Act of War

CHAPTER THREE

Cannon Air Force Base, Near Clovis, New Mexico

Four days later

Jason Richter kicked off the rough green wool U.S. Air Force– issue blanket and balsa-wood-like starched sheets. Sunlight was streaming through uncovered windows—not just through the glass, but around the edges of the window itself where the wood and masonry trim was crumbling away. The open barracks was divided into rooms with simple cinder-block walls that had no doors and didn’t even extend all the way to the ceiling; being a field grade officer, he was actually given a cubicle of his own. He was careful to shake his sneakers on the floor to be sure no poisonous spiders or scorpions had crawled inside before he slipped them on to head to the open bay latrine.

“Let’s hit it, Ari,” he said as he passed Ari Vega’s cubicle across the building from his. All of the other cubicles, about thirty of them, were empty. Her cubicle had no doors on it either, but Ari never insisted on separate men’s and women’s facilities—if you couldn’t handle a woman in the lab, the field, or the latrine, she had always said, that wasn’t her problem.

“Shit, J,” Ari murmured, “what time is it?”

“Almost seven-thirty.”

She was still wearing the black fatigue trousers and olive drab T-shirt she had been wearing for the past three days, ever since their demonstration at Andrews Air Force Base. Ari had long, wavy, dark hair, an olive complexion, and a very sexy body, but she always had her hair up, rarely used makeup, and kept her body hidden under bulky clothing; Jason had only seen her with her hair down maybe a handful of times in two years of working closely together. “Seven-thirty? We just hit the rack three hours ago!” Not unexpectedly, things ran late yesterday: the transport planes were delayed by weather and mechanical breakdowns, so they were late getting loaded up in Alexandria, which meant they got in very late to Cannon Air Force Base, the eighty-seven-thousand-acre military installation in eastern New Mexico. To top it off, there were no helpers or offloading equipment to help them at Cannon, so they had to unload the plane themselves by hand. “My brain doesn’t start until eight, man. I’m skipping breakfast. See you later.” Jason was too tired to argue.

The water in the latrine’s shower was ice cold, and when the hot water started, it was as brown as the dirt outside. Jason let it run, hoping it would eventually clear, but he ended up showering under an adjacent head in cold water because it never did. He shaved in cold water, put on the same set of fatigues he wore the day before, brushed the dirt and sand off his boots as best he could, found his fatigue cap, and headed outside.

They were set up in Field Exercise Support Facility Twelve, located about thirty-two kilometers west of Cannon Air Force Base in a restricted area known as Pecos East. Two large rickety-looking steel hangars perpendicular to one another faced a large concrete parking ramp. Long shafts of grass grew through numerous cracks in the tarmac. Obviously the facility had been used recently, but judging by the gang graffiti and empty beer cans they found everywhere they guessed it had not been used for any military purposes. The air was warm and breezy, with thunderstorms already building to the west. The terrain was flat, flat, flat, and Jason could probably count the number of trees he saw on one hand.

Jason found the chow hall, a broken-down-looking place called the Tumbleweed Dining Facility with cracked windows and peeling paint everywhere, but it was closed. He swore to himself and made his way across the dusty curbless street to the front of the center hangar. A steel door that appeared to have been pried open with a crowbar several times bore the familiar sign that read, RESTRICTED MILITARY FACILITY, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, followed by a long paragraph of legalese and finished with, USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED. He pressed a button to an intercom box beside the door, and moments later he heard a buzz and pulled the door open.

“Unit, ten-hut!” he heard. A lone Air Force security guard in desert camouflage fatigues, web belt with sidearm, and black Security Forces beret snapped to attention behind a gray metal desk. A bank of security camera monitors was set up on a desk to his left; a gun locker and radio recharging stand was on the right. “Welcome to Task Force TALON, sir,” the guard said. He was rather short and perhaps a little on the pudgy side, with horn-rimmed glasses strapped to his head with an elastic band, but he seemed professional, enthusiastic, and friendly. “May I see your ID card, please?” Jason fished it out for him. The guard studied it for a moment, took down some information from it, and returned it. “Thank you, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Doug Moore, in charge of security here at Area Twelve.” He handed Jason a folder. “Inside you’ll find gate codes, your flight line badges, maps of the base, and other information. Is Dr. Vega with you?”

Jason found the flight line badge on a neck strap and put it on—he had a feeling he was going to use it quite often here. “She should be along shortly.”

“Very well, sir.” His look of surprise obviously told Jason that he didn’t know Ariadna was a woman—she liked using her more male-sounding nickname “Ari” so she could see the surprised look on the faces of the men when they discovered she was a woman. “I’ll notify the rest of the staff that you’ve arrived.”

“Don’t bother—I’ll find them. This way?” Jason pointed to the only other door. He retrieved his flight line badge and swiped it in the card reader, entered a code, and the door popped open.

The hallway inside was dim and narrow, with a decades-old linoleum floor and bare walls. Jason remembered he was here last night, looking for the bathroom, but he didn’t remember much from that long night of transferring equipment from their C-130 Hercules transport plane out at Cannon into a couple tractor-trailers and then making the hour-long drive out to Area Twelve. But he followed vehicle and cargo-handling noise to another locked steel door, entered his codes, and entered.

Containers, boxes, and equipment were strewn all over the hangar, but in the middle of it all were the two Humvees Jason and Ariadna brought out to Cannon, the working prototype they had used in the demo in Washington and another they were using to test upgrades. Jason had to show his badge to a security guard before he could check the Humvee—yes, two CID units were on board, they hadn’t been disturbed, and both were fully charged and ready to go. The first CID unit was the operational prototype; the second, like the other Humvee, was used to test enhancements to the weapon system. Two more upgraded units were just a few weeks from being ready—after Kingman City, Jason was sure that timetable was going to be stepped up. Jason went over to check on the second Humvee…

…and found a guy in a plain gray lightweight jacket, khaki slacks, shooter’s yellow sunglasses, and outdoor all-terrain shoes sitting in the driver’s seat. He was taking notes on the various switches and controls, and he had the computer access panel open. “Who are you?” Jason asked.

“Who are you?” the guy challenged him. “No one’s allowed near these vehicles!”

“They’re my fucking vehicles,” Jason snapped.

The guy scrambled out of the driver’s seat. He was a good three inches taller than Jason, square-jawed and athletic—he definitely looked like he could take care of himself. He withdrew a leather wallet from a breast pocket and flashed a gold badge and ID card that said “FBI” on it. “Special Agent Bolton, FBI.” He stood right in front of Jason, blocking his view of what he was doing inside the Humvee. “Step away from the vehicle.”

“I told you, it’s my Humvee,” Jason said. “What were you doing in there?”

“And you are?”

“Major Jason Richter.” He lifted up his flight line badge and stuck it in Bolton’s face. “I’m commander of this task force.”

Bolton grasped the card, read it, and nodded, after giving Richter a quick and apparently none-too-favorable appraisal. “Okay,” he said, “you’re cleared.”

“I asked you, what were you doing in my Humvee?”

“I asked him to take some notes for me.” Jason turned and saw Kelsey DeLaine walking toward him. The guards did not ask to see her badge, Jason noticed. “I wanted to know the difference between the two vehicles, and since you weren’t around to ask, I had Agent Bolton go in and check. Carl, Jason Richter, U.S. Army. Jason, Special Agent Carl Bolton.”

“Agent Bolton should leave his paws off things he knows nothing about,” Jason said pointedly.

“Carl Bolton is the Washington director of the advanced technology office of the FBI,” Kelsey went on, ignoring Jason’s warning. “He has a master’s degree in electrical engineering and a Ph.D. in advanced computer architecture. He might know more about the systems in there than you do.”

He might indeed, Jason thought—he had heard of this guy before, but had no idea he worked for the FBI. But he was still in a peeved mood, and he’d only been awake for twenty minutes. “Then he should know better than to touch anything he’s not intimately familiar with, especially switches that can activate weapons.”

“I assure you, Major, Agent Bolton didn’t touch anything—he was simply taking notes.”

Jason stepped around Bolton, reached into the cab, and closed the computer terminal’s access cover—he couldn’t remember if he had left that cover open or not, but he assumed that Bolton had opened it. “Oh yeah? Maybe Agent Bolton would like it if I took a look around inside his suitcase—I promise I won’t touch a thing. Is that okay, Agent Bolton?” The big engineer scowled at him but said nothing.

