By Order of the President

Chapter X

[ONE]

Office of the Commanding General

United States Central Command

MacDill Air Force Base

Tampa, Florida

2105 8 June 2005

When General Albert McFadden, USAF, CentCom's deputy commander, appeared in General Naylor's office in response to Naylor's "Right now, please" summons, Lieutenant General George H. Potter, USA, CentCom J-5, was already there.

"I had just bought another bucket of balls," McFadden announced. "What's up, Allan?"

General McFadden was wearing a lemon yellow golf shirt and powder blue slacks. General Potter was wearing a translucent Filipino-style shirt-jacket over white shorts. General Naylor was wearing khaki slacks and a gray USMA sweatshirt. Only Command Sergeant Major Wesley Suggins was in uniform.

"Close the door, please, Wes," General Naylor ordered. "No interruptions."

"Yes, sir," Suggins said.

I just had a telephone call from the secretary or homeland security, Naylor announced. "In the middle of the call, the president came on the line, primarily, I think, to make it clear that Hall was acting at the president's orders."

Naylor let that sink in for a couple of seconds and then went on.

"There is some reason to believe that the missing 727 is, or was, at a remote airfield in Chad. A place called Abeche."

He pointed to a map laid on the conference table. McFadden and Potter got out of their chairs and examined the map.

"They could make it from there to Mecca easily," General McFadden said.

"Secretary Hall has information suggesting that the airplane was taken by a Somalian terrorist group calling itself the Holy Legion of Muhammad and that it is their intention to crash the plane into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia," Naylor said.

"Jesus Christ!" General McFadden said. "Where did he get that?"

General Potter rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"The credibility of Secretary Hall's intel depends in large measure on whether or not the 727 is, or was, at Abeche. In other words, if it is there, or was there, the rest of the scenario-that it was seized by the Holy Legion of Muhammad and that they intend to crash it in Philadelphia-becomes more credible:"

"The Liberty Bell? In Philadelphia?. Why the hell would they want to do that?" General McFadden asked, incredulously.

": And if it is not at Abeche, or was not at Abeche," Naylor went on, a suggestion of impatience in his tone, "then the scenario is probably unlikely. But in the absence of any other intel regarding the missing airplane, the secretary-and/or the president-has obviously decided to go with what he has. CentCom has been ordered to find out as quickly as possible:"

"What's the CIA got to say about this?" General McFadden interrupted.

"Let me finish, please, General," Naylor said, icily.

"Sorry, sir," McFadden said, not sounding very apologetic.

"But to get that question out of the way," Naylor said, "while I am sure the CIA is already working on this problem-satellites and human intel, if they have anyone in the region-we have been ordered to find out as quickly as possible-without sharing our intentions with the CIA-whether or not the missing 727 is, or has been, at Abeche or not."

"The CIA's not in the loop?" General Potter asked.

"The CIA is not in the loop," Naylor confirmed. "Suggestions?"

"Off the top of my head," General McFadden said, "I don't know where the nearest Air Commando Pave Low*^ (1) is. But I can find out in a couple of minutes. We could send one in under the radar-I don't imagine there's much of that in Chad."

Goddammit, Naylor thought, there you go again. Doesn't the Air Force teach its officers to let – make – the junior officer speak first, so he says what he thinks, rather than what he thinks his seniors want, or don't want, to hear?

"That would probably take longer than the time we have," Naylor said. "I think the president wants an answer as soon as he can get it. We're talking about hours."

"Delta, sir," General Potter said. "Maybe: probably: Gray Fox."

Delta Force was Special Forces' elite unit. It was famous; there had even been movies-almost hilariously inaccurate-about it. There had been no movies about Gray Fox, which was an elite unit within Delta, because very few people had even heard rumors about it.

That's the answer I knew I was going to get. And knew I wouldn't like.

"Let's see what General McNab has to say, what he can contribute," Naylor said. "Get him on the horn, please, Wes."

"Yes, sir," Command Sergeant Major Suggins said and went into the "phone booth."

Fifteen seconds later, Suggins called from the phone booth: "Sir, General McNab will be on the line momentarily."

"Bring it in here, Wes, and put it on speakerphone."

Sergeant Major Suggins came into the office carrying the secure telephone, and its thick connecting cable, and placed the instrument on a table between Naylor, Potter, and McFadden. Then he pushed the speakerphone button.

Why do I know telling him to do that was a mistake?

The answer came immediately.

"Good evening, sir," the voice of the commanding general of XVIII Airborne Corps, Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, boomed over the speaker. "My delay in getting to the telephone was caused by an irresistible summons of nature. My apologies, sir."

"Thank you for sharing that with me, General," Naylor said, his annoyance audible in his voice.

"You're most welcome, sir," McNab said, brightly.

"Goddammit, Scotty, do you always have to be such a wiseass?" Naylor flared.

Naylor was immediately sorry and embarrassed.

"If the general has in any way offended the general, sir," McNab said, sounding very much like a West Point plebe answering the wrath of an upperclass-man, "the general is sorry. Sir."

When Naylor glanced at the others, Sergeant Major Suggins was studying the ceiling, General McFadden the floor, and General Potter his wrist-watch.

Sonofabitch!

"Scotty, do you know where Abeche, Chad, is?" Naylor asked.

"One moment, sir," McNab said.

Everyone heard what sounded like fingers snapping.

Ten seconds later, General McNab went on.

"Sir, Abeche, Chad, is in a remote section of the country. The coordinates are 13.50.49 north latitude:"

"I know where it is, Scotty," Naylor interrupted. "The question was, 'Do you know?' A simple 'Yes, sir' would have sufficed."

"Yes, sir."

"There is a possibility that the 727 stolen from Luanda, Angola, is, or was, there."

"There's a 9,200-foot runway; more than enough for a 727. What's your source?"

Naylor did not answer the question. Instead, he asked, "How soon could you get someone in there to find out for sure, Scotty?"

"Sir, black or out in the open?"

"Under the circumstances, General, I don't believe we'll have time to enter into any diplomatic negotiations with anyone," Naylor said.

Everyone heard, faintly but clearly, General McNab issue an order. "Tommy, sound boots and saddles for Gray Fox."

