Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 10

U.S. EMBASSY, MEXICO CITY

LATER THAT MORNING

As expected, the streets surrounding the U.S. embassy on the Paseo de la Reforma in Mexico City were jammed with thousands of angry protesters. Two separate groups converged on the embassy from the east and west, one carrying signs in Spanish, the other in English. There were only the usual half-dozen Federal District Police stationed at the main and employee entrances of the embassy, none wearing riot gear. By the time the police realized what was happening, the crowds kept reinforcements from being brought in. They were in control.

The U.S. embassy in Mexico City is the largest American embassy in the Western Hemisphere and has one of the largest staffs of any in the world. As befitting a “friendly neighbor” embassy, the eight-story U.S. embassy complex in Mexico City was an “urban” model, situated in the heart of the city and set up to make it as accessible as possible without hampering security. It occupied an entire city block, but it was not centered in the block so it did not have a tightly controlled perimeter on all sides. There was an ornate twelve-foot-high spade-topped wrought-iron fence surrounding the entire complex, but in spots the fence was still very close to the building, offering little actual protection. The north and east sides bordered an open area with gardens and a small amphitheater, and there was a high wall protecting those sides with trees screening out most of the interior yards.

The main and staff entrances were very close to major thoroughfares—the building itself on the south and west sides was less than five yards away from the sidewalk. Massive concrete planters were placed on the streets beside the curbs to prevent anyone from parking near the building or driving directly into the entrances, but they were designed to stop vehicles, not protesters on foot. The wrought-iron fence had been erected at the edge of the sidewalk, outside of which the Mexican Federal District Police were stationed every few yards. There was a U.S. Marine guard post on one side of the public entrance and a U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Security Service officer and processing agent’s kiosk on the other side. Both were vacant now, with an egg-and feces-covered sign in both English and Spanish proclaiming that the embassy was closed due to “public demonstration activity.”

“Where are the damned federales?” the U.S. ambassador to the United Mexican States, Leon Poindexter, growled as he watched a feed from the embassy’s security cameras on the monitors in his office.

“The crowds are preventing any more police from moving in,” Poindexter’s chief of the embassy’s one-hundred-and-twenty-person Diplomatic Security Service detachment, ex–U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Richard Sorensen, said. “They’ll probably have to turn out their riot squads to see if they can disperse the crowd.”

The ambassador ran a hand nervously over his bald head, loosened his tie with an exasperated snap, and stood up and began to pace the office. “Well, if the Foreign Minister wants to meet with me in the Palacio Nacional, he’s going to have to do a better job calling out the federales to protect me.”

“The motorcade is ready for you, Mr. Ambassador,” the outer office secretary said from the doorway.

“No way, Marne,” Poindexter said. “I’m not moving from this office until the streets are clear—with the Mexican Army, not just the Federal District Police. I want those streets clear!”

“Sir, there is going to be some sort of major announcement on nationwide TV in less than two hours,” his chief of staff said. “It would be advisable to confer with the president before she drafts her speech…”

“Why? It won’t make any difference. She’ll say whatever she wants to say. Hell, anything I tell her will be used against me in any speech she gives!”

“Sir…”

“All right, all right,” Poindexter said irritably. “Get the Foreign Affairs Ministry on the phone, and as soon as the Federal District Police or the military gets here, we’ll go over to the…”

“Here they come now, sir,” the ambassador’s assistant said. They looked outside. A large blue school bus with flashing blue, red, and yellow lights moved slowly down the Paseo de la Reforma, with a half-dozen men in green fatigues and white riot helmets with clear face shields, carrying M-16 rifles, jogged on either side of the bus. Behind the bus was a dark blue armored Suburban belonging to the Federal District Police, with gun ports visible on three sides.

Poindexter turned to his aide. “What about the evacuation route…?”

“All set up, sir,” she assured him. “There are DSS units stationed every couple blocks along your travel route, and four locations north and south of the route where they can set a helicopter down if necessary. Medical teams are standing by.”

“This is a damned nightmare,” he muttered. “Why won’t the Internal Affairs Ministry allow us to fly our helicopter in here?”

“They said once the Federal District Police are able to control the central flight corridors in the district, they can’t guarantee safety for any helicopters, and they don’t want to have to deal with a chopper going down in the city,” his aide said. “It could take days for them to secure the Federal District.”

“Jesus,” Poindexter groaned. He looked around at the nervous faces around him. “It’ll be okay, folks,” he said, smiling gamely, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “The federales are here, and hopefully they’ll have the crowds under control by the time we’re ready to roll. The best news is that we have sixty DSS agents arrayed along our route waiting for us. Let’s go.”

As they headed downstairs to the parking garage, Sorensen came up to the ambassador. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m recommending we delay this convoy awhile—perhaps an hour.”

“An hour? That’s no good, Rick. I need to try to get in to see Maravilloso before she starts throwing more firebombs on TV.”

“As far as I can ascertain, sir, only half the normal contingent of Federal District Police are outside,” Sorensen said. “I called the Internal Affairs Ministry and they said the rest are clearing the first several blocks of the route.”

“Sounds normal to me.”

“The usual procedure is to have one platoon of police outside the embassy to surround the convoy as it leaves the compound. They deploy motorcycles or Jeeps to secure the route ahead of the convoy only after we’ve formed up. We’ve only got half the detail here now—and I can actually see only six. Besides, we don’t have any air support clearance yet.”

“But our choppers are standing by…?”

“Yes, sir, and they’ll launch with or without clearance,” Sorensen assured him. “But it’s damned irregular for the president to ask for a meeting and at the same time the Internal Affairs Ministry keeps us grounded. The left hand is not talking to the right.”

“After Maravilloso publicly admonished Díaz for that shoot down near El Centro, I’d be surprised if they even look at each other anymore, let alone talk.”

“That kind of friction only makes the situation worse, sir.”

“Rick, I need to get to the Palacio Nacional, ASAP,” Poindexter said. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but Washington is hoping that having the U.S. ambassador camped out in her outer office while she addresses the nation will coerce Maravilloso to say something to calm this situation down. Now, is there any actionable intel that you’ve received that leads you to believe we’d be in danger if we set out immediately?”