“Problem here?” Jason looked up and saw Command Sergeant Major Jefferson approach. He wore a slightly boyish grin, but those eyes…his eyes pierced through Jason’s brain like a white-hot poker. Despite the crocodile smile, those eyes said only one thing—you are dog meat to me, sir. “Good morning, sir. Any problems?”

“Good morning, Sergeant Major.” Jefferson nodded but said nothing. “I was just warning Agent Bolton here about the dangers to himself and others—especially himself—if he gets near my equipment without letting me know first.”

“Slept in this morning, I see,” Kelsey said to Jason with a trace of humor in her green eyes—her rather gorgeous green eyes, Jason had to admit. He ignored her, mostly because she was too damned perky and together to be for real.

Jason turned to Jefferson instead. “I want everybody kept away from the Humvees until I’ve had a chance to brief everyone on their operation,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson responded.

“Next item, Sergeant Major: are all the showers screwed up like mine is?”

“If you mean is the hot water not on and do the pipes need flushing out: yes, sir. This facility was mostly shut down when we arrived—there wasn’t time to get everything up and running.”

“That’s unacceptable, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “I realize the urgent nature of our mission, but piss-poor planning on the White House’s part shouldn’t become a hardship on our part—there’ll be plenty of time for that when we get on the road. I want you to find every available unoccupied transient or visitor’s quarters available at Cannon, divide our crew into shifts, and send them over there for rest, a shower, and a meal.”

“We can’t spare the time or the manpower,” Kelsey DeLaine interjected. “We need to be up and running in less than six days.”

“Agent DeLaine, I don’t care what Chamberlain said—I’m not going to have bone-tired soldiers working around my equipment,” Jason said. “Everyone here understands the urgency of our mission, and we’ll all work as hard as we can. But CID works because my directorate is careful, deliberate, and we don’t make bonehead mistakes. I’m going to keep it that way. Sergeant Major, see to the crew rest rotation schedule, and have someone out at the air base get our facilities fixed ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.” Jason was relieved to see Jefferson’s scowl had lessened a noticeable bit—obviously his way of showing his approval—as he turned to issue orders.

“Next item: What time does the chow hall open, Sergeant Major?”

“The chow hall here at Facility Twelve is closed, sir,” Jefferson replied. “Because of the THREATCON ALPHA security alert, all civilian contractors without at least a Confidential security clearance are prohibited from entering this area. Hours had to be severely cut for all support services. We’ve requested MREs and box lunches until we can get hot meals prepared again.”

“That won’t work either, Sergeant Major.” He thought for a moment; then: “Is there a Pizza Hut near Cannon?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“Sergeant Major, in all your years of experience, do you know of any military installation in the continental United States that does not have a Pizza Hut right outside the front gate?”

Jefferson glared at Richter as if he was trying to decide if the man was pulling his leg or not. “There are usually an abundance of civilian fast-food restaurants within a very short distance of the entrance of every CONUS military base that I am aware of, sir,” he replied with a deep threatening voice, obviously warning the young major to get to the point quickly and not to fuck with him in front of all these outsiders.

“And are there any restrictions to the movement of properly credentialed military persons on and off the base?”

“Not at this time, sir.”

“Then I want you to find a vehicle and a couple of men and pick up as many pizzas as you think we’ll need for all the personnel here for lunch and dinner,” Jason said. He pulled out his wallet and handed him a credit card. “That should take care of it. Make mine pepperoni and sausage. And scout around to find out what other restaurants are nearby—even I will get sick of pizza.”

Jefferson blinked in surprise, but his voice never wavered: “Yes, sir,” he responded. He motioned for a soldier working nearby to make the arrangements.

“It’s understandable that you want to be fed and clean, Major,” Kelsey said impatiently, “and I think it’s cute how you’re trying to take charge here like this, but we really don’t have time…”

“Agent DeLaine, as I said, I don’t want tired, hungry, cranky people working around my weapon systems,” Jason said. “You may think it’s ‘cute’ that I’m trying to look out for the men and women who are stuck out here, but even us Officer Candidate School ‘ninety-day wonders’ learn to take care of our people first. I assume if my latrine and meals were screwed up, everybody else’s is too. Am I wrong? Did you have a hot shower and breakfast this morning, Agent DeLaine?”

“No, but we…”

“Sergeant Major, did anyone here have a hot shower and hot meal here this morning?”

“No, sir. None of the personnel that arrived last night had either. I cannot speak for the base personnel assigned to us by the Air Force.”

“There you go—an invitation to disaster,” Jason insisted. “Any other complaints, Agent DeLaine?” He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer. “Good. Next item: I want coffee, and I want a target,” Jason said.

“A target?”

“Coffee first, and then I want to find out who and what to hit first,” Jason repeated. Kelsey looked as if she was ready to protest again, so he turned back to Jefferson. “Sergeant Major, where’s the damned coffee?”

“Right this way, sir,” and he headed off toward a small office inside the hangar.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Kelsey protested. “We need to have a meeting first! We have a staff to organize. We need progress milestones, a timetable, set up a daily report…”

“Why don’t I leave that up to you?” Jason suggested over his shoulder to Kelsey. “I think all we need is some fresh intel and a plane that’ll get us to wherever the bad guys are. CID will do the rest.”

Jefferson led the way to the coffee—actually an old metal percolator half-full of boiling water on an even older hot plate, with Styrofoam cups and packets of instant coffee from MRE kits strewn about—but stopped before entering. “I think Special Agent DeLaine is right, sir,” he said. “We’ve got a mixed task force here—civilians, military, Army, Air Force—that has never trained or fought together before. We should take the time to organize and plan strategies before we head off into the field.”

“How many agents and soldiers were we given, Sergeant Major?” Jason asked.

“I have a support staff of three, a security staff of six, plus two Special Forces instructors here with me, sir,” Jefferson replied. “We have two staff officers, one from the Marine Corps and one from the Air Force. Agent DeLaine has one FBI intelligence officer with her.”

“Doesn’t seem to me that we have anybody to plan or train with.”

“The typical procedure, sir, is to build a game plan—a TO&E, or Table of Organization and Equipment—and then requisition the personnel, weapons, and equipment we’ll need to execute the plan,” Jefferson said evenly, like an impatient teacher explaining an important point to a rambunctious teenager. “We can’t move forward without a plan. I believe Mr. Chamberlain is prepared to give us anything we need to make this task force mission-ready. But we have to tell him what we need first, and the best way to do that is to sit down and make some decisions.”

“The ‘typical’ procedure,” Jason repeated. He could see that Sergeant Major Jefferson was unaccustomed to being questioned as to how things should be done. Jason turned and motioned toward the C-130 and his two Humvees in the hangar. “I believe we have everything we need right there, Sergeant Major,” he said. “Let’s load it up and get the bad guys.”

Sergeant Major Jefferson took in a lungful of air and looked for all the world like he wanted to start barking at Richter; Kelsey quickly interceded before he did. “Let’s try it our way, okay, Jason?” she asked. “This is our first full day here. Let’s come to an agreement on how we want to proceed, come up with a workable plan, then upchannel it to Chamberlain. If we’re together on the plan, it’ll stand a good chance of getting approved.” Jason looked as if he was going to keep arguing, so Kelsey let her voice rise a bit. “I think the sergeant major and I have a bit more experience in organizing, training, and employing a task force than you do, Major. Try it our way for now, all right?”

Jason saw Ari enter the hangar, now wearing a dark blue warm-up suit, still a little groggy, and decided he wasn’t going to get much help from her yet, so he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go meet with the staff and talk.” He endured Jefferson’s exasperated scowl as they exited the little office and headed for the conference room in the main hangar.

Two officers already in the room got to their feet and called the room to attention when Jason walked in. Kelsey took the head of the table; Sergeant Major Jefferson sat on her right. As expected, the two officers stared at both Kelsey and Ari, not expecting two women to be involved in this project. “As you were, guys,” Jason said. He stepped over to the first guy and extended a hand. “Jason Richter.”

“Frank Falcone,” he responded, shaking hands. He was an Air Force captain, mid-to late twenties, with very close-cropped hair to mask his early baldness. He was of above average height, maybe a little on the heavy side, and walked with a noticeable limp. “I’ve been assigned as your operations and intelligence officer.”