Then, more clearly, they heard General McNab say, "I understand, sir. Sir, how much support may I expect?"

"What do you need, Scotty?"

"I'd like something available to back up the C-22."

C-22 is the USAF designation for the Boeing 727-100. Ostensibly, all of them are assigned to the Air National Guard. One, however-with a number of modifications-is kept in a closely guarded hangar at Pope Air Force Base, which adjoins Fort Bragg.

"You intend to fly into Abeche?" Naylor blurted.

"No, sir. What I have in mind is Royal Air Maroc flying over Abeche at 35,000 feet," McNab said, his tone suggesting he was talking to a backward child. "Royal Air Maroc, you know, has permission to overfly all those unfriendly countries between Morocco and Saudi Arabia."

What he did not say, but which everyone at the table understood, was that McNab intended to parachute people from his 727 onto the Abeche airfield.

"You think that'll do it, Scotty?"

"Yes, sir. That'll do it. What am I supposed to do with the airplane if it's there?"

"Right now, just find out if it's there or if it was there."

"Yes, sir."

"Will communications be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"I mean to communicate between there and here?"

"We'll have communications between here and there; linking to you is not a problem."

"Why do you want backup for your airplane?"

"I'd sort of like to get my people back, sir. And the communications equipment. Some of that stuff costs a lot of money."

"How quietly can you do this, Scotty?"

"I doubt if anyone will even suspect we're there, sir. Unless, of course, the airplane is there and you tell me to take it out. A blown-up airplane would tend to make people suspect that something was not going quite the way they wanted it to."

"Worst-case scenario, Scotty. Something goes wrong and they find out you're there?"

"That's why I want a little backup. A C-17 III would be nice."

The Boeing C-17 III was a cargo aircraft, capable of using unimproved landing fields. Its four 40,400-thrust-pound engines could drive it at three-quarters the speed of sound to a service ceiling of 45,000 feet with nearly 600,000 pounds of cargo. With in-air refueling, it was capable of flying anywhere on the globe.

Naylor looked at McFadden, who nodded, meaning there was a C-17 immediately available.

And probably more than one; McFadden's nod had been immediate.

"How do you plan to use it?"

"I'm an optimist. They don't find out we're there. Abeche is not what you can call a bustling airport. Tommy just handed me a data sheet saying there's a once-a-week flight from N'Djamena and that's irregular. I'm going to put maybe four or five people on the ground. They find out about the 727. I am not ordered to take it out. They hide out somewhere near the end of the runway. The C-17-en route somewhere; I haven't figured that out yet-makes a discretionary landing at Abeche. It goes to the end of the runway, opens the door, my guys jump in, and the C-17 takes off. More or less the same scenario if I'm ordered to blow the 727, except that my guys hide out in the boonies near the nearest flat area a C-17 can use. Worst scenario, my guys are on the run from indignant Chad authorities. I'll have some heavy firepower on the C-17 and twenty people. They jump onto the flat area and hold it long enough for the C-17 to touch down and get everybody on board."

"I don't want you to start World War III, Scotty," Naylor thought aloud.

"Funny, I thought we were already fighting World War III," McNab replied.

"I think you take my point, General," Naylor said, coldly.

"I take your point, sir."

"Where do you want the C-17?" Naylor asked.

"Here, as soon as I can have it. It can follow us to Menara."

"Menara?" General McFadden asked.

"Menara, Morocco," McNab replied. "Who was that?"

"General McFadden," Naylor said.

"Good evening, sir," McNab said.

"Good evening, General McNab," McFadden said. "Have you considered a Pave Low?"

"Yes, sir. Time- and distance-wise, it wouldn't work here."

"How are you, Scotty?" Potter said.

"I recognize that unpleasant nasal voice. How are you, George? More important, how many other people are eavesdropping on this fascinating conversation?"

"That's it, Scotty," Naylor replied. "Generals McFadden and Potter, Wes Suggins, and me."

"Good. I'm a devout believer in the theory that the more people who know a secret, the sooner the secret is compromised."

"On that subject, General," Naylor said, "the CIA is not privy to this operation and are not to be made privy to it."

"Jesus, I must have done something right! Thank you for sharing that with me, General."

General Naylor glanced at Command Sergeant Major Suggins and Lieutenant General Potter, both of whom were trying and failing to suppress smiles.

"How soon can you get started on this, Scotty?" Naylor asked.

"We shoot for wheels up in sixty minutes and generally shave a chunk off that."

"Okay," Naylor said. "Get the operation going, General McNab."

"Yes, sir."

[TWO]

Royal Air Force Base

Menara, Morocco

0930 9 June 2005

Among other modifications made to USAF C-22 tail number 6404 was provision for removable fuel bladders. When installed, they gave the aircraft transoceanic range. When 6404 landed-after a six-hour ten-minute flight from Pope Air Force Base-at Menara, which is 120 miles south of Casablanca, it had 2.4 hours of fuel remaining in its main tanks.

Enough, for example, so that it could have diverted to any number of U.S. airbases in Europe, from Spain to Germany, had that been necessary. Diversion was not necessary. At 0805 local time-an hour off the Moroccan coast-the Casablanca control operator cleared U.S. Air Force 6404 to make a refueling stop at Menara.

It touched down smoothly at 0925 and, five minutes later, it had been tugged into a hangar, whereupon the hangar doors had closed.

Royal Moroccan Air Force technicians quickly plugged in power and air-conditioning ducts. The rear door of the aircraft-under the tail-extended from the fuselage, and two men came quickly down the stairs, both wearing khaki pants and white T-shirts.

A slight man in a light brown flight suit stood at the foot of the stairs. A leather patch on the chest of the flight suit identified him as a colonel-and pilot-of the Royal Moroccan Air Force. Behind him stood another pilot colonel in a flight suit. He was older, much stockier, and had a thick, British-style mustache.

Both Moroccan officers saluted and both Americans returned them.

"Good morning, General," the slight man said in only faintly accented English.

"Good morning, Your Royal Highness," Lieutenant General Bruce J.