Sorensen hesitated, then shook his head. “No, sir. Just a hunch—that creepy feeling I get when things don’t look quite right. But I have no information on any specific action against us—other than the normal level of threats of violence, of course.”

“Then we go,” Poindexter said. He tapped the bulletproof vest under his shirt. “Wonder if we’ll ever get to the point where we won’t have to wear this shit whenever we go outside the embassy here, Rick.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, sir.”

Poindexter sighed, then clasped the DSS chief on the shoulder. “‘I only regret I have but one life to lose in the service of my country,’ eh, Rick? Nathan Hale.”

“Hale was sold out by a friend, captured by the British, refused a Bible while in custody, tortured, had all of the letters he wrote to his family burned, and was hanged without a trial, sir.”

“You didn’t need to remind me of all that, Rick. Let’s roll.”

The ambassador’s convoy was three armored Suburbans, one in front and one in back of the ambassador’s car. Each Suburban had four heavily armed Diplomatic Security Service agents in it, wearing bulletproof vests and armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and SIG Sauer P226 sidearms. A GPS tracking system recorded every vehicle’s exact position and would immediately notify the other DSS units along the route of any problems.

As soon as the convoy was formed up inside the parking garage, DSS notified the Federal District Police protective unit outside. The bus moved forward until it was past the gated garage entrance. Once in position, Rick Sorensen stepped outside the steel gate, his jacket unbuttoned so he could have fast access to the MP5 submachine gun underneath. He carefully scanned both sides of the block. The street was cordoned off by Federal District Police in riot gear in both directions, and the street was empty. The police had pushed the crowds back all the way across the intersection to the other side and blocked off the streets, leaving plenty of warning space. The windows and rooftops within sight appeared clear.

Everything looked okay—so far. Sorensen lifted his left sleeve microphone to his lips: “Bulldog, Tomcat, report.” All of the Marine Corps guards and DSS security agents reported in, followed by the controllers monitoring the fourteen security cameras outside the complex. When everyone reported clear, Sorensen waved to the Federal District Police bus driver to move out, then motioned for the ambassador’s motorcade to follow. He made one more visual sweep of the block. Everything looked good. The crowds were back, way back…good. No one in the windows, no one in the park across the plaza, no one…

It was then that Sorensen realized that the Federal District Police bus had not moved. The first Suburban was out of the compound and the ambassador’s car was following right behind, not yet clear of the steel gate—that was another mistake. Either the car was all the way in or all the way out, never in between. Sorensen glanced at the bus driver’s mirror…

…and noticed there was no one in the driver’s seat.

He immediately lifted his microphone: “Code red, code red!” he shouted. “Contain! Contain!”

The first Suburban, which had cleared the steel gate, stopped in position to guard the entrance, its gun ports immediately open. The driver of the ambassador’s Suburban jammed the transmission into reverse. But just before he cleared the gate he rammed into the Suburban behind him, which was following too close behind. Both vehicles stalled…

…and at the same time the heavy gauge steel car gates, propelled by small howitzer shells to ensure the gates could be closed even without electricity, slammed shut—crushing the ambassador’s SUV’s engine compartment, trapping it between the gates…

…and at the same moment, two hundred kilos of TNT hidden underneath the bus detonated. Sorensen and the Suburban outside the gate were immediately obliterated by the explosion. The engine compartment of the Suburban stuck in the gates exploded, propelling the SUV backward into the embassy compound and flipping it up and over the third security vehicle.

JUST SOUTH OF RAMPART ONE

BORDER SECURITY BASE, IN MEXICO

THAT EVENING

Major Gerardo Azueta was awakened by that unexplainable soldier’s sixth sense of impending danger. He quickly swung out of his cot, pulled on his uniform, and slipped into his body armor vest and web gear. He grabbed his M-16 rifle, donned his Kevlar helmet, and hurried outside. He was on his way to the command vehicle, but saw Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, the duty officer and second in command, speaking with a noncommissioned officer and went over to them instead. It was probably an hour or so before dawn, with just a hint of daylight to the east, but even in the darkness he could tell there was trouble. “Report, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, report from Scout Seven, about ten minutes ago,” Salinas reported. That scout unit, riding U.S. military surplus Humvees, was about thirteen kilometers to the east. “They saw a group of about fifteen migrants captured by what appears to be a civilian border patrol group.”

“Those Watchdogs again?”

“Yes, sir, I think so,” Salinas said. “About six heavily armed individuals in military gear, but they were not National Guard.”

“Status of the California National Guard units in the area?”

“Slight decrease in numbers, sir, especially the TOW-equipped Humvees,” Salinas said. “They were pulled out yesterday evening. Still several active patrols out there, but fewer in number and firepower.”

“Damned renegade vigilantes,” Azueta murmured. “Did you observe anyone getting badly hurt?”

“Yes, sir. Our scouts report some of the men were being beaten and physically restrained, and one woman was being pulled into the back of a truck with several Americans with her—no one else. It appeared as if she was resisting.”

“Sir, we have to do something!” the noncommissioned officer in charge, Master Sergeant Jorge Castillo, interjected hotly. “This is in retaliation for the accident near El Centro and the embassy bombing. Are we going to stand by and watch as our women are raped by these meados…!”

“Sir, we know which camp they took them to,” Salinas said. “It’s only three kilometers north of the border. We will outnumber them with an extra patrol unit. Request permission to…”

“Denied,” Azueta said. “I will report this incident to regimental headquarters and await instructions.” But as soon as he said those words, he knew he had to reconsider them: even the young lieutenant was itching to get into action. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant—or haven’t you thought of one yet?” Azueta challenged him.

“The master sergeant recommends flanking the camp with two patrol units,” Salinas replied. “We will come in from the east and southeast and sweep in, with one patrol unit attacking the camp and the other guarding the road to the west to cut off any response from the nearest National Guard patrol units.”