“Your second in command, sir,” Jefferson said. “Special-operations experience during Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom.”

“Fifty-seven sorties in central Asia in MH-53Js,” Falcone said, “and sixteen in the Iraqi theater before I took an SA-7 in the face.”

“That how you got the limp?”

“The crash took out most of my left thigh and hip,” Falcone said. “I was in Walter Reed and various other hospitals for eight months. After rehabilitation and recertification, I went to Air Force Special Operations Command Headquarters at Hurlburt Field for three months in plans and operations before being assigned to the task force.”

“First Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken, sir,” the woman next to Falcone, a Marine Corps lieutenant, said. She was shorter than Richter, with ear-length straight brown hair, thick glasses, not athletic-looking but sturdy—a female Marine who didn’t look too feminine but didn’t want to look like one of the guys either. She had a firm handshake—a little too firm, Jason thought, as if she thought she had something to prove to her temporary army boss. “Logistics officer, Headquarters Battalion, First Marine Division, Marine Depot Twentynine Palms. I’ll be your adjutant and logistics officer.”

“As you can see, sir, we had to double up on your typical staff assignments because of time constraints,” Jefferson pointed out. “I think we can overcome any difficulties we encounter.”

“You three represent three more staff persons than I’m accustomed to,” Jason admitted. He turned to Ari, who was making faces as she tried to drink a cup of the instant coffee. “This is Dr. Ariadna Vega, the lead design engineer and team leader at the Infantry Transformational BattleLab, Fort Polk, Louisiana. She is also my adjutant, logistics assistant, cleanup gal, and chief cook and bottle washer. Take seats and let’s get going.”

As they sat, Kelsey DeLaine asked, “Mind telling us about yourself, Jason?”

“I think we need to get this meeting started…”

“It is started,” Kelsey said. She smiled at his obvious discomfort at being the center of attention and added, “You look awfully young to be a major in the U.S. Army.”

He rolled his eyes at her, then said, “There’s not much to tell, guys. I come from a long line of career army officers stretching back to the Civil War, but I didn’t go to West Point myself because I got accepted to Georgia Tech’s engineering program when I was in ninth grade. I got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees by the time I was eighteen.” That bit of information got a mix of impressed nods and disbelieving glares from the others in the room. “But my dad is a retired army colonel and really wanted me to join up, so I enrolled in OCS. That’s about it. I’ve worked at the Army Research Lab for the past three years. Any questions? Comments?”

“It was pretty awesome, what you did in Kingman City, sir,” Falcone said. “What other units have you been with? What kind of special-ops training have you had?”

“Uh…well, none, Frank,” Jason replied rather sheepishly. “I got my master’s and doctorate degrees at Georgia Tech and Cal-Poly San Luis Obispo, then went on to Fort Polk and the Army Research Lab, working in weapon system engineering and development. I did a year at the Armed Forces Industrial College in Washington and a year as project officer at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, working on various projects.” No one said anything after that. He shrugged, then motioned to DeLaine. “How about you, Kelsey? Been a G-Man for long?”

Kelsey gave Jason an evil scowl but got to her feet. “Thank you, Major. Welcome, everybody. I’m Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine. I’m the deputy director of intelligence, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C., second in command at the FBI’s intelligence headquarters, which oversees nationwide and worldwide law-enforcement information-gathering, analysis, dissemination, and operations. Before that, I was deputy special agent in charge of intelligence for the FBI field office in London, with a force of twenty-three agents and a staff of sixty personnel. Before that, I was at the FBI Academy in Quantico, teaching classes in intelligence field operations and international law. I have a prelaw and law degree from Georgetown University.”

“The sergeant major said you had something to do with that huge black market weapons bust in London a couple months ago?” Falcone asked.

Kelsey nodded. “I was the coleader of a joint U.S.-British-Russian task force tracking down terror cells moving into Europe from the Middle East through the Caspian Sea region and southern Europe,” she replied. “Our task force broke the London cell wide open, which led to the discovery of the black market WMD dealers in London and Washington.”

“I heard that op might have saved both capitals from a nuclear or bio-weapon attack,” McCracken said. “You confiscated something like seven billion dollars in secret bank accounts?”

“More like ten billion, plus those four huge chemical weapon caches that we…”

“That’s good, Kelsey, thanks,” Jason said. Kelsey rolled her eyes at Richter but took her seat. “I’m not sure why I was chosen to be in this group, except I have the keys to the gadgets out there in the hangar. Intros over? Good. Frank, get us started. What do you have for us?”

Falcone distributed folders from his briefcase, disguising a smile at DeLaine’s expense as he did so. “This is the latest information we’ve received on the attack in Kingman City,” he said, “mostly details about the explosion itself and the extent of the damage. Over eleven known terrorist and extremist groups have taken responsibility for the attack. The FBI is working with the CIA, State Department, and foreign intelligence and law-enforcement agencies to narrow the list down.”

“Any information on this, Kelsey?” Jason asked.

“Not yet,” Kelsey responded. “We do know that another three dozen or so unknown group or individuals have also claimed responsibility. It’ll take time to track down each and every lead.”

“Any guesses? Anyone stand out?”

“I think that’s very premature,” she said hesitantly. “We need more information.”

Jason glanced at Ari, who made an imperceptible nod in return as she sipped her coffee. “Okay. We don’t have a target yet, so we can’t ascertain exactly who or what our enemy is yet,” Jason said. “But Sun-tzu said that in order to be effective in war you needed to know your enemy and know yourself. I think it’s time to get to know El CID.”

“El Cid?”

“Cybernetic Infantry Device—our little friends in the Humvees,” Jason said. “I brought two with me from Fort Polk, including the one I used in Kingman City. We have four more in various stages of readiness back at Fort Polk—since we use a spiral development program, we can manufacture units one by one and subsequent units adopt upgrades and enhancements. I expect we’ll get one or two within the next month, followed by the rest within six months along with the specialized Humvees and other support equipment. Our goal should be to train someone to use CID number two and have him or her up to speed.”

“I thought of that,” Kelsey said. “Carl Bolton has volunteered to train in the second unit.”

“Carl? Really?”

“He’s the perfect choice,” Kelsey said. “He’s a career FBI agent, graduated top of his class in the academy, and has degrees in engineering and computers.”

And it would give you someone on the inside on my side of the task force, Jason told himself. “Actually,” he said, “I was thinking of…Staff Sergeant Doug Moore.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Moore, the Air Force Security Forces guard assigned to this area.”

“You mean, the guy at the front desk?” Kelsey asked incredulously. “The short fat guy with glasses?”

“He’s of average height and maybe a little on the husky side, but not fat.”

“I think Carl would have a much better understanding of the technology than the staff sergeant,” Kelsey said. “We don’t have time to train someone in all the intricacies of haptic interfaces. Carl has researched that technology for years. He’s also a marathon runner and open water SCUBA diver—I think he would do better physically and endurance-wise inside CID than Moore. I vote we train Carl Bolton in the second CID unit and use Sergeant Moore in the next units that arrive.”

“A ‘vote,’ huh?” Jason looked at the people around him. Apparently the feds were ready to vote; the military men and woman looked confused and hesitant but seemed to be willing to follow along if a vote was called for. “I’ve got a better idea—a trial run.”

“Trial run?”

“A contest, a challenge,” Jason said. “It’ll give us a good opportunity to look over the units, see what they’re capable of, and show how easy it is to operate. How does that sound?”

“I don’t know…”

“Let’s give it a try, shall we?” He got to his feet and headed for the door. “Sergeant Major, have Sergeant Moore relieved at his post and have him report to the Humvees.”

“Yes, sir.” Jefferson looked at Richter with a quizzical, skeptical expression as he departed.

A few moments later, while Bolton and Sergeant Moore watched, Jason and Ari unloaded the two CID units and lined them up beside one another. “CID is programmed to respond to coded voice commands,” Jason began. “But for this exercise, Ari will program the units to respond to a voice command from myself, Ari, or any person aboard.” He motioned to the two rectangular hunks of composite material. “Their names are Troy and Moffitt.” Jason paused, looking around to see if there was any reaction from the others. “You guys don’t get it? Troy and Moffitt?” No reaction. “No one ever saw The Rat Patrol TV show?” Still no reaction. “Okay, we’ll just use CID One and Two. The command to get it to unstow is ‘activate,’ and then give it the command ‘pilot up’ to open up the access hatch. Go for it.”