McNab, USA, replied as he returned the salute. "I am deeply honored that Your Royal Highness has found time in his busy schedule for me."

"I always have time for you, General," the colonel said. "And not only because I'm fond of you."

"Let me guess," McNab said, "a member of your family has questions."

" 'I need a favor' covers a lot of ground, General, even between friends."

"You remember Colonel Thomas, don't you, Your Royal Highness?"

"Of course," the colonel said. "It's good to see you again, Tommy."

"Always a pleasure, sir," Lieutenant Colonel H. Alexander Thomas said.

"And how are you, Colonel?" McNab asked.

"Very well, General," the man with the mustache said.

The slim man made a gesture with his hand and McNab followed him until they stood beside the landing gear.

"An American 727 was stolen a couple of weeks ago from Luanda," McNab said.

"I saw that."

"There is some reason to believe it's either on the ground, or was, at Abeche, Chad. I'm supposed to find out if that's so."

"And retake it? Or destroy it?"

"My orders right now are just to see if it is, or was, there," McNab said.

"Orders subject to change, of course."

"I don't think they will be. If retaking it was on the agenda, I would have been told, I think, to send a crew with my people. If they wanted to take it out, sending in an unmanned aerial vehicle would be a lot cheaper and less riskier than this." He pointed to the C-22.

The slim man didn't say anything for a long, thoughtful moment.

"That's it, General?"

"That's all I have, Your Royal Highness."

"And the basic plan?"

"Drop five people on Abeche. From a Royal Air Maroc transport overflying Chad en route to Jiddah. Have them find out what they can."

"How are you going to get them out?"

"A C-17's about two hours behind me. I'm going to use that."

"So all you want to do is fly to Jiddah?"

"And back here."

Again, the slim man thought over what he had heard.

"Is that somehow disturbing to you?" McNab asked.

"Why was the airplane stolen? Do you know, can you tell me?"

"I can tell you that we think it was stolen by a Somalian group who call themselves the 'Holy Legion of Muhammad.' "

"Never heard of them," the slender man said. " Somalian?"

"Neither had we, Your Royal Highness," McNab said. "There are two possible scenarios, neither with much to support them. The first is that they intend to crash it into the ka'ba in Mecca:"

"That's absurd!"

"It sounds absurd, Your Royal Highness, but, on the other hand, the airplane-if it is in Abeche-is within range of Mecca."

"The Holy Legion of Muhammad?" the slim man repeated and then raised his voice and called, "Satu!"

The bearded colonel walked quickly to them.

"Your Highness?"

"One moment," the slim man said. "And the other scenario, General?"

"That they intend to crash it into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia," McNab said.

"I don't know what that means."

"In Philadelphia, where our Founding Fathers signed our Declaration of Independence, is Constitution Hall:"

"I know about Constitution Hall," the slim man said. "I've actually been there, as a matter of fact. But what's that got to do with a bell?"

"Immediately adjacent to it, Your Royal Highness, is the Liberty Bell. It has a certain emotional, historical significance to Americans. Much like Constitution Hall itself."

"I wonder why the Holy Legion of Muhammad would be interested," the slim man said. "For that matter, I wonder how they even heard of it. What do we know about these people, Satu?"

"What people, Your Highness?"

"The Holy Legion of Muhammad," the slim man said, impatiently. "They're Somalis."

"I never heard of them, Your Highness."

"To answer your question, General," the slim man said, "yes, I find this disturbing. I will have to ask a certain member of my family how to proceed. But in the meantime, I think you should ask Tommy to begin the chameleon process."

"Thank you, sir."

"You and I will go to the officers' mess for breakfast," the slim man said. "Colonel Ben-Satu will stay here long enough to ensure that Tommy has whatever he needs. Then he finds out what he can about the Holy Legion of Muhammad and brings that information to the mess."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Tommy!" the slim man raised his voice.

"Coming, sir!" Lieutenant Colonel Thomas said as he started at a trot toward them.

"Yes, sir?"

"How many men do you have with you?"

"Counting the Air Force, Your Highness:"

"Yes, by all means, let's count the Air Force," the slim man said.

"Fifteen, sir. That includes the general and me."

"Good. Let's count you two as well," the slim man said. "I will have the mess send breakfast for thirteen here. When you believe your chameleon operation is sufficiently under way, you might wish to join General McNab and me at the mess. I'll leave a car for you."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Tommy, please make sure that none of your men leave the hangar for any purpose."

"Yes, sir."

"Colonel Ben-Satu will ensure that you have whatever you need."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

"Shall we go, Scotty?" the slim man said.

There were three identical black Mercedes 320L sedans outside the hangar. One of them took the slim man and McNab to the officers' mess, a long, sand-colored building near the flight line.

The twenty-odd officers in the dining room rose as one man when someone spotted the slim man, who immediately waved them back into their chairs.

He led McNab to a table in the corner of the room.

"Order fried eggs, potatoes, toast, and coffee for me, please," the slim man said. "I have a couple of calls to make."

Then he walked out of the room.

Ten minutes later, he came back into the dining room. All of the officers-now including McNab and Thomas-rose to their feet and were immediately waved back into them by the slim man.

"That was quick, Tommy," the slim man said as he sat down.

"They don't need me to help with the plane, sir," Thomas said. "I'm just in the way."

A waiter delivered three plates of fried eggs, potatoes, and toast.

"That fellow we were talking about earlier, Scotty?" the slim man said.

"Yes, sir?"

"He doesn't believe either of your scenarios, either, but he thinks that looking into it is a very good idea."

"Thank you, Your Royal Highness."

"And, of course, he is pleased to be of some small service to an old friend," the slim man said. "He asked me tell you that."

"I'm honored that he thinks of me as an old friend," McNab said.

"I'm sure he does, but I believe he was talking of our countries," the slim man said. "Did you know, Tommy, that Morocco was the first nation to recognize the U.S.? Even before it was the U.S. In 1777?"

"No, Your Highness. I didn't know that," Lieutenant Colonel Thomas confessed.

"My own history is a little fuzzy. But I think your seat of government was then in Philadelphia."

"I believe it was," McNab said.

