamentalist Islam or some other fanatical group—it doesn’t matter. I want the full and unfettered resources of the nation to find who did this unspeakable act, hunt them down like the sick cowardly dogs they are, and destroy them. I want a congressional declaration of war. I don’t care how we get it, I just want it done.”

There was silence on the line for several long moments; then: “Mr. President, I am behind you all the way on that idea,” Robert Chamberlain said. “We should discuss this as soon as you land. It will take an enormous amount of courage and tenacity to pull it off; undoubtedly your political opponents will call it a grandstanding gesture that will throw the world into chaos. But I believe the American people will be behind you one hundred and ten percent.”

“I’m not going to sit around and wait for Congress or the Supreme Court to wring their hands and debate this,” the President retorted. “Robert, I’m tasking you with implementing this idea. Get together with Justice, Defense, and the congressional leadership and draft me a proposal that I can present to a joint session of Congress within thirty days. I want a plan of action set into motion immediately. Military, Central Intelligence, FBI, Homeland Security, every branch of the government—everyone’s going to work together on this to find the bastards who attacked us.”

Chamberlain swallowed, nervously looking around the Situation Room at the faces looking worriedly at him. “Yes, Mr. President. I’ll get right on it,” he said finally. “I’ll have some suggestions for you as soon as you return.”

“Thank you, Robert,” the President said. “You’re my go-to guy, Robert. I’m relying on you to push this, hard. The entire world watched me run in fear from my own capital, and I’m not going to let that happen ever again on my watch. I want to take the fight to the enemy. Whatever it takes, whatever we’ve got—I want the terrorists who did this to suffer. I’m going to stake my entire political career on this. I need a strong hand on the wheel. I’m counting on you, Robert.”

“I understand, Mr. President,” Chamberlain said. “I’ll see you when you get back. Thank you, Mr. President.” The connection went dead, and Chamberlain returned the phone to its cradle with a stunned expression on his face.

“What’s going on, Robert?” Donna Calhoun asked.

“The President will be back in Washington within the hour,” he said, quickly composing himself. “He wants to address the nation as soon as he returns. I want a complete report on Kingman City, our defense status, and the world situation in twenty minutes. I’ll transmit it to Air Force One so the President’s communications staff can draft a speech.” He paused, his mind racing furiously; then he added: “He wants it to be a tough, no-nonsense, decisive speech. He wants blood. He doesn’t want to reassure the nation, or offer his condolences—he wants action, and he wants heads to roll.” He paused again, thinking hard, until he realized that the National Security Council staff members present were looking rather concerned. “On my desk in twenty minutes.”

“Is there something else, Robert…?”

At that instant the phone rang again, and Chamberlain snatched it up as if it had electrocuted him. He listened for a moment; then his eyes widened in surprise, and he motioned excitedly to a staffer. “Turn on the damned news,” he shouted, “now!”

Another computer screen came to life, and all heads turned to watch. It showed a person in a silver radiation protection suit inside a helicopter, talking into a handheld video camera. The captions read KRISTEN SKYY, SATCOM ONE SENIOR CORRESPONDENT and LIVE OVER KINGMAN CITY, TEXAS.

“Holy shit,” someone murmured. “It looks like Kristen Skyy is going to fly over ground zero!” No one had to ask who Kristen Skyy was: she was by far the most well-known, popular, and trusted foreign affairs journalist on television since Barbara Walters. Her beauty, on-camera ease, and charm would have been enough to get her international attention, but it was without a doubt her drive, ambition, determination, and sheer courage that made her a media superstar.

No one, therefore, was that surprised to see her in the middle of a nuclear death zone.

“I thought the airspace over the entire nation was closed down!” Chamberlain thundered. “What in hell is she doing up there?”

“She’s on the ground in five minutes, sir,” Hanratty said, picking up a telephone in front of him.