“That’s your plan, Lieutenant? What resistance do you expect? What weapons? What reserves do you plan to bring? What will you do if the California National Guard responds? Do you even have any idea who those people are and why they were being taken…?”

“Sir, we are wasting time,” Castillo said. “The scouts say they outnumber the Watchdogs right now. We have only observed fewer National Guard forces out there, not more. We may never get another opportunity to help those people. I respectfully recommend we proceed, sir.”

“‘Respectfully recommend,’ eh, Master Sergeant?” Azuerta mocked. “Your ‘recommendation,’ no matter how respectful, will not soothe my agony when I stand over your dead bodies, nor soothe my wife and children when I am thrown into prison for approving this insane idea.”

“Sir, they are only civilians—they have probably been drinking all night, they are tired, and they are too busy abusing our people to expect a counterattack,” Castillo said. “We should…”

“Hold your tongue, Master Sergeant, or I’ll put you in irons myself!” Azueta said angrily. “You are just as crazed on vengeance as those Americans.” But he looked at their excited, energized faces, thought for a moment, then nodded. “But we’re out here to protect Mexico and its people, and that includes those who want to work in the United States.” Castillo slapped a fist into his hand in glee. “Very well, Lieutenant. Get two more scout units moving toward that location to cover your withdrawal, and advise me when the two scouts are in position and ready to go in. If there is any observed change in opposition force deployment or numbers, terminate the mission and return to your patrol positions—don’t ask for reinforcements, because you won’t get them.” Salinas immediately picked up his portable radio to issue the orders.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Azueta to get the message that the team was in position—Salinas and Castillo must’ve set a land speed record for driving a Humvee cross-country. They took command of the strike team, with one of the patrol units on the border withdrawing to a defensive position to the southwest, ready to cut off any pursuit from a California National Guard patrol whose last known position was only two kilometers from the Watchdog Project’s camp.

That proved the National Guard’s duplicity in this horrible action, Major Azueta thought: there was no way they would not know what the Watchdogs had done. Azueta knew the National Guard was out there to watch the Watchdogs as well as look for migrants. That made it much easier for him to issue the order to proceed across the border. When the last patrol unit was in position, Azueta ordered Salinas to go.

“We go,” Salinas said to his men. “Now listen to me carefully. Our mission is to rescue as many of our people as we can. We are not here to engage the Watchdogs or the California National Guard except as necessary to accomplish our mission.” He touched Castillo’s sleeve. “Specifically, we are not here for revenge, Master Sergeant, is that clear?”

“Entendido, Teniente.”

“We go in, rescue the woman and as many men as we can, and get out, with a minimum of bloodshed,” Salinas went on. “Fire only if fired upon, understood? We have watched these people for days: most of them are old and frail, and they will have been outdoors all night and are probably sleepy and cold. We use that to our advantage. Be smart, be safe. Paseo rápido y duro, amigos. Mount up.”

On Master Sergeant Castillo’s suggestion, the two Humvees went in with headlights shuttered, at full speed, and with an American flag attached to their radio antenna. They angled in from the east, trying to avoid the last known location of the Watchdog’s lookouts and to put the rising sun at their backs to screen themselves, but it was almost dawn so they had no more time to be stealthy. Three hundred meters from the camp, they dropped off two soldiers, who would proceed in on foot to set up an overlook position and warn of any responders. At the last moment, Salinas ordered a third Humvee to drive north with only the driver on board to pick up as many captives as it could hold, and the fourth Humvee was standing by with soldiers ready to repel any pursuers.

Just thirty meters from the camp, they spotted the first lookout—he appeared to be an older man in cold-weather camouflaged hunting gear, lying on an aluminum and vinyl-webbed beach lounge chair, with a thermos of coffee beside him, a monocular night vision device hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and a walkie-talkie on a strap around the arm of the lounge chair. The man looked up, tipped his hat back to get a better look, then appeared to wave as the Humvee raced past. Salinas waved to the man, then ordered Castillo to radio his position to the dismounts. “One lookout, no weapon observed. Avoid him if you can.”

They encountered a group of ten or eleven migrants just a few meters farther, sitting and lying on the cold desert ground about ten meters outside the large eight-person tent that was the American Watchdog Project’s base camp. Salinas pulled up between the migrants and the tent. The men slowly shuffled to their feet as if they were drugged or injured, some helping others up. “Vamos, amigos,” Castillo said. He radioed for the third Humvee to come in, then quickly assessed the men. He picked two of the healthiest-looking ones. “There is one lookout down the road—secure him and make sure he doesn’t report in.”

“¿Quiénes son usted, señor?”

“Master Sergeant Castillo, Army of the United Mexican States,” Castillo replied. “We’re here to take you home.” The men stood around, looking at each other in confusion. Castillo motioned to his Humvee. “Put your injured inside—the rest will have to ride outside the vehicle. We have more vehicles on the way. Where’s the woman?” The migrant pointed at the tent, his finger shaking, and Castillo jabbed a finger at the tent.

Lieutenant Salinas led the way, his M-16 rifle at the ready. They took only a few steps before they heard screams coming from inside. Castillo bolted for the front of the tent before Salinas could tell him to wait. Castillo stooped down low, then using the muzzle of his M-16, he opened one of the door flaps. He saw four men standing around a camp table, one man on a stool in front of the table…and a woman lying on her back on the table, her dress pulled up around her neck, screaming in agony as the men watched. Two battery-powered lanterns brightly illuminated the scene. Most all of them wore camouflage gear, with a few sporting bright orange hunter’s vests. The man on the stool had close-cropped hair, while the others had longer hair and beards. Some were grimacing, but a few were smiling and joking with one another despite the poor woman’s screams…

…and at that moment, one of the bearded men looked up and noticed Castillo kneeling in the doorway with his M-16 aimed at him. “Hey!” the guy shouted. What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”

Something exploded in the veteran Mexican soldier’s brain. “¡Muerte a América!” he shouted, and he started pulling the trigger. He surprised himself at how calmly he operated: with incredible control and accuracy, he picked off the four standing men. His targets were very close—centimeters away, close enough for the muzzle flash to hit the closer targets—but he kept himself steady, his weapon on single-shot, and his breathing perfectly measured.