"And was this bell-the 'Liberty Bell,' you said? Was that in Philadelphia at the time? And, if so, what is the connection?"

"Your Highness, I am more than a little ashamed to say I have no idea," General McNab confessed. "It probably was but I just don't know."

The slim man waved a finger at General McNab.

"That is terrible," he said.

[THREE]

Royal Air Force Base

Menara, Morocco

1220 9 June 2005

A red-and-yellow tug pulled what three hours earlier had been U.S. Air Force C-22 tail number 6404 from the hangar.

What the slim man had called "the chameleon process" had been completed twenty minutes before.

Plastic decalcomania had been applied to the fuselage with just enough adhesive to hold them in place for a short time. There were now green and red stripes running from the nose to the tail down both sides of the 727's fuselage. The words ROYAL AIR MAROC now appeared from just aft of the flight compartment windows rearward. There was now a red shooting star on both sides of the vertical stabilizer. Beneath it, in the largest letters of all, were the initials RAM in red.

Once everything had been stuck in place, the decalcomania had been sprayed with a very expensive clear, quick-drying paint. It was by no means permanent, but tests had shown it would stand up to fifty hours of high-speed flight at altitude, thirty-six hours in the sun at 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and forty-eight hours at-20 degrees Fahrenheit.

It was not believed the paint was going to have to last anywhere near that long. Within thirty-six hours, at the most, it was hoped that Royal Air Maroc 905, now named Rabat, would be back in the hangar at Menara, where it would be sprayed with a solvent even more expensive than the paint. The solvent would in a matter of minutes chemically attack the paint and permit both the paint and the decalcomania to be removed in a very short time.

The engines were started and Rabat taxied to the threshold of the runway, and-having been cleared to do so-turned onto the runway without stopping and lifted off.

The Royal Air Force controller in the tower informed Casablanca Area Control that RAM 905 was off the ground at two-five past the hour, destination Jiddah, Saudi Arabia.

At that precise moment, Major Carlos G. Castillo pushed his way through the circular door of the Warwick Hotel in Philadelphia and took the few steps down to Locust Street.

[FOUR]

The Warwick Hotel

1701 Locust Street

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

0725 9 June 2005

Castillo looked up and down Locust Street, his eyes falling on a life-sized statue of a man with an umbrella erected almost directly across the street. Then he heard two beeps of a horn and when he looked for the sound saw Miller's arm waving from the front seat of a dark blue Buick sedan parked fifty feet from the hotel entrance.

He walked quickly toward it, and, as he approached, Miller opened the rear door from the inside.

The driver was a small, wiry, light-skinned man with a precisely manicured mustache.

"Good morning, General," Castillo said, courteously.

Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., USA, Retired, turned on the seat and pointed a finger at Castillo.

"The first time I saw you, Castillo-you were a plebe at the time-I knew you were going to be trouble."

"Sir, if the general is referring to Dick's: return: from Africa. That situation has been taken care of, sir."

" 'Taken care of? What the hell does that mean? Good God, a Miller relieved for cause!"

"How, Charley?" Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., asked.

"The president is sending you a letter of commendation, via the Defense Intelligence Agency CG," Castillo said. "Secretary Hall called last night to tell me."

"What that will do," General Miller said, not at all mollified, "is cause Dick's records to be flagged 'political influence.' That's almost as bad as the comment 'relieved for cause.' "

General Miller moved his icy glare from Castillo long enough to look for a break in the traffic, found one, and pulled away from the curb.

Major Miller turned on the seat, and with a combination of facial expressions, shrugged shoulders, and other body language managed to convey to Castillo that he was sorry his father had attacked Castillo, but, on the other hand, that Charley knew the general and thus what to expect.

Charley used a combination of gestures to signal that he understood the situation and that he didn't mind.

Castillo thought: Jesus Christ, thank God I didn't go home with Dick last night! If I had, I would have had nonstop General Miller in an outrage. This will be over as soon as we get to Police Headquarters, and, no thank you, Dick, I will not go home with you later to at least say hi to your mother.

Their route to Police Headquarters took them around City Hall and toward the Delaware River. Castillo thought he remembered that Constitution Hall and the Liberty Bell were somewhere in the area but he wasn't sure.

Jesus, here I am, trying to keep a bunch of lunatic terrorists from crashing an airplane into it and I don't even know where it is!

Police Headquarters turned out to be a curved building a couple of blocks off Market Street. The parking lot into which General Miller drove the Buick had a sign reading POLICE VEHICLES ONLY. General Miller pulled the car into a parking slot with a sign reading CHIEF INSPECTORS ONLY, turned off the ignition, and opened the door.

Then he put his head back in the door and announced, "Let's go, Castillo! We don't want to keep the commissioner waiting, do we?"

My God, he's going with us!

"Sir, are you going with us?"

General Miller's response was a shake of the head, indicating his disgust with a stupid question, followed by an impatient hand gesture meaning, "Let's go, let's go!"

There is absolutely nothing I can do about this.

What the hell is he up to?

A policeman walked up to them.

"Sir, you can't park there, that's reserved for chief inspectors."

"I'm General Miller, here to see the commissioner," the general replied. "He advised me to park there. I'm surprised you weren't so notified. If there is a problem, I suggest you call him."

The policeman looked at General Miller carefully and then nodded and walked away.

Inside the building, through a glass door, there were four waist-high columns through which police and civilian employees passed swiping identity cards. To the right of the columns was a desk for visitors manned by a uniformed officer.

"General Miller and two others to see Commissioner Kellogg," General Miller announced.

"Sir, I was led to believe that the commissioner expects us at eight," Castillo said. "It's only seven-forty."

"Then your information is incorrect," General Miller said.

They were obviously expected, for the policeman immediately produced three visitor badges and pushed the button which released the barrier in the visitor turnstile.

They boarded an elevator, which was, like the rest of the building, curved, and rode up.

When the elevator door opened, a detective, or a plainclothes policeman, was waiting for them.

"Good morning, General," he said. "The commissioner expects you."

General Miller's response was a curt nod of the head.