Bolton stepped forward and stood in front of the first unit. “CID One, activate,” he shouted in a drill-sergeant-like voice. The other unit shuddered to life and within moments it was towering over him. Moore did likewise with CID Two, a bit more hesitantly but he got the job done.

“Very good. Ari, help Sergeant Moore. I’ll show Agent Bolton. CID One, pilot up.” The machine leaned forward slightly, its arms extended backward to act as railings. It bent its left leg then extended its right leg backward; finally, a hatch popped open in the center of its back.

“CID Two, pilot up,” Ari commanded. The second unit did as the first. She hopped up on the robot’s right arm. “C’mon up here, Doug,” she said. Moore carefully, gingerly approached the machine. “C’mon, Sergeant, it won’t bite. Hop on up here.” She gave him a mind-blowing smile, which definitely encouraged him.

Moore stood over the entry hatch and peered inside CID Two. The interior looked like a very comfortable satiny padded pillow, with a half-helmet with breathing apparatus and a large electronic visor near the eyes. The inside portion of the open entry hatches were similarly covered in satiny pads. Ari moved beside him. “Here’s your ride, Doug,” she said. “Once you’re inside, you’ll slip the gloved portions on and your feet into braces. Everything will be locked down, so you won’t be able to move until the unit powers up, but then you’ll be able to move freely. You give the command, ‘CID Two, lock me in,’ and the hatch will close. Everything will be automatic from there on out.”

“It looks like I’ll be squished in there pretty tightly.”

“Yes you will, but it won’t feel like it once power is applied,” Ari said. “You’ll be able to move perfectly normal. Just be careful—the kinesthetic algorithms in the software should keep you from hitting yourself and breaking sensors with your limbs, but they take time to adapt to your movements. Move slowly at first until you get the hang of it. Ready?”

Moore faced the open hatch, both hands on either side, but he didn’t go in. “Will I be able to breathe and talk normally?”

“Sure. It’ll be like wearing a motorcycle helmet. Your breathing will be a bit restricted but you’ll get used to it. There will be a lot of symbology and messages flashing on your visor but you’ll be able to see just fine. Ignore them for now—we’ll teach you what it all means later.”

Moore looked down into the place where his head needed to go like a young child staring down into a pool before jumping in for the first time from a diving board. “I…I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

Ari sensed the growing fear in Moore’s voice. “Hey, Doug,” she said gently. He looked up at her. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do this. The major just wanted everyone to see how easy it is to run this thing. He thought you’d do it no sweat. But if you’d rather not, it’s cool.” Moore said nothing, but nodded numbly and looked back down inside the machine again, not moving in either direction. “You have a call sign, Doug? All you Air Force guys have call signs.”

“No.”

“How long have you been in the Air Force, Doug?” she asked.

“Eight years.”

“Gonna hang in there for twenty?”

“Yes.”

“What else do you like to do?”

“I like being in the Security Forces,” Moore said. “Security, patrol, law enforcement, weapons.”

“I mean, what do you do for fun, relaxation?”

He looked up at her, a little embarrassed, and shrugged. “I read up on tactics and procedures, practice on the range—you know, study all there is to know about my job.”

“You like guns?”

“Sure I do.”

She could see his eyes brighten. Aha, she thought, he’s paying attention to me and not the CID. “What kind of guns?”

“Every kind,” he replied. “I know a lot about handguns, rifles, machine guns, cannons—you name it. I even reload my own ammo.”

“I’m a little afraid of guns—no, I’m a lot afraid of guns,” Ari said.

“There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of,” Moore said. This was definitely the chattiest he’s been, Ari thought. “They’re tools, implements—just like CID Two here. The more you learn, the better you feel about them.”

“What does your wife think about guns?”

His expression turned embarrassed again. “I…I’m not married.”

“Me either.” He looked up at her, and she affixed another mind-blowing smile on him with her enticing red lips. “Hey, would you teach me how to shoot a gun?”

His face practically exploded with glee. “Sure!” he replied enthusiastically. “Most girls I know hate guns. They don’t want anything to do with them.”

“Well, I’m not a girl,” Ari said, giving Moore a playful slap on the back of the head, “and I’m definitely not like most women, Doug.” His use of the term “girls” told her a lot: this was a guy who didn’t have much of a life outside the Air Force Security Forces. He was afraid to try new things—not a good choice for someone picked to use CID for the first time. But Jason wanted him for this demonstration—she’d have to see if she could make this work. “Besides, I work for the army—I’m around guns all day. I don’t hate guns, and maybe I’m not afraid of them, but I do respect them. I don’t pick them up and fire them myself. But if you teach me, maybe I won’t be afraid.”

“You won’t be, I promise.”

“It’s a date, then,” she said. She nodded toward the interior of the CID unit. “Now, what about this thing, Doug? It’s no biggie if you want to get down. I’ll do the demo with Bolton over there, wax his ass, and then when you get off you and I will go out to the desert and you can teach me about guns.”

Ari could see the transformation on Moore’s face when she said the word “date”—he felt as if he was ready to take on a band of nuclear terrorists all by himself. “Let me give it a spin,” he said resolutely.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She gave him another smile and a pat on the cheek that melted his heart completely. “All right, Doug. Wait until you see the weapons we have for this thing—it’ll blow your mind. Climb on in and let’s get started. Breathe normally and try to relax until we get the power on.”

Slowly, gingerly, Moore eased his legs into the interior of CID Two. He paused about three-quarters in until his boots found the braces, then slowly lowered himself inside. He gave Ari one last worried smile, received a smile of encouragement in response, then lowered his face into the helmet so his entire body weight was resting inside the body supports. His arms withdrew inside the machine and slipped between the smooth padded coverings until his hands found the rough gloves inside; then he slipped his fingers in. He tried to flex his fingers and move his head but everything was frozen solid, and a thrill of panic crept up his spine. He was blind, almost deaf, and the padded interior molded itself to his body so well that he felt as if he were floating in a sensory-deprivation chamber.

“Okay, Doug,” he heard Ari say. “You have to give the command to close the hatch.”

“Ahh…” He didn’t think he could do it. It was hard to tell which way was up. He knew he should be almost upright, leaning forward a little, but he felt horizontal, maybe even past horizontal, a little head-down. It was starting to get warm, and he hated the feel of his own breath on his face and going back into his own nostrils. Where’s the air in this thing? Wasn’t it dangerous to breathe your own exhalation? Isn’t that mostly carbon dioxide, and it’s bad to…

“Hey, Doug? We’re waiting, tiger. Go for it.”

“Okay. Okay…” He took a deep breath and found it exceedingly hard to get a full lungful of air. I better do it, he thought, or I might puke in here. “CID Two, lock me in.”

It was silent for what seemed like a long time—then, suddenly he heard a whirring sound, and the hatch closed behind him, pressing his body deeply into the padding. Now it was really difficult to breathe. Moore subconsciously tried to raise himself up, but he was squished in tight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear…He realized with a roar in his ears and tightness in his chest that he was suffocating! Suffocating! This is what it felt like! Holy shit, he screamed to himself, I’ve got to get out of here! How do I get out? Ari never told me how to get out! What if I’m dying? What if there’s a malfunction and they can’t tell I’m smothering in here! What do I…?

“Relax, Doug,” he heard Ari say. “Don’t get up too quickly. Relax.”

Cool air rushed into his lungs. He felt his body weight on his left leg—not uncomfortable or heavy, but it felt weird after feeling so weightless for what seemed like a long time—and found he was able to straighten his legs and lower his arms with ease. He could see just fine—maybe a bit of distortion, like looking through a window with a bit of glare on it, but not bad. He saw symbology floating across his vision, popping up here and there, like a stock market ticker that appeared and reappeared almost randomly. He brought his hands up to his face…

…and saw the biggest, meanest clawlike fingers he had ever seen. It was the robot’s fingers, not his! He flexed his fingers and saw the robot’s fingers flex the same way…but they were his fingers he was moving, not the robot’s…but the robot’s fingers were moving, he was watching them move…!