Four targets, four trigger pulls, four down.

“¡Pare el tirar! Cease fire! Cease fire!” Salinas shouted. He threw open the tent flaps and swept the interior with his .45 caliber automatic, finally aiming at the only American alive inside. The soldier—a U.S. Army officer—that had been seated in front of the table had curled up into a ball and dropped under the table when the shots rang out, cowering in fear from the muzzle blasts thundering around him. Now he was on his back halfway under the table, his knees folded up against his obese belly, his hands covering his ears, his eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed spectacles bugging out wider than Salinas had ever seen before. His entire body was trembling so bad that his teeth rattled…

…and to Salinas’s horror, he noticed that the soldier’s hands and the front of his fatigues were covered with blood. Blood dripped from the table, huge pools of blood were on the floor—it was the most horrendous sight he had ever seen.

“Who…who are you?” the soldier screamed, his voice screeching and uncontrolled. Through the smell of cordite hanging thickly in the air, Salinas could smell feces and urine—the smell of fear, the smell when the guilty knew they were about to meet their just punishment.

“Su repartidor,” Salinas said. “Her avenger.” He pulled the trigger on his .45 Colt and kept on pulling until the magazine was empty.

“Sir.” Salinas couldn’t hear anything through the roaring of blood pounding in his ears for several moments. “Sir.” Salinas looked up at Master Sergeant Castillo, who motioned at the woman on the table. After several long moments, Salinas holstered his pistol and looked…and his throat instantly turned dry as the desert, and his mouth dropped open in complete shock. “Mi Díos, Teniente…!”

“Get…get everyone loaded up and out of here, now,” Salinas ordered. “Get some men in here and help her up, carefully.” He turned to the sergeant major and said, “Have the dismounts meet up here on the double.” Their eyes locked, and Castillo nodded, signifying that he understood the unspoken orders.

Castillo directed four men to help the women into his Humvee, then issued orders to the dismounts when they came over to meet up with the team minutes later. Salinas slipped behind the wheel of the Humvee, waiting for the camp to be evacuated. Two shots rang out from outside the tent, but Salinas was too stunned, too horrified to notice. Within minutes, the Mexican patrols were on their way, and less than five minutes later, they were safely across the border with their precious cargo.

FARM TO MARKET (FM) ROAD 293,

JUST WEST OF PANHANDLE, TEXAS

LATER THAT NIGHT

“Rise and shine, Major.”

Jason Richter found his vision blurry, his eyelids oily, his throat dry as dust. Cold rough hands grasped his shirt and pulled him to a sitting position, which made his head spin, then throb with pain. He ran the backs of his hands across his eyes to clear the grit and dirt away, then blinked to try to focus his eyes. When he could see again…

…he was looking right into the face of Yegor Zakharov himself. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Major. I trust you had a good nap.”

“Screw you, Zakharov,” Jason murmured. He could tell he was in a moving vehicle—it looked like a passenger van, although it was too dark to tell for sure. He was seated on the bench seat behind the driver, with several other persons seated very close to him.

Zakharov motioned to one of the men, retrieved a plastic bottle of water, and tossed some water into Jason’s face; he lapped the welcome moisture up as fast as he could. The Russian terrorist was kneeling between the driver and front passenger seat, his sunglasses off, streaks of reddish-brown fluid dripping out of the empty eye socket and down his cheek. “Do not be cross with me, Jason. You are still alive, thanks to me.”

“What did you do to me, Zakharov?”

“Tiny amounts of thiopental sodium administered over the past several hours,” Zakharov said, smiling. “We have had several interesting and entertaining conversations about your Cybernetic Infantry Device. I have also learned much more than I ever wanted to know about your childhood, National Security Adviser Jefferson, your Oedipal conflict with one of your aunts, and your rather perverted sexual fantasies about Ariadna Vega.”

“Fuck you.”

“Let us get down to business, Major,” Zakharov said, his smile gone. “We know all of the commands to use with the device except the most important one: the activation command. Apparently this is the only command that only the authorized pilot can give—according to you, anyone can pilot the robot once it is activated. That is why you are still alive. You will give the activation code once we are in position.”

“I’m not giving you shit, Zakharov.”

“You may want to reconsider, Major.” Zakharov reached over and grasped the face of the person sitting next to him, pulling her into Jason’s view. “Major, meet Marta. We found Marta playing in her front yard a few towns away, and we decided to bring her with us. She is ten or eleven years old, I do not really know. We also found a few others like Marta, another girl and a boy, who we also decided to bring along with us.”

“You sick fucking bastard. Go to hell.”

“Cooperate with me, Major, and you and the children will live,” Zakharov said. “Refuse me, and you will all die. It is as simple as that.”

“There is no way I’m going to help you do anything.”

“Then you will be responsible for their deaths,” Zakharov said matter-of-factly. “Do not try to be a hero now, Richter. You have no weapons, no robots, and no support. I have your robot and the hostages. You have lost this round, plain and simple—admit it and live. I am not a child killer, but I will slaughter them if you do not cooperate with me.” Jason did not reply. “Have a little faith in the system, Richter. You are only one man. You can save the lives of these children by giving me access to the robot. My men and I will be gone, and you can return these children to their homes and families—but more important, you will live to fight another day.”

“How do I know you won’t kill us all after I give you control of the CID unit?”

“My fight is against you and your government, Richter, not these children,” Zakharov said. “As I told you, I am not a child killer, but I am a soldier, and I will do whatever it takes to complete the mission. All I offer is my word, soldier to soldier. Give me access to the robot, and I will let you take these children home. Once they are safe, our battle resumes; but I promise you your life, and theirs, until then.” He exchanged words with the driver. “You have thirty seconds to decide, Richter, and then I will order the driver to pull over into a field, and I will start killing these children in front of you.”