The sound was gradually turned up, and they heard, “…assured repeatedly that it was safe at this point to fly near the blast site, the danger from radioactive fallout has subsided, my cameraman Paul Delgado has a radiation counter with him and as you can see the needle is hardly moving so I think we’re all right…”

“The radiation will be the least of her problems once I get done with her,” Hanratty murmured angrily. Into the mouthpiece, he shouted, “I told you, Sergeant Major, I’m watching her right now. She’s broadcasting live from a helicopter right over the damned blast area. I want an Apache up there to force her away and back down on the ground in five minutes, and if she doesn’t comply I want a broadcast warning her that she’ll be shot down. And when they land, arrest all of them. And I want the persons producing her news program to be arrested as well right now.”

“…been told that the FAA is ordering us to land,” the correspondent went on. “It’s an order apparently from the Departments of Defense and Homeland Security, but we think this story is just too important to simply fly away. We’ve been told that there are injured people at a park on Swan Lake, about a mile and a half from ground zero. Emergency responders are ordering everyone away from the blast area, so no help has arrived from Galveston or League City.”

“Are there any rescue units heading toward that area?” Chamberlain asked.

“All traffic for five miles around ground zero is being stopped, and that includes traffic on Galveston Bay,” Calhoun responded. “Radiation levels hit the danger mark at two miles out. No one can get close enough to the area to attempt any kind of rescue.”

“So what in hell is that reporter doing out there?” Chamberlain asked. “And why isn’t her radiation meter picking up anything?”

“Either she doesn’t have it on or she’s got it set up incorrectly,” Hanratty said. “Our detectors definitely picked up danger levels of radiation out to three kilometers. Kristen Skyy is going to get hurt if she stays out there—I don’t care what kind of suit she’s got on. And if that pilot and cameraman don’t have suits on, or if they’re not fitted or sealed-up properly, they’re dead—they just don’t know it yet.”

“Get them out of there, General!” Chamberlain shouted. But they could do nothing else but watch in horrified fascination as the report continued:

“We can see the blast area, ground zero,” the reporter in the radiation suit went on. “It looks like a forest after a huge fire, with nothing but blackened sticks sticking out of lumpy rocky black soil. The fires look like they’ve gone out, but we see what used to be the refinery and petroleum storage tanks still smoking. Here and there we see immense piles of metal glowing reddish-orange, like a pool of lava. I see what the term ‘vaporized’ means, because everything looks as fragile and decimated as ash on a cigarette. I apologize to the families of the victims of Kingman City for my harsh graphic descriptions, I’m not being insensitive, it is hard to put this nightmarish scene into words.

“Okay…okay, I understand…ladies and gentlemen, my pilot is telling me that he is getting some high-temperature readings from our helicopter’s engine, so it may be time to turn around; apparently the incredible heat still emanating from ground zero is superheating the air and causing some damage. The military is now warning us that they will shoot us out of the sky if we don’t leave. I don’t care what the military says, but if our helicopter can’t stand this heat then maybe it’s time to leave. We can’t help any survivors if we can’t safely evacuate them. The air is bumpy, obviously from the turbulence created by the heat, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe in these suits, so I think we…hey, Paul, swing around over that way—my God, I see them! There appears to be an overturned school bus about a kilometer east of us, right at the edge of Swan Lake!”

“Oh, Christ,” Chamberlain breathed. And a few moments later, the camera focused on an overturned bus, which appeared to have either been blown over by the blast or the driver had steered or been pushed off the road and the bus flipped onto its side. They could count at least two dozen men, women, and children lying on the ground, motionless or writhing, obviously in pain. Several adults and children were in the lake, trying to stay away from the intense heat, but it was obvious that the water itself was getting uncomfortably hot as well—adults were carrying several children on their shoulders, trying to keep screaming children out of the water. There was a playground nearby; watercraft of all kinds were scattered around the edge of the lake, along with more bodies. The earth was scorched a pale gray, with “shadows” of natural color where larger objects had blocked the roiling wave of heat energy from the nuclear blast.

“Paul, tell him to go over there…yes, set it down over there!” Skyy was saying. “We’ve got to help those children out of there. Maybe if we can get them on the boats we can save them!”

“We’re watching it,” Hanratty said on the telephone. “Get some choppers out there to rescue those civilians in the lake. I want all other aircraft kept away from that entire area—yes, you are authorized to fire warning shots if necessary.” Chamberlain nodded when Hanratty looked to him for confirmation of his order.

“What are their chances, General?” Chamberlain asked.