“How do you feel, Doug?” Ari asked, stepping in front of his field of view. “Be careful touching your visor or sensors with your fingers or trying to rub your eyes—your fingers will go right through those sensors.”

“What’s happening?” he asked. “I mean, I feel okay, but I feel weird. Am I still in the robot? I remember I was panicking a little, and I wanted to get out.”

“Un…believable,” he heard Kelsey DeLaine gasp. She stepped in front of him, a look of absolute wonderment on her face. It reminded Moore of how passersby looked at auto accidents or criminals getting arrested. “How do you feel, Sergeant?”

“I feel just fine, ma’am,” Moore said. She reached out a hand to him, and he reached out…except it was the robot’s massive hand that touched hers. He dared not close his fingers over hers. “I…I can feel you, Miss DeLaine. It feels like I’m touching you…but I’m not, am I? It’s the robot touching you, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, Sergeant,” Kelsey murmured. She backed away. “Try moving around a little.” He raised his arms over his head and did a deep-knee bend, and he saw the FBI special agent’s eyes grow wide in absolute amazement. “You…you look like…like you, like a real person moving, but it’s this huge robot moving around!”

“I feel perfectly normal, ma’am,” Moore said. He stood up quickly. There was a very slight but noticeable pause in his body reaction from when he thought about moving and when he actually moved, but he was completely free and unhindered. “I feel a little slow, like I’ve had a couple beers and I’m just starting to get a buzz, but I feel perfectly normal otherwise.”

“Good to hear it, Sergeant,” Jason Richter said. “The fabric inside the CIDs is actually an electroconductive material attached to thousands of fiber-optic sensors over your entire body. They collect muscle and skeletal movement, combine the inputs into a computer, analyze them a few hundred thousand times per second, and translate the data into microhydraulic motion commands in the exoskeleton.”

Moore looked around and saw the second CID unit also experimentally moving around, looking at its hands and feet in surprise—and yes, Doug could tell that the robot was “surprised” by its body language. He stepped forward…and suddenly his left foot banged against his right leg, and he tripped and stumbled forward. Kelsey DeLaine scrambled out of the way in sheer terror. “Are you okay, Sergeant?” she asked.

“I feel like I don’t know where my feet are,” he responded.

“The computer will put in a kinesthetic compensation between how much your limbs move and how much they need to move,” Ari said. “You have to move around a little more so the computer can make the corrections.”

Moore stepped around carefully, flexing his arms and taking bigger and bigger steps. “I think it’s working,” he said, but at that moment a foot hit his leg again. “I still feel pretty clumsy in this thing.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz or a robot from one of those old-fashioned sci-fi movies,” Ari said. “The key is to walk like a human being and let the system correct your movements. Don’t fight it—eventually you two will start working together instead of against one another.”

Moore didn’t—couldn’t—move. It was as if he could feel every little hydraulic actuator moving, exactly opposite his own movements. It was decidedly uncomfortable, like swimming against a riptide, realizing you were being carried out to sea. “I think I’m done with the demo,” he said nervously. “This is not for me.”

Ari stepped toward Moore so only he could hear. “The secret, Doug, is not to think in terms of a normal human body,” she said. “We’ve matched it so well that you might think you’re simply you—maybe even a step or two slower. That’s not the case. CID has capabilities that far exceed a normal human being. You may not feel you do because we’ve designed it to make carrying around a robot on your back virtually effortless. But you’re not human anymore—you’re a CID, a Cybernetic Infantry Device. You’re not Doug Moore—you’re Superman. Remember that.” Heartened, Moore started to pace around the hangar a bit, eventually working up to short, gentle hops and even a quick set of jumping jacks.

“The exercise is simple, gents,” Jason said. “This is a race.” He pointed to the far end of the parking area in front of the hangars, about a hundred and fifty meters away. “You will both start over there. First person to make it to the northwest access gate on the other side of the range area wins. It’s less than two kilometers, on the other side of the hangars, across the road, past the service buildings and the shooting range—shouldn’t take too long. Let’s do it.”

Moore thought this was all a little silly, but he followed Bolton across the parking lot. There was an expanse of sandy earth on either side of the access ramp, followed by the parking ramp and hangar complex. There was a gap behind the hangar to the left and a much larger vacant area to the right—there was plenty of room to run. Beyond the hangars was the main street, followed by more buildings spaced fairly widely apart. Moore knew this area well and would have preferred the left side because it was a shorter distance to the northwest access gate, but he’d be fine going to the right. Besides, this was stupid. So what if he lost this race? He wouldn’t be…

“Go!” Richter shouted.

Bolton took off like a sprinter, and Moore couldn’t believe how fast he was moving—in a flash he was at the parking ramp, effortlessly racing around the perpendicular hangar. He seemed to get the hang of the cyborg just fine. For some reason, Moore was afraid to run for fear of banging or tripping on his robotic legs.

“Remember what I told you, Doug!” Ari shouted. “Go! Catch him!”

Moore started to jog after Bolton, who was already starting to disappear around the south hangar—but instead, he stopped, looked around, then actually took several large steps backward toward the taxiway.

“What’s he doing?” Falcone asked.

“He’s gonna try being Superman,” Ari said. He did. Moore turned, ran toward the parking apron in front of the hangars—and then leaped into the air. To their surprise, he bounded all the way to the top of the hangar!

“Holy shit!” Kelsey exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!” Jason gave Ari an exasperated smile and shake of his head—he knew she encouraged him to do that, and it worked.

They could hear the loud “WHUUMP!” as Moore hit the hangar roof, but thankfully he didn’t come through it. He took two steps and leaped off the other end, clearing the street outside and almost landing atop the Tumbleweed Dining Facility. Moore caught a glimpse of Bolton, just fifteen meters ahead of him. He was running toward the entry gate to the shooting range about fifty meters to his left. This time, Moore didn’t hesitate—he ran right for the four-meter-high wooden fence surrounding the outdoor shooting range, crashing through it with ease, and just kept on running. Seconds later, just as Bolton made it through the access gate, Moore was crashing through the fence on the other side of the range, and he made it to the finish line well ahead of the FBI special agent.

“Waa-hoo!” Falcone shouted, as he ran through the decimated wooden fence. “Did you freakin’ see that? He didn’t even slow down! And I can’t believe he leaped on top of that hangar in one jump. That has to be ten meters high!”

“We’re going to have to repair those fences, sir,” was all Jennifer McCracken could say. Richter looked at Jefferson, who wore a stony expression—he imagined he could see a slight nod of approval, but couldn’t be sure.

“I suppose you’re going to say,” Kelsey DeLaine said as she joined Jason a few moments later, “that you intend that the way Sergeant Moore performed was the way you intend the CID units to act in the field, right, Major?”

“That’s exactly right, Kelsey,” Jason said. “These two guys just covered two kilometers through varied quasi-urban and open terrain in less than a minute. They’re better than Humvees, Kelsey—they can go over an obstacle as well as through or around it. And they can do the same with a three-hundred-kilo weapon pack on.”

Ari ran over to Doug Moore, yelling and jumping in celebration. “Great job, Doug!” she shouted happily. “Man, you were awesome!” She showed him how to dismount from the machine, helped him climb out, and gave him a big hug when he was back on the ground. “How do you feel, tiger?” she asked. He smiled, nodded…then turned away from her and promptly vomited on the ground. “That happens to everyone the first time in CID, Doug,” she said. “It’s like astronauts trying to walk after being in space—it feels too weird.” She gave the orders for the machine to stow itself, then put an arm around Moore’s waist and helped him back to the hangar, while Jefferson had a couple of soldiers carry CID Two back to the hangar.

Bolton took his machine back to the hangar, exited it with help from Richter, and folded it. “How did it feel, Carl?” Kelsey asked as Jason and Ari stowed it back in the Humvee.

“It’s fine—if you want to go crashing through walls all the time,” Bolton replied. He shook his head. “It works amazingly well, but it’s not suited to our needs, Kelsey.” Sergeant Major Jefferson walked over to them to listen in. “I think you know what I’m talking about, Sergeant Major,” Bolton went on, immediately including the army veteran in his review. “In some situations, it would be great having something like that leading the way. But if Chamberlain or Richter thinks we can form an entire unit of those things, he’s sadly mistaken.”