They followed the police officer-Castillo couldn't see any kind of a badge, but there was a Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol in a skeleton holster on his belt-down the corridor, to another desk, manned by another plainclothes officer, where they signed the visitors' register and were allowed to pass first through an outer office and then into what was apparently the commissioner's office.

A very large black man in a well-fitting dark blue suit rose from behind his desk and smiled.

"Good morning, Richard," he said, offering his hand and then offering it to Major Miller. "It's good to see you, Dick. It's been a while."

"Good morning, sir."

"And this is?"

"That, Commissioner," General Miller said, "is Major Carlos G. Castillo, and I am here to tell you something about him."

"I was expecting the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security," Commissioner Kellogg said. "But how do you do, Major?"

"How do you do, sir?" Charley said.

"Will what you have to tell me about Major Castillo wait until we have some coffee?" the commissioner asked as he waved them into chairs.

"I'll pass on the coffee, thank you," General Miller said. "I realize your time is valuable and this won't take long."

The commissioner sat in his chair and made a go-ahead signal with both hands.

"I have known Major Castillo since he and Dick were plebes at West Point," General Miller began. "They were then, and are now, like a container of gasoline and a match. One or the other lights the match and the other blows up."

"Really?" the commissioner said with a smile.

"Furthermore, Major Castillo, rather than adhering to the West Point code of Duty, Honor, and Country at all times, has frequently chosen to follow the Jesuit philosophy that the end justifies the means."

"There is a point, right, Richard, to this character assassination?" the commissioner asked. He was smiling, but it was strained.

"On one such occasion," General Miller went on, "three very senior officers reluctantly concluded that the weather, the time of day, and enemy ground-to-air missile and automatic weapons capability absolutely precluded the dispatch of a medical evacuation-"dust off"-helicopter to attempt to rescue the crew of a shot-down helicopter in mountainous terrain in Afghanistan.

"When they presented their recommendation to the general officer in overall command, they told him they had reached their conclusion despite their painful awareness that a no-fly decision would almost certainly result in the death of two of its crew members, who were seriously wounded, and the death or capture of the other personnel on the helicopter, a total of five officers and three enlisted men.

"The bottom line, as they say, was that sending a rescue helicopter, which would almost certainly either be itself shot down or crash because of the weather conditions, could not be justified.

"The commanding general, with a reluctance, I submit, that only another senior commander who has been forced to make such decisions can possibly understand, accepted the recommendation of his staff and gave the no-fly order.

"Major Castillo, who was serving in what I shall euphemistically describe as a 'liaison capacity' to that headquarters, was privy to the final discussion of the situation and the commanding general's decision.

"On hearing that decision, he went to the flight line and, in direct disobedience to the general's order, took over-stole-a Black Hawk helicopter and flying it alone-it has a two-pilot crew-went to the crash site and rescued everyone there."

"Jesus!" the commissioner said, looking at Castillo.

"One of the two seriously wounded officers Major Castillo rescued was Dick," General Miller said.

"With all respect, sir," Castillo blurted. "They were wrong. I knew I could do it. It wasn't anywhere near as foolhardy as you make it sound."

"Major, you are a West Pointer," General Miller said evenly, measuring each word. "You knew full well the meaning of the oath you took to obey the orders of the officers appointed over you. It did not mean obedience to only such orders as you happen to agree with; it meant cheerful and willing obedience to any and all orders."

Castillo said nothing.

"On the other hand," General Miller went on, trying but not quite keeping his voice from quavering, "it is equally clear to me that I am deeply indebted to you for saving my son's life. Since I have not previously had the opportunity, permit me to thank you now. My wife and I, and Dick's brother and sisters, are deeply in your debt, Major Castillo."

General Miller stood. "Thank you, Commissioner, for allowing me this opportunity in your office, in your presence, before an old friend."

"Sir," Castillo said, softly, "Dick would have done the same thing for me."

"Yes, I daresay he would. That brings us back to what I said about you two being a gasoline can and a match."

He started for the door, then turned.

"Mrs. Miller would be pleased if your schedule would permit you to take dinner with us," he said and then went through the doorway.

The commissioner shook his head.

"Your dad does have a way of capturing your attention, doesn't he?"

"Sir, I had no idea he was going to come up here with us," Miller said.

"I suspected that," the commissioner said. "May I ask you a question, Major Miller?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What did he mean when he said 'euphemistically describe as a "liaison capacity?

Castillo hesitated.

"Sorry I asked," the commissioner said.

I can't let him think that I'm not telling him everything, Castillo thought, then said slowly, "Sir, I was with a Delta Force detachment. We were looking for Usama bin Laden."

"You were commanding the Delta Force detachment, Charley," Miller corrected him. "There's a difference."

The commissioner shook his head in amazement, or disbelief, and then smiled.

"Funny, you don't look like Sylvester Stallone," he said. "Okay, let's get to it. What can the Philadelphia Police Department do for the Department of Homeland Security?"

"Sir," Castillo began, "on May twenty-third, a 727 aircraft belonging to Lease-Aire, Inc., of Philadelphia, was stolen from the airport in Luanda, Angola:"

"Apparently, Secretary Hall thinks this incredible story is credible enough to send you here to warn me about this," the commissioner said. "I presume the governor and the mayor have been notified?"

"Sir, that's not why I was sent here," Castillo said. "What Dick and I are to do is find out what we can-if there is anything to find out-about a possible connection between somebody in Philadelphia and the people we think stole the airplane."

"You're telling me the mayor and the governor have not been notified?" the commissioner asked, incredulously.

"Sir, we don't know that the airplane was stolen by terrorists, and, even if that is the case, that they intend to use it as a flying bomb here. What we're doing is trying to find out what happened to it. Every agency of the federal government with any interest in this at all is trying very hard, using all their assets, to find out what happened to that airplane."

"But you think, don't you, that it was stolen by terrorists of some sort, Somalians or somebody else?"

"Yes, sir, but that's my personal opinion. No more."

"And you think it's possible, at least, that these people intend to fly the airplane into the Liberty Bell?"

"Yes, sir, I do. But again, that's just my personal opinion. I have nothing to go on except what Pevsner told me in Vienna. And we won't know whether or not the airplane is, or was, in Chad for some time."