As if to respond to his question, suddenly the image being broadcast from the SATCOM One news chopper swerved and veered. They heard a man cry out, but at the same time they heard Kristen Skyy say, “Oh, shit, it looks like the engine has seized up, and we’re going down. Paul, drop the camera and hold on, for Christ’s sake!” Chamberlain had to admire her courage—the cameraman was screaming like a child, but Skyy was as calm as ever. She even sounded embarrassed that she let an expletive sneak past her lips.

The image showed the view out a side window as the helicopter headed earthward. They saw the deck heel sharply upward moments before impact, and then the camera bounced free and went dark. “Shit—more civilians in the hot zone. How soon can we get some rescuers out there, General?” Chamberlain asked.

“Several have already tried, sir,” Hanratty replied. “We’ve got more on the way, but they’re running into the same problems. The heat is just too great out there.”

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” they heard Kristen Skyy say. “Paul, are you all right? What? Your back…oh, Jesus…Paul, we’ve got to get out of the chopper, it might catch on fire…if you can move, get out and get away from the chopper…no, screw the camera, just get out…I know you signed for it, Paul, jeez, okay, okay, take it if you can, but just get the hell out and head toward the lake. We’ve got to get out of this chopper, Paul—the heat is getting worse and it might set off the fuel. I’m going to check on the pilot.” They heard rustling and opening and closing helicopter doors. “The pilot is unconscious but alive. Can you help me, Paul? I don’t think I can carry him by myself. We’ve got to get him out of here.” They could see the image jostling about as Kristen and her photographer pulled the injured pilot, wearing no protective gear but a Nomex fireproof flight suit and rubber oxygen mask, out of the cockpit.

The camera was picked up a few minutes later, focusing unsteadily on Kristen Skyy, running toward the playground in her radiation suit. “I’m okay, and I hope you can hear me,” she said via a wireless microphone. The radio connection was scratchy but still audible. “Paul will stay with the pilot in Swan Lake. I’m going to check to see if there are any survivors.” She checked the first body. “Oh God, it’s a teenage girl. She didn’t make it.” She rolled her over onto her face, exposing severe burns on her back. She went quickly to the next. “This one, thank God, is alive. Maybe her boyfriend or brother.” She dragged him to the edge of the lake, where others taking refuge there helped him into the relatively cooler water. Then she went back to check on another.

“She’s got guts, I’ll say that,” someone said.

“The ground feels very hot, like I’m walking on very hot sand,” Skyy said. “The air is very uncomfortable, like a sauna, but not moist—very dry, like a desert, like the Mojave Desert. I’ll go over to the bus and see if…hey, it looks like a rescue helicopter has arrived. Paul, can you see the helicopter coming? It looks like an army helicopter.”

“That was quick,” Chamberlain said. “Who is it, General?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Hanratty said. “I’ll try to get a confirmation.”

The photographer swung his camera up, and they could see a twin-rotor Chinook helicopter quickly approaching. It had a small device slung underneath the fuselage. “It’s carrying something under neath,” Skyy said, “like a raft or maybe a net of some kind of…well, I can’t make it out, but it’s coming toward us fast so we’ll find out in a moment. I wonder if he can land and take all of us out of here in that thing, it certainly looks big enough. We should… ” And then she paused, and then exclaimed, “What the heck is that?”

The officials in the Situation Room stared in amazement as the cameraman zoomed in. The object the helicopter had slung underneath looked like a man…no,ithadthefigureofaman,butit looked like a robot. “What the hell is that?” Chamberlain exclaimed.

“I have no idea, sir,” Hanratty responded. “It looks like someone in a protective suit, but I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like some kind of high-tech deep-sea diving suit.”

Robert Chamberlain turned to a soldier in battle dress uniform standing behind him, calmly standing at parade rest while the action swirled around the room. He was of average height and build, and his pixilated camo BDUs were adorned with only a few badges—most notable were helicopter pilot’s wings, master parachutist’s wings, a Combat Infantry Badge, and a Ranger tab—but the man exuded an indefinable aura of power that prevented anyone in the room from locking eyes with him or even coming near him, even the three-and four-star generals. “Sergeant Major, get someone from the Pentagon to identify that…thing, whatever it is.”