Jason’s mind spun. He looked at the children around him; all were on the verge of fearful crying as they heard Zakharov’s voice—they easily sensed the danger they were all in. Richter was no better. He was edgy and disconnected from the drugs still coursing through his body, but the sickness was quickly being replaced by pure mind-numbing fear. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he was afraid of others coming across his body and those of the children and blaming him for not protecting them.

There was an entire superpower’s military and law enforcement standing ready to protect whatever Zakharov’s newest target was—but right now, there was only one man ready to protect these children. His choice was clear.

The van slowed, and Jason heard the crunch of gravel and felt the bumps of a tractor-worn dirt road. “Well, Major?” Zakharov asked casually. “What is your answer?”

He took a deep breath, then said, “I’ll do it, you sick bastard.”

“Excellent choice, Richter.” The van stopped, and the side and rear panel doors opened. “I never doubted you for a second. You may be a genius, but you are not a heartless berserker.”

They were in a dark field about a hundred yards off the paved road. Jason could see the glow of a town off on the horizon, perhaps three or four miles away, but he couldn’t tell in which direction. In the opposite direction was another, larger town, about equal distance away. A second van full of Zakharov’s commandos had pulled up behind them. Two men with assault rifles took up security positions, while the others assembled in the rear of the van, pulling the folded CID unit out of the back and setting it down on the ground.

“Work your magic, Major,” Zakharov said.

Jason gathered the children around him, gave Zakharov a glare, then spoke. “CID One, activate.” The children gave out a quiet combination of fear and delight as they watched the dark shape seemingly grow out of the field and appear before them.

“Truly amazing technology, Major,” Zakharov said. “I commend you. Allow me.” He cleared his throat and dramatically said, “CID One, pilot up.” One of Zakharov’s men had to jump out of the way as the CID unit obediently crouched down, extended one leg behind itself, leveled its arms along each side of its back to act as handrails, and the entry hatch popped open in the middle of its back. “How delightful. I wish I was of the proper size to give it a ride, but unfortunately I will have to leave that honor to someone else.”

Zakharov barked an order, and one of his men jumped up and slid inside the robot, with the Russian terrorist issuing instructions as he did so. A few moments later, the hatch closed, and the Cybernetic Infantry Device came to life. They watched in fascination as the commando experimentally made the robot jump, dodge, and dart around the field, finishing off with triumphantly upraised arms, like a superheavyweight boxer who had just won a world title.

“It works! Excellent.” They tried their handheld radios—the man inside the robot had no trouble adjusting the radio scanner to pick up the handhelds’ frequency and making the connection. “It appears my missile attack had no ill effects. I am satisfied.” He pulled a pistol out of its holster. Jason felt a roaring in his ears as he realized that Zakharov had everything he wanted, and that sealed his fate. “And now, Major, as for you and the children…you are free to go.”

“Wh…what…?”

Zakharov grasped Richter by the shoulders, and, with Jason still protectively clutching the children, turned him around. “Walk in this direction, Major. Do not turn around, and do not try to head for the road—if my men or I see you on the road, we will gun you down. Stay together and do not allow the children to leave your side—if you do, our deal is off. Keep walking toward those lights. In about an hour, you should reach a farmhouse; if you miss it, in another hour or less you should reach the town. By then, my men and I should be long gone.” He issued more orders in Russian, and in an instant the CID unit ran off into the night and the commandos boarded the vans and drove away. Within moments, Richter and the children were alone.

“¿Dónde iremos ahora, señor?” one of the children asked.

Jason recognized the words “where” and “sir”—he guessed the rest. “Don’t worry, kids,” he said. “No problema. Help is on the way.”

He led the children toward the lights of the town, carefully leading them across the furrows and ditches crisscrossing the fields. Soon his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out stars. He found Polaris, the North Star, and realized he was walking east. He began to feel better—he didn’t know where he was at all, but at least he knew which way he was going.

Although he remembered Zakharov’s warning, he needed to find help as quickly as possible, so as soon as he saw a truck on the highway, he decided to risk it and started angling toward it. About fifteen minutes later, he reached the edge of the field adjacent to the paved road. He instructed the children as best he could to stay in hiding, then crawled through the dirt until he reached the road. He couldn’t see anything nearby, but several yards away he spotted a road sign, and he decided to risk trying to pinpoint his location. Half-crawling, half-crouched, he dashed through the edge of the fields until he reached the sign. It was very dark, and the sign was weathered and hard to read; it was riddled with bullet holes, commonly found in rural signage, but soon he read…

…and instantly, he knew what Zakharov’s real objective was.

He had no choice: when he saw the next vehicle, a pickup truck, coming down the road, he flagged it down, forcing it to stop by practically throwing himself in front of it. Thankfully it was a farmer and not a terrorist. He talked fast, convinced the driver to help him, then gathered the children together and helped them into the cargo bed. He breathlessly used the farmer’s cell phone to call for help…

PECOS EAST TRAINING AREA,

CANNON AIR FORCE BASE, NEW MEXICO

THAT SAME TIME

Ariadna Vega threw open the office door and flipped on the light. “We got it!” she shouted.

FBI Deputy Director Bruno Watts, asleep on the sofa in Jason Richter’s office at the Task Force TALON headquarters complex, blinked at the light but was instantly on his feet. The task force’s new commanding officer did not look like your typical “snake-eater” ex–Navy SEAL—he was shorter than average, wiry, and rather soft-spoken around others. As his hair thinned and grayed he decided to shave his head, so he could still intimidate even in an office or social setting, but otherwise no one would ever recognize him as one of the world’s most highly skilled and experienced experts in unconventional warfare and counterterrorist operations. “What is it?”

“CID One’s locator beacon just went off,” Ariadna said breathlessly. “The unit’s been activated.”

“Where?”

“About twenty miles northeast of Amarillo, Texas.”

“Amarillo…” Watts tried to think of the significance of that city, but nothing came immediately to mind. “What about Richter?”

“No word from him, but he’s the only one who could have activated the CID unit.”