Jason and Ari heard their interchange and quickly went to join them after attaching the folded CID unit to its power and diagnostic umbilical in the Humvee. “It seems pretty effective to me, Carl,” Kelsey said. “Sergeant Major? Your thoughts?”

“It’s a bull in a china shop, ma’am,” Jefferson said flatly, giving Richter a suspicious glance. “I’ve been training Army Ranger and other Special Forces units for a decade and a half. There’s a reason why they don’t use stuff like this: it’s too cumbersome, too expensive, too unresponsive, and too difficult to support and maintain. Special-ops teams require maximum stealth, mobility, adaptability, and minimum support, hassle, and complexity. CID is everything special ops is not. As Agent Bolton said, it certainly is impressive; as a support device, it might be useful.”

“Useful?” Jason exclaimed. He shook his head, smiling in frustration. “CID is a revolutionary technology that makes its wearer powerful, nearly invincible, and as effective as a light armored or missile squad, and the best thing you can say about it is that it’s useful? C’mon, Sergeant Major, give me a break.”

“With all due respect, Major,” Jefferson shot back, “I was assigned to this task force by the White House and Pentagon to build a military team designed to travel around the country and around the world pursuing terrorists, not to test and evaluate new technology. We’ve already wasted half a morning playing with these toys…”

“Toys…?”

“…and I agree with Special Agents DeLaine and Bolton that we can be using our time more effectively if we concentrate on building a more conventional special-ops force, composed of highly skilled operators from both the FBI and military. Obviously the President’s National Security Adviser is enamored of your devices there, sir, but I don’t really think he expected us to build an entire unit around CID.”

“Then why did he place me in command of Task Force TALON?” Jason asked.

“He placed us in command, Major,” Kelsey said, making a point of using Richter’s rank similarly to Jefferson to make it obvious she was siding with the sergeant major. “Look, we’re supposed to get this unit up and running in a week and a half. Now we could spend the next three months studying how to use CID and another three months designing a training program for the field, or Sergeant Major Jefferson and I can work together with you to develop a standard special ops–capable unit and then as we go we can find ways to merge CID into our activities. It’ll just take too long if we try to do it the other way around.”

Jason looked over at Ari, who was still sitting with Moore as he tried to recover from his experience. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the Air Force sergeant. This was definitely turning into an “us-versus-them” scenario, Jason thought. He felt like arguing some more in an almost desperate attempt to try to make them realize what kind of power and capability he was placing in their hands—but it didn’t seem like it was going to work.

Richter shrugged. “Okay, guys,” he said. “We don’t have any experience organizing or leading special-ops or intelligence units; we’re just lowly engineers. I’ll do whatever I need to do to help the team.”

“Hey, Jason, let’s not have that ‘lowly’ stuff—everybody’s valuable on this team,” Kelsey said. Frankly, she didn’t really expect too much static from the eggheads, although she was ready to jump down Jason’s throat and shut him up quick if he did any more whining. She was surprised at the incredible capabilities of the CID units, but Jefferson was right—it would simply take too long to try to integrate those machines into an effective special-ops unit. They had work to do, and Richter was just not up to the task of organizing and training a light-quick-reaction fighting force. “If we start thinking like a team, we’ll start fighting like one. Right, Sergeant Major?”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” Jefferson responded smartly.

“Agreed, Jason?”

“Sure,” Jason said. “What should we do first?”

“Let’s put away the robots and grab some coffee,” Kelsey said. “Everybody, take ten and then meet at the conference room.” She grabbed Bolton’s and Jefferson’s arms and took them with her on the way back to the conference room.

“Looks like the Fee-Bee has taken charge here, Jason,” Ari observed.

The meeting was already underway by the time Jason and Ari arrived at the conference room. “Lieutenant McCracken,” Kelsey was asking, “I assume you have some basic Table of Organization and Equipment documents we can use to get us started?”

“Of course, ma’am,” McCracken responded.

“Explain how it’s organized if you would.”

“Yes, ma’am,” McCracken responded. “The basic organization of every Marine unit, from the smallest platoon to the largest division, is the same: a command element, a support element, and one or more operations elements. A platoon is usually composed of a command element, a support element, two machine gun or mortar squads, and two security squads. Each squad is composed of four to eight Marines; the command and support elements have roughly the same number, depending on the mission, making each platoon number between twenty-four and forty-eight Marines.”

“Very good,” Kelsey said. “That’s about the same setup for an FBI field unit, so we’re already on the same page. I move that we adopt that Marine infantry platoon TO&E for our first Task Force TALON field unit, have the sergeant major get the men and equipment out here ASAP, and start training right away. We can tweak it as we get more intelligence information about our target; I can see that we would need some specialized nuclear-chemical-biological weapon detection, decontamination, and neutralization equipment, for example. Any thoughts?”

“Just one—we don’t need any of that stuff,” Jason said. “Two full-up CID units on one, preferably two, Humvee platforms are all we need. In about a month I can have all our weapons packs out here and have two CIDs trained and ready to go. Give me a C-130 and I can deploy anywhere in the western hemisphere in two days.”

“We’ve been through this already, Major,” Kelsey said, the exasperation evident in her voice. “We’re very impressed by CID, but we’d be wasting too much time learning how to use it and then learning how to employ it in the field. We’ve got the basic setup already drawn up and ready to go—no sense in reinventing the wheel here.”

“If it’s so logical, why do you think Sergeant Major Jefferson or Chamberlain didn’t already have a platoon out here waiting for us?”

“That’s argumentative, Major, and not very constructive,” Kelsey said pointedly. “Any other objections?”

“What are Ari and I supposed to do while you guys are out playing army?”

“Major Richter, I expected a lot more cooperation and contribution and a lot less attitude from you,” Kelsey said. “National Security Adviser Chamberlain invited you here because he was obviously impressed by CID and thought it could make a contribution. I think it’s up to you to find out how best to utilize your technology. But we’ve decided that a basic infantry platoon is the best organizational unit to start with. Once the task force is set up and running, we’ll be looking to you to let us know how we can integrate CID with it, most likely in a support role. In the meantime, I think you could be extremely helpful in setting up and organizing the command and support elements.”

That was a not-too-subtle blow-off, Jason decided, but he wasn’t going to protest—besides, it was the answer he was hoping for. He nodded, and he and Ari took their seats and remained mostly quiet for the rest of the meeting.

Jason soon had to grudgingly admit that Kelsey DeLaine was a good organizer and an effective leader, well tuned to her audience and not afraid to challenge others for their opinion, commitment, or compliance. She didn’t tolerate any sidetracks. By the time the meeting was over in less than an hour everyone, including him, had a full list of things to do and a very tight and strict timeline in which to get them done.

“You run a pretty tight ship, Special Agent DeLaine,” Jason said after everyone else except Ari and Bolton had left the room.

“Thanks. Ten years in the Bureau, most of it in organizing operations, surveillance missions, and joint task forces such as this will do it.” She stopped shuffling the notes before her and looked at Richter. “I feel we got off on the wrong foot, Jason. I know you’re proud of CID—justifiably so…”

“I sure am.”

“But I’m concerned about meeting Sergeant Major Jefferson’s and National Security Adviser Chamberlain’s deadlines for organizing a fully mission-ready unit,” Kelsey went on. “I’m sure CID is incredibly effective and useful, but I don’t know anything about it, or you, or the technology behind it. If it doesn’t work, or we can’t build a fighting unit around it, we’d have to start all over, and by then another American city could get attacked. I just don’t want to take the chance.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Kelsey,” Jason said. “But Ari and I do know how to use CID, and we’re here. We’re ready to teach all of you, even Sergeant Major Jefferson, how to use it. You just have to trust us.”

“Not that argument again, Richter,” Bolton moaned. “It’s time to get off that old song.”

Kelsey held up a hand to Bolton. “I think you know where we’re coming from, Jason,” Kelsey said. “CID is your pride and joy, and you want to see it in action. The sergeant major and I have experience with setting up small-unit special-ops task forces. That’s our background and training. When under the gun like this, we simply fall back on our experience and training. We’re not trying to exclude you—in fact, after a while, we might have nothing but a platoon full of CID units in this…”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Kelsey—with CID, you don’t need a whole platoon of soldiers to do the job,” Jason interjected. “Don’t you get it? Chamberlain chose us because he saw the potential for a rapid-reaction force that can swing into action now, not a month or two from now until we get thirty guys out here, trained, and equipped for what we want to do. I think he chose CID because we’re ready now.”