“No need, sir—I know exactly what it is,” Army Command Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson responded. The blue-eyed, wiry Ranger looked at the monitor carefully, then nodded. “I didn’t know it was ready for the field, but if it is, sir, it might be the only thing that can save those people now.”

“We’re going to redline in about two minutes,” the Chinook pilot said. “Sorry, sir, but we’ve got to leave ASAP.”

“You copy that, Jason?” Ariadna Vega asked on their tactical communications frequency. “The chopper is going to melt in a few minutes. How are you doing down there?”

Jason Richter saw the temperature and radiation readouts in his electronic visor, and he couldn’t believe it. The outside temperature was over sixty degrees Centigrade, even suspended twenty meters under the Chinook by a cable, but inside the Cybernetic Infantry Device’s composite shell it was still a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius. “I feel okay,” he responded. “Everything seems to be working fine so far. Let me down and I’ll get to work.” The helicopter slowed and quickly descended. As soon as Jason’s feet touched the ground, he disengaged the cable. “You’re clear. Get out of here before your engine goes.”

“We’re outta here, Jason,” Vega said. “Good luck, dude—you’re gonna need it.”

God, Jason thought, am I nuts? I’m wearing a contraption that has hardly been tested, let alone ready for exposure in a nuclear environment. Oddly, Jason felt as if he was standing naked, although he was surrounded by forty kilos of composite material and electronics. He experimentally moved his arms and legs and found the limbs remarkably easy to move and control. Jogging was effortless. He saw the survivors down by the lake, about two kilometers away, and started to pick up the pace…

…before realizing he had hit fifty kilometers an hour, and was standing at the edge of Swan Lake in seconds. Kristen Skyy and her photographer stood before him, motionless—but the photographer was not stunned enough to stop filming. Jason scanned the radio bands from his suit’s communications system and found her wireless microphone’s FM frequency. “Can you hear me, Miss Skyy?”

“Who in hell is this?” Skyy asked. “How can you be on this channel?”

“My name is Major Jason Richter, U.S. Army.”

“Where did your helicopter go? Can’t it come back and take any people away?”

“The heat is damaging its engine, like your helicopter. I’m here to get you out.”

“How do you think you’ll do that—carry us out two by two? Most of these people can’t make it. If they leave the water, they’ll die—and if we stay here much longer, we’ll die.” Jason looked around, saw the school bus lying on its side, and went over to it. “Get your helicopter to come back,” she was saying, “and put a cable on…”

Jason simply reached down, grasped the edge of the roof of the bus, picked it up, and pushed with his legs. The bus flipped over onto its wheels, its springs bouncing wildly.

“Oh…my…God…” Skyy watched in pure amazement as the man…robot…whatever it was…as he walked to the front of the bus, picked it up with one arm, and walked it around until the back of the bus was facing the lake. Then he began to push…and in less than a minute had pushed the rear end of the bus into the lake.

“Let’s go, Kristen!” Jason shouted. “Get them on board now!” In moments, the survivors had waded through the water and were helped aboard. The inside of the bus was almost unbearably hot, but it was their last hope. Kristen sat down at the wheel and, after a few frantic moments, got the engine started. With Richter pulling from the front, the bus moved out of the lake. Kristen managed to drive it over the sand and grass until they reached the park road before the engine died, but by then Jason was able to push the bus with ease along the road. With Kristen steering, they reached the highway leading to the town of Bayou Vista a few minutes later, and five minutes after that reached the police roadblock outside the blast area.

Kristen Skyy’s photographer captured it all, live, to astonished television viewers around the world.

The men and women in the Situation Room were on their feet, stunned into complete silence, motionless, almost unable to breathe. Finally, Robert Chamberlain put his hands on the conference table as if unable to support himself otherwise. “What…did…we…just…see, Sergeant Major?” he asked, his head lowered in absolute disbelief. “What in hell is that thing?”

“It’s called CID, sir—Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Jefferson responded. “An experimental program run by the Army Research Lab’s Infantry Transformation BattleLab in Fort Polk, Louisiana. It’s an Army research program trying to find ways to modernize the combat infantryman.”