"Going off at a tangent, how are you going to find out one way or the other if it's where this Russian said it is? Or was."

"I haven't been told that, sir. I'm sure the satellites will really give that airport some close study. I don't know what humint sources the CIA or anyone else:"

"Humint, meaning 'human intelligence'? CIA agents? That sort of thing?" the commissioner interrupted.

"Yes, sir. And it's possible-even likely, if we don't have people in the area-that they'll send in an Air Force Special Ops Pave Low helicopter. They'll find out just as soon as they can. Maybe within an hour, maybe not for twenty-four hours. And until they do, all we have is speculation."

"I wonder if you understand my problem, Major Castillo."

"I'm not sure I follow you, sir."

"There are two people responsible for the safety of people in Philadelphia. One is the mayor, and the other one is me. Don't misunderstand this. The mayor is probably the best one we've had since Frank Rizzo. But he doesn't know how to direct traffic, much less handle the nuts-and-bolts problems that would result from a plane crash in downtown Philadelphia."

The commissioner saw the look on Castillo's face.

"You can see where I'm going, right?" he asked. "And none of this occurred to you before?"

"No, sir," Castillo confessed.

"If there is even a slight chance that this incredible scenario is going to come to pass, then it would seem we should have whatever precautionary measures we can, right? Warn the citizens, etcetera, etcetera."

"Yes, sir."

"There are problems with that," the commissioner said. "Starting with panic. And there is also the problem of crying wolf. If the mayor puts these measures into play and nothing happens, not only is he going to look like a fool but the next time this happens people would not pay attention. Most people are already starting to think of the World Trade towers going down as something they saw in a movie starring Charlton Heston and Paul Newman." He paused. "Still with me?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I am."

"The mayor, as I say, is about as fine a leader as they come. Unfortunately, he is also a politician. I have absolute confidence in my deputy commissioners. I have virtually none in the mayor's staff. I am very much afraid that if I pass this situation on to the mayor-and it is clearly my duty to do so-he will pass it on to certain members of his staff and they will either panic and let the story out or they will do so consciously, seeing the mayor on television defending the city from terrorist attack as a very good way to ensure his reelection.

"If there is a flurry of activity against this potential attack and nothing happens, I think it might well cost him reelection and I would hate to see that happen."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Miller said, softly.

"Your father just now alluded to making unpleasant choices when it is clearly your duty to do so," the commissioner said. "I am about to do something like that. I am going to both fail to do what I know I am duty bound to do and I'm going to lie, and so are you."

"Sir?"

"When you and Dick came in here, Major, you told me nothing of this crash of an aircraft into the Liberty Bell scenario. Your visit to my office was in the nature of a courtesy call. Secretary Hall wanted my assistance in your investigation of Lease-Aire, Incorporated. I of course told you I would be happy to cooperate."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said.

"You said a moment ago, Major, that you believe there will be information regarding the location of this missing airplane within twenty-four hours?"

"Yes, sir. Perhaps a little less time than that."

The commissioner looked at his watch.

"It is now eight-thirteen," he said. "In thirty-two hours, it will be four-thirteen tomorrow afternoon. At that time, I'm going to the mayor with this. He will like that because it will give him time to make the six o'clock news. You understand me? I don't want any misunderstandings about this, and it goes without saying that I expect you to immediately bring me up to speed on any further developments."

"I understand, sir," Castillo said.

"And, Dick," the commissioner went on, "I don't want you to tell your dad about this under any circumstances. I love him like a brother, but he has, as he says and has shown, that West Point Duty, Honor, Country philosophy, and I don't want him doing something he feels duty and honor require him to do. What this situation requires is someone with the philosophy your dad says the major has: that the end-protecting Philadelphia-justifies the means."

"I understand, sir," Miller said.

The commissioner rose from behind his desk.

"We're now going to the Counterterrorism Bureau. I will ask the commanding officer of the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit-they're in the same building-to meet us there," he said. "I don't know what they have on any connection between our local African American terrorists-who so far have limited their efforts to bring Philadelphia to its knees by taking potshots at passing patrol cars-and any other terrorists, but if anyone has that information they will. I will tell Chief Inspector Kramer and Captain O'Brien that they are to give you anything and everything they have or can develop. I will tell Chief Inspector Kramer that twice because he has an unfortunate tendency to obey only those orders he considers wise and reasonable."

"Thank you very much, Commissioner," Castillo said.

"Be warned that neither of these officers is going to be willing to share any more than he feels he absolutely has to with either an Army officer or the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security. But if either of them really gets his back up, get back to me-right away-and I'll have another chat with him."

"Sir, how does-Chief Inspector Kramer and Captain O'Brien, you said?-feel about the Secret Service?"

"The Secret Service? I don't know. I know Kramer hates the FBI with a fine Pennsylvania Dutchman's passion. And I don't think O'Brien thinks very highly about the FBI, either. The Secret Service? I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Sir, I have credentials identifying me as a supervisory special agent of the Secret Service," Castillo said.

The commissioner looked at him for a long moment, shaking his head.

"What do we say about Dick? Or does he have a Secret Service shield, too?"

"I think we can probably get by by showing my credentials," Castillo said.

"Okay. That'll work."

The commissioner waved them through his office door ahead of him.

He stopped at a desk manned by a uniformed sergeant.

"Put out the arm for Chief Inspector Kramer and Captain O'Brien," he ordered. "Have them meet me right now in Kramer's office at the arsenal."

"Yes, sir."

"Have an unmarked car, a good one with all communications, delivered out there right away. If one isn't available, take one away from somebody else."

"Yes, sir."

"We are cooperating with the Secret Service, that's all you know."

"Yes, sir."

"Come on, Jack," the commissioner said to the plainclothes policeman who had been waiting for them at the elevator. "We're going for a ride."

"Yes, sir."

"Jack, this is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo of the Secret Service and Special Agent Miller. Gentlemen, this is my executive officer, Captain Jack Hanrahan."

The men shook hands as they walked to the elevator.