“But it doesn’t mean he’s controlling it, right?” Since taking command of the unit, Watts had been taking a crash course in the Cybernetic Infantry Device—and the more he learned the more excited he got about employing this incredible high-tech weapon system.

“He’s alive, I know it.”

“If he is, he’s got some explaining to do,” Watts said. “Are we…?”

“We’re getting ready to launch right now,” Ariadna said. “We’re only about a hundred miles away—less than fifteen minutes in the air.”

“Good. You stay here and man the command post. Give me any updates you receive.” He pulled on a leather jacket and hurried out to a waiting helicopter that would take them to Cannon Air Force Base, where a jet was waiting to fly him to Amarillo.

Just before touching down on the parking ramp, Watts suddenly slapped his hands together. “Shit!” he shouted, and he fumbled for the intercom control panel inside the helicopter. He dialed his microphone to “COM 2” and keyed the mike button: “Talon, this is Alpha.”

“Go ahead, Alpha,” Ariadna responded from the task force command center.

“Send an urgent message immediately to the FBI office in Amarillo and the Department of Energy. Whoever’s got the robot, I know what their target will be.”

On FM Road 293 four miles west of where Richter and the hostages had been dropped off, the two vans encountered the first roving patrol, an armored Suburban belonging to a private security company. The men inside the Suburban radioed the two vans’ license plate numbers to their headquarters inside the plant; they in turn contacted the Texas Department of Public Safety. The response came back a few moments later: vans rented in Amarillo, not reported stolen or missing, rented to private individuals.

A second request went out for the IDs of the renters. The data came back moments later: both vans rented to individuals from Mexico, no local address, no local destination. That got a lot of folks’ attention. The Carson County Sheriff’s Department was called and a request made to do a traffic stop and an ID and citizenship check, with the Potter and Armstrong County Sheriff’s Departments, alerted because the vehicles were so close to their jurisdictions. Although FM 293 was a public road, the Department of Energy had agreed to use the full force of the U.S. government to defend and indemnify the state, county, and local law enforcement agencies from any liability in conducting investigations requested by plant security.

There was no question that whatever plant security wanted, they would get, for this was the Pantex Plant, America’s only facility dedicated to the assembly, disassembly, and disposal of nuclear weapons. Administered by the Department of Energy’s National Nuclear Security Administration (Defense Programs) and operated by a conglomerate of three nuclear engineering companies, Pantex’s mission was to assemble, disassemble, inspect, and store nuclear warheads.

After contacting the sheriff’s department and requesting a traffic stop, the security patrol returned to its rounds and continued to monitor the perimeter security while long-range telescopic low-light TV cameras continued to track the vans. FM 293 was actually separated from the plant itself by over two and a half miles. In between the road and the plant were two explosive incineration pits where the high explosive parts of nuclear weapons were destroyed or where testing of new explosive materials could take place, and also by a one-mile-square storage facility, mostly abandoned. At one time nuclear warheads awaiting distribution to military facilities were stored there, but no new warheads had been produced for decades. The plant itself was one mile south of the storage facility.

The vans were observed traveling west on FM 293 until it intersected Highway 136, where remote monitoring from the Pantex facility was terminated. The Potter County Sheriff’s Department was notified that the vans were now in their jurisdiction, and dispatchers put out a message on their units’ data terminals to be on the lookout for the vans and do a traffic stop and search if possible. But as soon as the request was handed off to multiple agencies, concern over the vans quickly waned. The vans hadn’t stopped or done anything suspicious; no laws had been broken. If Carson County hadn’t had probable cause to stop and search the vehicle, Potter County certainly didn’t. The request to stop the vans was relayed but largely ignored by the graveyard shift on patrol.

But the assault was already underway.

It took less than seventy seconds for the Cybernetic Infantry Device to carry two of Yegor Zakharov’s commandos and their backpacks full of weapons and gear the six tenths of a mile between FM 293 and the access road to Sheridan Drive west of the north end of the Pantex facility. The land was cleared and furrowed dirt, a simple buffer zone between the explosive incineration pits and the public road that looked like normal farmland—but the area was covered by a network of laser “fences,” covering everything from one to ten feet aboveground, that would alert plant security if any of the beams were broken. But it was easy enough for the CID unit’s infrared sensor to see the laser beams, and even easier for the robot to jump over the fences, even loaded up with all of its “passengers” and their gear. The robot dropped off the men and their equipment at the intersection of Sheridan Drive and North Eleventh Street and ran off into the darkness.

North Eleventh Street between the incineration pits and the weapon storage area was unlighted. They proceeded quickly down the road about a half-mile until they came to a single twelve-foot-high fence running eastward, with a security vehicle access road just outside the fence. At the end of the fence was a dirt and stone berm twenty feet high and a hundred and twenty feet thick, topped with another twelve-foot-high fence. There was a five-story guard tower at the corner of the berm. Floodlights erected every five hundred feet illuminated the top of the berm and the entire area beyond as brightly as daytime.

Called Technical Zone Delta, or TZ-D, this was the weapons storage area. TZ-D had two main purposes: storage of plutonium “pits”—the hollow sphere of nuclear material that was the heart of a nuclear device, for eventual reuse or destruction—and storage of nuclear warheads, from the United States military as well as Russia and other nuclear nations, awaiting dismantling. TZ-D was divided into four Technical Areas, or TAs. TA-1 was the security, inspection, and classification area at the single entrance to the storage facility; TA-2 was the eleven igloos, or storage bunkers, set aside for nuclear weapon electronic components and triggers; TA-3 was the forty-two-pit storage igloos, each housing anywhere from two to four hundred pits; and TA-4 was the eight igloos set aside for storing warheads awaiting dismantling.

TA-4 was the target.

The two vans seen earlier on FM 293 were now spotted by Pantex security monitors heading east on Farm to Market Road 245. They had apparently left Highway 136 and were now approaching the weapons storage area at high speed. The tall guillotine gate at the entrance was closed, and the security detail on duty around the entire facility was placed on its highest state of alert.