“Jason…”

“If you want to organize a platoon in the traditional sense, fine—the command and support elements make total sense,” Jason went on. “But you don’t need sixteen Marines to form the operational elements, because I guarantee that two CIDs have the same fighting power and self-defense capabilities of four Marine mortar or rifle squads. Plus, we’re here, ready to go.”

Kelsey looked at Jason for a long moment, thinking hard. “I don’t know…”

“Both of you, stop right now,” Sergeant Major Jefferson interjected. He regarded Kelsey for a few moments, making it clear that he didn’t believe her. “Special Agent DeLaine: Why, may I ask, are you not going to utilize Major Richter’s weapon systems?”

“I’m just not familiar enough with them, and I feel we don’t have the time to fully integrate that technology into the task force’s mission,” Kelsey responded. She glanced at Jason, then added, “I just don’t trust him yet, that’s all. We should prepare a TO&E for a standard infantry platoon, configured and customized for joint military–FBI tactics, rapid deployment, and special-operations missions. We feel we can be on time and fully mission-ready within the allotted time frame.”

“Major?” Jefferson asked, without turning his eyes away from Kelsey. “You agree?”

“No, Sergeant Major, I don’t,” Jason replied. “But I’m willing to defer to Special Agent DeLaine’s and your experience and cooperate with your plan. I’ll be sure to make suggestions at every relevant point on how CID can enhance and improve the task force’s effectiveness.”

Jefferson turned and faced Richter, and he looked none too pleased. “Well, suddenly you two seem to be all sweetness and light together,” he said acidly. “It had better stay this way, or I will shit-can both of you and see to it that you are both assigned to an office in the farthest reaches of Greenland or northern Uzbekistan, where you can threaten and cajole each other twenty-four-seven until I can successfully get you drummed out of your respective services. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” they both responded.

“Hoo fucking-rah,” Jefferson said in a low, menacing voice. “I am going to meet with the base commanding general, and I’m going to brief him on our activities here and then do nine holes of golf. Being a good subordinate army NCO, I will lose to him by two strokes, which I hate doing, so I will be in no mood for any bullshit. By the time I return, I want the TO&E transmitted to my laptop for my review and approval. And it had better be complete, or I will come back out here and shove that aforementioned laptop down both your throats piece by piece. Have I made myself understood?”

“Perfectly, Sergeant Major.”

Jefferson then turned to DeLaine and said, “The President’s National Security Adviser did not assign Richter, Vega, and their equipment here just to watch you do your own thing. If you don’t know how CID works, then I strongly suggest you take the time to learn. I’m not telling you how to run your task force, but when we give you tools we expect you to use them unless you decide they’re no good. Can you do that, Special Agent DeLaine?”

Kelsey hesitated just long enough for Jefferson’s eyes to widen in anger before replying, “Of course, Sergeant Major.”

“Do you have anything else you wish to tell me, DeLaine?” he asked suspiciously. “Speak now, because if I leave this room and you two still have a problem that needs to be addressed, and you don’t inform me of it, I will hold you personally responsible for the outcome. Do you have anything to say to me, Special Agent DeLaine?”

She took another glance at Jason, returned her gaze to Jefferson, and said, “We’ll take care of it, Sergeant Major.”

Jefferson nodded, his expression still angry but willing to let them try to work it out together. “I’m holding you to it, DeLaine,” he said. “Major Richter, do you have anything to add?”

“No, Sergeant Major.”

“Now stop your squabbling and get to work,” Jefferson said. No one dared move or even blink until the Army Ranger departed.

“Well, that was enjoyable,” Jason deadpanned. He turned to Sergeant Moore. “You did good today in CID Two, Doug. Still want to train with us in the CID?”

“Yes, sir!” Moore said enthusiastically.

“You’re a stand-up guy, Doug—and besides, you fit perfectly into CID Two. Meet up with Ari in the Humvee; she’ll run your orientation program.”

“After we go out to the range to learn how to shoot,” Ari added.

“You still want to learn how to shoot, Dr. Vega?” Moore asked, surprised. “I thought all that was just to get my mind off climbing into CID Two.”

“As long as we’re all being honest here: yes, it was to take your mind off CID,” Ari admitted. “But I really want to learn how to shoot—all the other army guys I know are too busy or too married to take me out to the range. As long as you stop calling me ‘Dr. Vega’ and ‘ma’am,’ we’re still on. Start me off small and light, then work up to the bigger stuff—I want to learn to shoot every weapon we might have in the field, even the really big cannons. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’a—I mean, okay, Ari,” Moore said excitedly. He looked like a kid again as he excused himself and headed off to get ready.

“Looks like you made his day…again,” Jason observed. “That kid has a lot of strength. You helped bring it out. He’s going to turn into a real asset.”

“You got it, J,” Ari said. They walked together to the first Humvee. Ari showed Moore how to check the CID unit’s self-test and self-repair functions by simply examining rows of green lights. “CID One is in good shape, J,” she announced.

Jason nodded, lost in thought; then: “I think I’ll take it for a spin,” he announced.

Ariadna shook her head with a smile. Jason spent a lot of free time with the CID units. She always thought it was a little creepy, like he was getting addicted to wearing the robot, or he was losing touch with humanity—maybe even reality. “You need a hobby, J,” she said to him privately after Jason and Doug Moore carried the CID unit out of the Humvee and Moore moved out of earshot.

“I’ve got all I can handle right here.”

“That Special Agent DeLaine is kinda cute, don’t you think?”

“You going to ask her out?”

“Ojete!” Ari exclaimed. “No, jerk, I mean you.”

“So that’s what you mean by ‘hobby’? You mean, I need a woman.”

“You catch on quick for a Ph.D.,” Ari said. “You do find her cute, don’t you?”

Jason shrugged. “She’s okay. But she’s not my type. We’re too different. And don’t give me that ‘opposites attract’ bullshit either.”

“Hey, I don’t believe in ‘opposites attract’ either, boss,” Ari said. “That’s why I think you two make a cute couple. You’re exactly alike.”

“Bull.”

“You’re both stubborn, you’re both pros, and you’re both married to your jobs,” she added. “You each need to find somebody to share your lives with.”

“You know, I always thought you and me would make a cute couple. What do you say?”

“What? You mean, you and me, dating? Sleeping together? No offense, J, but that would be like frenching my grandfather.”

“Grandfather…!”

“You’re a nice guy, J…”

“Uh oh—the kiss of death sentence: ‘You’re a nice guy…’ ”

“You are, when you’re not being an asshole, like now,” Ari said. “But you and I are like brother and sister. Now if we were stuck on some deserted island for, like, a year…”

“A year!”

“…and I started climbing the trees going crazy and all, then maybe I’d give you a try. But otherwise…c’mon, J, I can’t even think about it. Let’s change the freakin’ subject before I start having nightmares.”

Jason nodded toward the young Air Force tech sergeant. “What about you and Sergeant Moore?”

Ariadna smiled despite herself and shrugged. “He’s kinda cute, and innocent, and like you said I saw some strength in him this morning. You never know…”

“Why do I get the sudden image of a shark circling around a young sea otter pup?”

“Screw you, Doc,” Ari said with a smile and a laugh. “Get in and shut up, all right?”

Jason unfolded the CID unit and climbed in. After he exercised the cybernetic unit for a few minutes, Jason backed into the side of the Humvee and then stepped away moments later with the forty-millimeter grenade launcher weapon pack attached to the CID’s back. “This is the grenade launcher pack,” he explained to Moore. “The pack contains thirty-two rounds, normally eight rounds each of high-explosive, infrared marker flare, tear gas, and flechette grenades, depending on the mission; we’ve only got smoke rounds in there now for training. The firing system interfaces with CID’s laser targeting system, and rounds are selected by either voice commands or an eye-pointing menu system in the electronic visor. The barrel can swivel one hundred and eighty degrees so you don’t need to be facing the target to attack it.”

“If you’re going to fire grenades out there, sir,” Moore said, “I’ll call in for range clearance. Go out to the Charlie Range controller’s pad and give me a call. After that, you can go and do anything you want.”

“Want us to follow you out to the range?” Ari asked. “We can fire up the radar, maybe test out the datalinks?”