[FIVE]

Frankford Industrial Complex

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

0825 9 June 2005

"Deja vu, all over again," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, shortly after Captain Jack Hanrahan had turned the commissioner's unmarked Ford Crown Victoria off Tacony Street in Northeast Philadelphia into what looked like an old industrial complex of brick warehouses. "I have been here before. What is this place?"

The commissioner chuckled.

"It used to be the Frankford Arsenal," he said.

"Yeah," Miller said, remembering. "We used to come to the commissary here when I was a little kid."

"When they closed the arsenal, the city tried to turn it into an industrial park," the commissioner said. "That didn't work, so they let unimportant parts of the city government-the police, for instance-use the buildings."

Hanrahan pulled up before a small, century-old, two-story brick building, into a slot marked CHIEF INSPECTOR KRAMER, picked a microphone from the seat, and said, "C-One at CT."

Castillo looked for a sign on the redbrick building but couldn't see one.

Everybody got out of the car, and the commissioner walked purposefully into the building, visibly startling two uniformed police officers on their way out who obviously did not expect to run into the commissioner. The others followed him.

Just inside the small lobby, to the right, was an unmarked door. There was a door buzzer button set into the wall beside it. The commissioner pressed it.

A not very charming voice came over a small loudspeaker: "Yeah?"

"Open the door," the commissioner ordered.

"Who is it?"

"It's the commissioner."

"Bullshit!"

"What do I have to do, take the damned door?"

There was the sound of a solenoid, and, when the commissioner pushed on the door, it now opened.

Beyond the door was a stairway. The commissioner went up the stairs two at a time. At the head of the stairs was an embarrassed-looking black man wearing a shoulder holster.

"Commissioner, I'm sorry. I didn't:"

The commissioner waved a hand, meaning, "No problem."

"Chief Inspector Kramer?" the commissioner asked.

"I just don't know, sir. I'll put the arm out for him. Captain O'Brien's waiting for him, too."

He nodded across the room toward a glass-walled office.

"The arm's already supposed to be out," the commissioner said.

"I'll find out what's happened, sir," the man-Castillo and Miller both assumed he was a detective-said.

The commissioner walked across the crowded room to the glass-walled office, signaling the others to follow him. As they got close, a uniformed captain got out of a chair.

The commissioner shook his hand but made no introductions, instead saying, "We'll wait for Fritz."

He sat down at a desk that had a small nameplate on it reading CHIEF INSPECTOR F.W. KRAMER, took out his wallet, and looked inside.

"Anybody got two bucks?" he asked. "Kramer is very sensitive about his coffee kitty."

Castillo was first to come up with the money. Captain Hanrahan took it from his hand and left the office.

Miller nudged Castillo and indicated with a nod of his head at what first appeared to be a poster for The Green Berets movie in 1968 starring John Wayne, but when Castillo took a second look he saw that Wayne's face had been painted over. The face was now that of a smiling young man and the blaze on the beret was now that of the 10th Special Forces Group.

The detective put his head in the door.

"Two minutes, Commissioner," he announced.

"Thank you," the commissioner said.

Captain Hanrahan returned with a tray holding mugs of coffee thirty seconds before a very tall, trim, very tough-looking man with a full head of curly gray hair walked into the office. He was wearing a shirt, tie, and tweed jacket that had left a clothing store a long time ago. The butt of a Colt. 45 ACP semiautomatic pistol rose above his belt.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he demanded, then, "Hanrahan, you better have fed the kitty."

"The kitty's been fed, Inspector," Captain Hanrahan said.

"Gentlemen, this is Chief Inspector Kramer, who commands the Counterterrorism Bureau," the commissioner said. "We go back a long way. About the time of Noah's ark, we were sergeants in Major Crimes. And this is Captain O'Brien, who heads the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit. This is Supervisory Agent Castillo of the Secret Service and Special Agent Miller."

Kramer examined Castillo and Miller carefully but didn't so much as nod his head. O'Brien offered his hand to both.

"Listen carefully, both of you," the commissioner said. "You are to give them not only whatever they ask for but whatever else-anything-you even suspect they might have use for."

Captain O'Brien said, "Yes, sir."

Chief Inspector Kramer said nothing.

"You heard me, Fritz?" the commissioner said. "You understand me?"

Kramer didn't reply directly.

"You going to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.

"Mr. Castillo will tell you what you have to know. Which will not be all you'd like to know. Understood?"

Kramer nodded, just perceptibly.

"And the fewer people around here who even know they're here, the better. Understood?"

Kramer nodded again.

"I want you to assign somebody-somebody who knows what's going on around here-full-time, until this is over. I ordered an unmarked car sent here."

"I get another car? This must be important," Kramer said.

"It is, Fritz, believe me. And I don't want to hear from Mr. Castillo that either one of you is not giving him anything he wants. And I've told him to call me the minute he suspects that."

"Okay. I heard you," Kramer said.

"We'll be in touch," the commissioner said to Castillo and Miller, and then, waving to Hanrahan to follow him, walked out of Kramer's office.

Chief Inspector Kramer went behind his desk, sat down, leaned back in the chair, and put both hands behind his head.

"Okay, Mr. Castillo, ask away. What does the Secret Service want to know?"

"What I'd like to know," Miller said, nodding at the John Wayne movie poster, "is who's the ugly character wearing the blaze of the Tenth Group."

Kramer's glower would have cowed a lesser man. Captain O'Brien's face showed clearly that he understood it was not wise to comment on the poster, or say anything that could possibly be construed as criticism of U.S. Army Special Forces in Kramer's hearing.

"What do you know about the Tenth Special Forces Group?" Kramer asked, icily.

"He was in the Tenth," Castillo said. "Then they found out he could read and write and wasn't queer and sent him to flight school."

"Two wiseasses?" Kramer asked, but there was the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

"Charley spent too much time in the stockade at Bragg," Miller said. "His brain got curdled."

"Delta Force? No shit?" Captain O'Brien asked.

"Delta Force? What's Delta Force?" Castillo replied.

"The name Reitzell mean anything to you, Mr. Castillo?"

"If your Reitzell is Johnny, and has a wife named Glenda, yeah, I know him."

"And if I called the colonel up and asked about you, what would he say?"

"He'd probably tell you he never heard of Delta and to mind your own business," Castillo said.