Both vans swung off FM 245 onto the access road to the weapons storage area. Two commandos got out of the first van, carrying shoulder-fired rockets, and they made quick work of the relatively weak antitrespassing guillotine gate. Two hundred feet beyond the first gate was the outer entrapment area gate. The security detail had already deployed a massive solid steel barrier just in front of the outer entrapment gate that rose up from the ground and completely blocked the entrance. But the commandos didn’t even try to blast away the barrier. After discarding the spent missile canisters and retrieving fresh ones along with automatic assault rifles and satchel charges, the van veered off the road, crashed into the fence to the right of the barrier…

…and a thousand pounds of high explosives detonated, completely demolishing the fence and destroying the pass and ID guard shack inside.

At that moment, the Cybernetic Infantry Device emerged from the second van, rushed at the breach in the outer gate, and cleared away the flaming, twisted debris enough for four commandos to get inside. Two commandos rushed inside the TA-1 security building, blasting the doors open and throwing flash-bang grenades inside to disable any security personnel inside without damaging or destroying any records. They then retracted the steel vehicle barrier, opened the gates, brought the second van inside the compound, and then closed and secured the entryway. The CID unit picked up two commandos and their equipment and rushed inside the weapons storage area.

When the assault on the front gate commenced, the two commandos in the northwest corner of the facility prepared for their attack. A single shot from a Dragunov sniper rifle dispatched the security guard that had come out of the tower to take up his sniper position, and moments later a TOW antitank missile round destroyed the tower. Two satchel charges destroyed the fence at the top of the berm, and several more shots took out the few remaining security patrols inside the compound.

“Two, report,” Yegor Zakharov ordered on his portable transceiver.

“Moving inside,” the leader of the commando team that had performed the frontal assault radioed back. “No resistance.”

“I will need the igloo number immediately, Three.”

“Three copies.” The two commandos inside the TA-1 building were hurriedly looking through the office, searching charts and records on the contents of the dozens of igloos inside the weapons storage area. Finally they found what they were looking for in the fire marshal’s office: a wall chart with symbology written in grease pencil over each igloo in the compound. “One, this is Three,” the leader radioed, “according to the fire hazard chart I found, Igloos Alpha Four-Four and Four-Five contain weapons that each have thirty-seven kilos of insensitive high explosives.”

“Keep looking for more specific records, Three,” Zakharov responded. “Two, meet me at those igloos.”

“Two.”

While two commandos took up security positions at the entrance to the weapons storage area, the CID unit carrying several satchels and backpacks ran through TZ-Delta directly to the igloos where the warheads awaiting disassembly were stored. He set the equipment down…and as he did, the head of the commando traveling with Zakharov exploded. The CID unit immediately turned to the east. “Sniper on the northeast tower!” he radioed.

“Shield me,” Zakharov said. As heavy-caliber bullets pinged off the CID’s composite armor behind him, the Russian picked up a backpack and began placing shaped explosive charges on the steel doors to the first igloo. The entire front of each igloo was a thick steel plate wall, with a single man-sized steel entry door secured with a heavy steel bar with two palm-sized padlocks locking it in place. It was easy to blow the locks apart with plastic explosives and enter the igloo.

Zakharov found what he was looking for within moments. He recognized them immediately—because he had once commanded Russian Red Army units that employed similar weapons. These were 15A18A warheads from active R-36M2 intercontinental ballistic missiles. The R-36M2, appropriately called “Satan” by the West, was Russia’s biggest, longest-range, and most accurate ballistic missile, capable of raining 10 independently targeted warheads on targets more than eleven thousand kilometers away with unprecedented accuracy. The missile was so accurate that the warheads could be made smaller, so the R-36M2 carried 10 of these warheads, each with a yield of over seven hundred and fifty thousand tons of TNT.

The igloo contained an entire ballistic missile squadron’s worth of warheads—one hundred and twenty warheads, packed in aluminum and carbon fiber coffins for shipment. After ensuring that there were indeed warheads in the coffins, and they were the real thing and mostly intact, the CID unit dragged two coffins out of the igloo.

A commando had driven the second van over to the igloo. The sniper apparently realized he wasn’t going to kill the robot and wasn’t going to get a clear shot at Zakharov, so he started targeting the van—luckily they got the vehicle behind an igloo before the sniper could shoot out the tires or put a hole in the radiator or engine block. “Time to take care of that sniper,” Zakharov told the commando piloting the CID unit.

With the sniper’s location pinpointed on his electronic display—every time he fired, he drew a line right back to his own position, thanks to the robot’s on-board millimeter-wave targeting radar—the CID unit grabbed an antitank missile and sped off. He located the sniper easily, still atop the northeast guard tower; with the CID unit’s radar helping him to aim, he could not miss. He then hurried back and loaded the warhead coffins on the van and, with the robot carrying an antitank missile and running in front of the van, they headed for the exit.

Two security vehicles were just pulling up to the entrance to the weapons storage area—both were put out of commission when the CID unit simply lifted them up and flipped them over, with the officers still inside.

The van and its two-legged escort traveled east on FM 245, north on North Fifteenth Street, east again on County Highway 11, north on County Road L, and then east on FM 293 until reaching the outskirts of the town of Panhandle. “Slow your driving, damn you, and do it now,” he spat at the commando driving the vehicle. “We did not make it all this way to be pulled over by a country bumpkin policeman.” On his walkie-talkie, he said, “Proceed as directed.”

“Da, polkovnik,” the commando piloting the CID unit responded, and dashed off back to the west along FM 293. Being ultracareful to obey all stop signs and traffic signs, the van made its way through the quiet tree-lined streets of Panhandle, finally reaching Sixth Street, which took them right to Carson County Airport. Thankfully, the airport looked completely quiet. He did notice a Civil Air Patrol unit building and a Cessna 182 parked outside, but it too appeared closed.

Zakharov pulled out his transceiver and keyed the mike button: “Five, report.” No response. He tried a few more times—still no response.

“Sir, what do we do?” the commando driving the van asked worriedly.

“Relax, Lieutenant,” Zakharov said, trying to sound upbeat. “We are early, and our plane may be running late. We will try to make contact with one another on the planned schedule.”