“Maybe later,” Jason said. “I just want to run around a bit, pop off a few grenades, clear my head.”

“Nerd,” Ari said to the man in the fearsome-looking robot before her. The robot pointed to its crotch area, then turned and ran off.

The main part of Cannon Air Force Base was typical of most American air bases, about four thousand acres in size, but Cannon was fortunate in that it had a large tract of vacant land to the west called Pecos East, or R-5104 on aviation charts, about eighty-five thousand acres total, in which Task Force TALON was located. The airspace above Pecos East was restricted from the surface to eighteen thousand feet above ground level. The Air Force performed a wide variety of training exercises on these ranges, including bombing, aerial gunnery, close-air support training, ground-based air defense deployment simulations, and joint forces operations. A number of targets had been set up throughout the range by the Air Force. Some were nothing more than large bull’s-eyes painted on canvas and supported by poles, but others were very realistic models of buildings, armored vehicles, mobile missile launchers, cave entrances, and even oil refineries.

It took about ten minutes for Jason to run the eight kilometers out to the range controller’s station for R-5104 Charlie, which was nothing more than a large concrete parking area, large enough to park two helicopters plus a number of trucks, painted Day-Glo orange and with a large black “X” on it so fighter jocks wouldn’t mistake it for a target. After checking in with Moore and getting thirty minutes’ time in the range, Jason started exploring the range area by jogging around—except in his case, he was casually “jogging” at almost forty kilometers per hour.

Okay: DeLaine was cute, for an FBI agent, he thought as he sped around the range, jumping over targets and the occasional coyote. And maybe he and Kelsey were more alike than he cared to admit. But the problem with old, established, bureaucratic institutions like the U.S. Army and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was they were slow to adopt new ideas and concepts. The “graybeards,” as Jason called them, liked everything neat, tidy, and under control.

How was he going to get any information on the terrorists if DeLaine was going to dig in her heels like this?

He had been jogging around the range, “attacking” targets he found with his smoke grenades and testing his jumping and vertical leaping abilities, for almost twenty minutes when he heard, “Jefferson to Richter,” on CID’s secure communications system.

“Go ahead, Sergeant Major.”

“Say location.”

He quickly checked his satellite navigation system, then responded: “Charlie Range, four hundred and seventy-five meters southeast of the range controller’s pad.”

“Roger that. Hold your position.”

He landed from his last jump and froze. “Okay. What’s going on?”

“Just hold position, sir.”

A few minutes later, Jason noticed a small helicopter appearing on the horizon to the east. He switched to a higher magnification and saw that it was a sand-colored Marines Corps AH-1W Cobra gunship helicopter. “Is that you in the Cobra, Sergeant Major?” Jason asked.

“Affirmative.”

“Shall I meet you at the range controller’s pad?”

“Negative. Hold your position.”

“Roger.” Okay, Jefferson, what are you up to? he thought.

“Okay, Major, let’s see what you can do,” Jefferson radioed a few moments later.

“Okay, Sergeant Major,” Jason responded. “What am I supposed to…?” But he was interrupted…because seconds later a “LASER” warning came over CID’s threat warning system, telling him that he was being illuminated by a targeting laser. Then, moments later, just as Jason was about to ask Jefferson if he had hit him with the laser, the Cobra gunship opened fire from about two kilometers away. Jason saw the puffs of smoke coming from the nose Gatling gun and felt the pounding of shells on the hard earth beneath his feet milliseconds later, and he leaped away just as the shells walked their way to the exact spot in which he had been standing just a fraction of a second earlier.

“Good move, Major,” Jefferson radioed. “Our ammunition is just plastic frangible shells and shouldn’t hurt you, but let’s pretend they’re armor-piercing shells—three hits and you’re out. There are three large ‘enemy vehicles’ marked with green Xs in Charlie Range. Find them and destroy them without getting hit by more than three shells. Let’s go.”

This is fun, Jason exclaimed to himself. He started running in the same direction as the Cobra helicopter and behind it. The desert floor was hard-baked with a lot of mesquite, snakeweed, and mesa dropweed, and he had no trouble racing through, around, or over it. As the Cobra gunship turned, he turned with it, keeping easily on its tail and away from its guns. Once the Cobra tried a steep sliding turn to reverse course, but Jason simply ran underneath it at speeds exceeding thirty miles an hour.

When the Cobra tried a hard turn to quickly spin around to bring its guns down on Jason, he fired two of the smoke grenades at the chopper. “Hey, what the hell was that?” Jefferson shouted as the rounds whistled uncomfortably close.

“You didn’t say anything about me not firing back, Sergeant Major.”

“You wanna play rough, Major? I’m your Ranger,” Jefferson said. He stood on the gunship’s antitorque pedals and accomplished a simultaneous spinning-twisting-diving turn and raked the ground with machine gun fire at where he anticipated Jason would be, and very nearly got him. But as skillfully as Jefferson made the Cobra dance, Jason made the CID robot move faster. At one point, Jason found the second “enemy” vehicle, an old World War Two–vintage American M61 tank. He fired a smoke grenade to mark its location, jumped on top of it, and leaped into the air—very narrowly missing punching the Cobra helicopter at his apogee.

The demonstration was over in less than ten minutes. He had found all three vehicles with no problem whatsoever, and the Cobra gunship’s bullets only came close. A few minutes later, Jefferson landed the gunship on the range controller’s pad. Jason dismounted from CID and was introduced to the commanding general of Cannon Air Force Base, who had been seated in the gunner’s seat. Jason fielded a few questions from the general, and then Jefferson excused himself so he could talk with Jason privately.

“Very impressive, Major,” Jefferson said after the Air Force general was back over by the chopper. “I think perhaps Special Agent DeLaine might be a little premature in her opinion of CID.”

“I agree, Sergeant Major,” Jason responded enthusiastically. “Why don’t you go back to base and tell that to DeLaine and Bolton so they’ll get off my case?”

Jefferson’s eyes turned from light blue to thundercloud dark blue in an instant, and he stepped closer to Richter so he was almost nose-to-nose with him. “I was ordered to get this task force ready for battle,” he growled, impaling Jason with an angry stare, “and if you think I’m going to let anything or anyone interfere with that, you are sadly mistaken. The safety and security of the United States is in peril, and I will not let some childish spat between two wet-behind-the-ears jerk-offs threaten my country or my government. I will crush you under my boots first before I turn you over to a court-martial.” He fell silent, scanning Jason’s eyes carefully for several long moments; then: “I think you’ve spent too much time in the lab, Major. You think you’re in control because in your little world of computer programs, simulations, and mathematical equations, you might be. Out here, you’re being nothing but an irritant.” Richter said nothing in response.

The big Ranger looked Richter up and down again, then sneered at him. “Look at you: Major What-Me-Worry. You’re a lab rat, Richter, nothing but a transistor head.” Still, Jason had nothing to say. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really thinking, Richter? You’ve got to give a shit about something; everything around you now can’t be neat and tidy and orderly like it is in your laboratory or on your design computers. What does your finely tuned brain really want to tell me?” No reply. Jefferson sneered again. “C’mon, you’re a big tough army officer.” He glanced over at the CID unit. “Or are you? Maybe you’re not shit unless you’re humping that big hunk of metal there. Go on. Speak freely. Now’s your chance.”

Richter looked as if he might say something, but after a few moments he simply caged his eyes. “I have nothing else to say, Sergeant Major,” he said finally.

Jefferson backed away and nodded, eyeing Richter suspiciously. “Very well, Major,” he said. “You’re on the hook for this now. Mess it up, and your military career is over.” He nodded to the CID unit. “Good job with your robot, Major. If DeLaine still decides not to use it, I think it would be a big mistake. But as long as you two are working together, whatever you decide is how we’ll play it.”

“Okay, Sergeant Major.”

“But if either one of you are stonewalling or holding back, and I find out about it, there will be hell to pay,” Jefferson warned. “Those are my feelings. That’ll be all. Carry on.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Jason responded. Jefferson saluted, waited until his salute was returned, and strode to the Cobra gun-ship, and he was off minutes later.

“Are we ever going to catch a break, Troy?” Jason asked the robot as he gave the order to prepare for uploading. He climbed in and activated the unit. Power was down to about fifty percent, plenty to make it back to the task force area at full speed.