"Yeah, that's probably exactly what Colonel Johnny would do," Kramer said.

He got out of his chair and offered his hand first to Miller and then to Castillo.

"As I was saying, Mr. Castillo, what does the Secret Service want to know?"

"You've heard about the 727 that's gone missing from Angola?"

Kramer and O'Brien both nodded.

"Not for dissemination, anywhere; there's a scenario that it was stolen by Somalian terrorists who intend to crash it into the Liberty Bell."

O'Brien's face showed incredulity at that announcement. Kramer's face didn't change, but he took a moment to consider it.

"You wouldn't come in here with a yarn like that unless you and some other people who can actually find their asses with one hand in the dark believed there was something to it," Kramer said, finally.

"It's not even close to being for sure, but it's all we've got at the moment. The same source who told us the airplane was grabbed by Somalians and is probably in Chad-or was in Chad; they're running that down-said there may be a Philadelphia connection. That's what we need."

"Maybe," Kramer said. "We have some AALs-that stands for 'African American Lunatics'-in town who would love to see something like that. Right now, all they're doing is throwing Molotov cocktails at patrol cars, sniping at-correction, shooting at patrol cars; they're not snipers, as we understand the term-but they're ambitious. I'll see what I can turn up."

"Inspector:"

"Call me 'Dutch,' " Kramer interrupted. "That's what they called me in Special Forces."

"I'm Charley," Castillo said.

"Dick," Miller said.

"Dutch, we need what you have yesterday," Castillo said.

"I've got some people inside," Kramer said. "And so does Captain O'Brien-sometimes intelligence and counterterrorism overlaps. There's four major groups of AALs, and, between us, we've got one, two, or three people in each bunch, but they're in deep, you follow me? We can't get on the phone and say, 'Jack, I need what you have on a Somalian connection.' It'll take us several hours, at least, to get in touch with any one of them. And anywhere from an hour or more after that to set up a meet."

"You're talking about cops or informants?" Castillo asked.

"Cops," Kramer said. "Good cops who have their balls on the chopping block twenty-four hours a day. We don't want to blow their cover, and we don't want them killed. Understand?"

Castillo nodded.

Kramer said, "Nothing has come across my desk:"

"Mine, either," O'Brien interrupted.

": which could mean there is nothing," Kramer went on, "or it could mean they're afraid to say something because it sounds like something that would come from a coke-fried brain."

"I understand," Castillo said.

"The fing FBI was in here a couple of days ago:"

"The what?" Miller asked.

"A couple offing assholes from the fing FBI, wanting to know what, if anything, I had on Lease-Aire, Inc."

" Fing?" Miller pursued.

"That's not nearly as offensive in mixed company as 'fucking,' is it?" Kramer asked, innocently.

"And what did you tell the fing FBI?" Castillo asked, smiling.

"The fing truth. I didn't have a fing thing on Lease-Aire, Inc."

The four men were now smiling at one another.

"But maybe you should go out and have a talk with them. I'll send one of my people with you," Kramer said.

"Makes sense," Miller said. "Thank you."

"Who's that young woman?" Castillo asked.

O'Brien and Miller followed the nod of his head.

A good-looking young woman in a skirt and sweater, which almost, but not entirely, concealed the Glock semiautomatic she wore in the small of her back, was bent over the second drawer of a filing cabinet.

"Why do you want to know?" Kramer inquired.

"I think I met her last night," Castillo said.

He saw the look on Miller's face, which said, Jesus Christ, Charley. We lucked out and got to play the Special Forces card with this guy and now you and your constant hard-on are going to fuck it up big-time!

"It's not what you think, Dick," Castillo said, the response to which was another facial distortion that meant, Oh, bullshit!

"Schneider!" Kramer boomed. "Get in here, please!"

The brunette walked to the office door, her face registering mild surprise at seeing Castillo, and stopped.

"Inside, Sergeant," Kramer ordered, "and close the door."

"Yes, sir," she said and complied.

"I understand you've seen this guy before," Kramer said. "But somehow I don't think you've been properly introduced. Sergeant Betty Schneider, this is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, of the Secret Service. Sergeant Schneider works for Captain O'Brien."

"He told me he was in the food-catering business for oil well rigs, or whatever they call them."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That I was waiting for my boyfriend," she said.

"Tell him what you were really doing. He has the commissioner's personal blessing, and, more important, mine."

"Tony Frisco and Cats Cazzaro were having a sandwich at the Warwick bar with two characters from the Coney Island Mafia:"

"That's the Russian mob, Mr. Castillo. Really nice folks," O'Brien explained.

"The table was wired. They were giving me the eye, so I made a play for: this gentleman."

"Get anything?" O'Brien asked.

She shook her head.

"You think they made you?" he asked.

She shook her head again.

"But they were antsy enough about you to worry you?" Yes, sir.

"Which means O'Brien can't use you again for a while there," Kramer said. "Right, Frank?"

O'Brien nodded. "Which makes her available to Mr. Castillo:"

"He said his name was Castle," she blurted.

"That okay with you, Frank?" Kramer asked.

"Done. Schneider, until further orders you will sit on these two gentlemen."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"There's supposed to be an unmarked car here. If it's not here already, it will be soon. Take Mr. Castillo and Special Agent Miller out to Lease-Aire at the airport and wherever else they think, or you think, they should go. Do whatever they want you to do. And don't tell anybody what you're doing."

"Can I ask what this is all about?"

"Mr. Castillo will tell you what you have to know, Sergeant," Kramer said, then asked, "This okay with you, Charley?"

"It's fine, Dutch. Thank you very much."

"And while you're out at the airport, I'll put the arm out for those other people we were talking about."

"The sooner, the better," Castillo said.

"I know," Kramer said.

"Anytime, gentlemen," Sergeant Schneider said.

Castillo and Miller followed her out of the office.

"Let me see about the car," she said and walked across the room.

When she was out of earshot, Miller said, "Put a fing padlock on your dick, Charley, please."

Captain O'Brien looked at Castillo intently but did not comment directly.

"If you can think of anything I could be doing?"

"All scraps of information gratefully received," Miller said.