“I’d say they’d found it, wouldn’t you, Sergeant Major?” Chamberlain asked incredulously. “What is it? Is there a man in there?”

“Yes, sir. CID is a hydraulically powered exoskeleton surrounding a fully enclosed composite protective shell. The system is fully self-contained. A soldier doesn’t wear it like a suit of armor, but rides in it—a computer interface translates his body movements into electronic signals that operate the robotic limbs. As you saw, sir, it gives the wearer incredible strength and speed and protects him from hazardous environments.”

Chamberlain’s eyes were darting around the room as his mind raced again. Finally, he looked at Jefferson as an idea formed in his head, and he pointed at his aide, his voice shaking with excitement. “I want a briefing on this CID thing before close of business today,” he said, swallowing hard, “and I want that…that suit of armor, whatever it is, its wearer, and the men and women leading that research program here to meet with me as soon as possible for a demonstration. That thing is going to be our new weapon against terrorists.”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson said. He picked up a phone and gave instructions. When he hung up, he said, “I believe the program is still experimental, sir—I don’t think it’s ready for full operational deployment.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Chamberlain said. “Heck, just one or two of those things can do everything a damned truck loaded with troops can do! I want to know everything about it, Sergeant Major—and I want to know how fast we can build more of them.”

The crowd of onlookers and police applauded wildly as Kristen pulled off her radiation suit’s helmet—but the applause and cheering was deafening when the robot assumed a weird stance, a hatch popped open on its back, and Jason Richter climbed out of the machine. Paramedics started to reach for Kristen to help her into a waiting ambulance, but she pushed them away, stepped quickly over to Jason, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, long and deeply. Jason could do nothing else but enjoy the moment—after all, he thought, these things didn’t normally happen every day at the Army Research Lab. The crowd cheered even louder.

“Thank you, Major Jason Richter, United States Army,” she said between kisses. “You saved my life.” She kissed him again, then took his face in her hands. “And you’re cute, even. I will never forget you, Major Jason Richter. Call me. Please.” Finally, she allowed herself to be pulled away by the paramedics and taken to the ambulance.

“Man oh man, you got the prize of a lifetime—a lip-lock from Kristen Skyy herself!” Ariadna Vega shouted after she pushed her way through the crowd. She was wearing a nuclear-biological-chemical protective suit of her own and was sweating profusely, but she was close enough to ground zero that she decided not to completely take the suit off, even though no one else nearby had one on. “Jason, my man, you were awesome! CID worked great!”

Moments later, their celebration was cut short by two columns of troops, each with infantry rifles, who stepped quickly up and surrounded them. Jason issued a command, and the robot folded itself up into an irregular rectangular box large enough to be carried by him and Ari. They were led to the back of a troop-carrying truck, which was covered with a tarp once they and the folded robot were on board.

Ari’s cell phone was beeping with numerous messages waiting, and while she was listening to them, another call came in. She hardly had a chance to say “Hello” before she handed the phone to Jason. “The boss sounds pissed.”

“Duh.” Jason put the phone up to his lips but not to his ear, expecting the tirade to come. “Major Richter here, sir.”

“What in hell was all that?” screamed Lieutenant Colonel Wayne Farrwood, loud enough to be heard by Ari without the speakerphone. Farrwood was the director of the U.S. Army Research Laboratory Infantry Transformation BattleLab, or ITB, at Fort Polk, Louisiana, near Alexandria. Part of the Joint Readiness Training Center, the ITB was tasked with developing next-generation technology for army ground combat forces. “Who gave you permission to take a classified weapon system all the way to Houston in the middle of a nuclear terrorist attack?”

“Sir, I…”

“Never mind, never mind,” Farrwood interrupted. “If you didn’t get us both shit-canned or thrown into prison, you’ll probably become a national hero. The truck you’re in will take you to the airport and put you and Vega on a military flight. The National Security Adviser wants to talk to us in Washington. Bring the CID unit with you. We’re sending one of the support crew Humvees out on a separate flight.”

“What’s this about, sir?”

“I don’t know, Richter,” Farrwood admitted. “I just hope we’re ready for whatever the hell they have in mind for us.”