“Should we recall the robot?”

“Negative,” Zakharov snapped. “The farther it gets from this place, and the sooner it is spotted somewhere else, the better off we will be.”

The CID unit ran at full speed directly west on FM 293. At the intersection of FM 293 and FM 2373, just northeast of the weapons storage facility, the pilot had to jump over a single security vehicle that had just set up a roadblock, and he sped off before the startled officer could fire a shot.

Resistance was stiffer the farther west he went. The entire intersection of FM 293 and Highway 136 was blocked off in all directions, and he decided to use his last antitank missile to destroy the biggest security vehicle before speeding south on Highway 136. He hopped onto North Lakeside Drive and continued south. Soon there was a police helicopter trying to follow him. Although he made a show of dodging here and there as if he was trying to evade the chopper, he was careful not to let the helicopter lose him. He got off Lakeside Drive at Triangle Drive and soon found himself at his destination: Amarillo International Airport.

He hopped a security fence on the northwest corner of the airport not far from the control tower, then sprinted across a field in front of the tower and across the northeast end of the main runway. He used the radio frequency scanner in the CID unit to check for any indication that he’d been spotted. It didn’t take long: on a UHF frequency he heard: “Attention all aircraft, this is Amarillo Ground, hold short of all runways and hold your positions, unidentified person on Taxiway Kilo near Foxtrot. Break. Airport security, we see him, he’s heading southeast on Kilo about halfway between Foxtrot and Lima, and he’s haulin’ ass.” At the same time, on a different frequency: “Attention all aircraft inbound to Amarillo International, be advised, the airport is closed due to police action. Repeat, Amarillo Airport is closed due to police action. Stand by for divert instructions.”

“Jason! Thank God you’re alive!” Ariadna cried over the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Panhandle, Texas,” Jason replied. The farmer had just dropped him and the children off at the Carson County Sheriff’s office. “You’ve got to get TALON out here right away. I think Zakharov is going after…”

“Pantex,” Ari interjected. “Watts guessed that too when the CID unit was activated out there. We’re already airborne with two CID units. We should be arriving in less than two minutes. We…stand by, Jason…J, we’ve just been told that Amarillo Airport is closed due to ‘police action.’ We’re trying to contact airport security.”

Jason turned to the deputy beside him, who was scrolling through lines of text appearing on a computer terminal. “Deputy, can you tell me what’s going on at Amarillo International?”

“Some guy on the runways,” the deputy replied, reading through the messages in growing disbelief. “We think he’s on a motorcycle or somethin’, because he’s goin’ pretty damned fast. They closed down the airport ’til they can catch ’im.”

“Deputy, listen to me,” Jason said. “That’s a hijacked Cybernetic Infantry Device on that airport—a manned robot.” The deputy looked at Richter as if he had grown another head. “Task Force TALON is coming in to capture him. I need you to get permission for their plane to land, right now.”

“That’s Potter County—I don’t got no jurisdiction out there…”

“Call someone and tell them to let that plane land!” Jason shouted. He gave the deputy the plane’s tail number and call sign, then turned to the phone again: “Ari, I’m trying down here to get you permission to land, but if you don’t get a call from the tower in about sixty seconds, land anyway.”

“Got it, J,” Ariadna said. “Are you all right?”

“Zakharov kidnapped me and a bunch of kids and forced me to activate the CID unit…”

“Mister, did you just say Zakharov?” the astonished deputy asked, his mouth dropping open in shock. “You mean, the guy that blew up Houston? He’s out there?” He turned to the phone and yelled, “Dammit, Dispatch, screw the airport police and put me through to the control tower at Amarillo. Yegor Zakharov the Russian terrorist is on the airport, and those Talon guys want to land so they can go get him. Do it, now!” The seconds ticked by mercilessly. Finally TALON was on the ground, and the CID units were being dispatched.

It did not take long: “J, we found CID One,” Ari radioed a couple minutes later. “It was abandoned. The guy piloting it is gone.”

“You’ve got to find him,” Jason said. “The sheriff’s department says some weapons are missing out of Pantex. They won’t say how many, but they did say ‘weapons,’ plural.”

“We’ll get him, J, don’t worry,” Ariadna said. “Watts is scouring every inch of the airport. Nothing is going in or out of that place until we’re done.”

Jason got to his feet and said to the deputy, “I need to get out to Amarillo International right away.”

“I can take you. Let’s go.”

As they hurried out of the office, Jason’s attention was drawn to a large wall map of Carson County—and he froze. “Deputy,” he called, “change in plan…”

“One, this is Five. Authenticate Yankee-Papa.”

“One authenticates ‘seven,’” Zakharov replied. He initiated a challenge-and-response code himself, using an improvised code sheet he had made up just for this mission. The reply was correct. “We are ready to load. What is your status?”

“In the green and ready,” the pilot of the Pilatus PC-12 cargo aircraft responded. Minutes later they heard a faint turbine engine sound. They couldn’t see it, and the pilot did not report his position as any pilot flying into an uncontrolled airport would normally do, but moments later he heard the distinctive “squeak squeak” of tires hitting the runway, and the sound of the turbine engine in ground idle got louder and louder. A few minutes later, the big single-engine turboprop cargo plane taxied to a stop about fifty yards away, and the large cargo door on the left side of the fuselage opened up.

“Go!” Zakharov ordered, and the driver pulled onto the ramp from their hiding place. Two commandos with automatic weapons jumped out of the PC-12 to take up security positions, while two more men jumped out, ready to help load the warhead coffins. The van’s driver blinked his headlights in response when one of the security men flashed a signal, then dimmed them as he drove closer to the open…

Suddenly there were two brilliant flashes of light from somewhere across the dark runway, and two streaks of red-orange fire sliced across the still night sky and plowed directly into the right side of the cargo plane, causing it to explode in a massive ball of fire.

“Holy shit! What in hell was that?” the sheriff’s deputy exclaimed. They had just pulled onto the airport property when the cargo plane exploded, less than a half-mile in front of them. He immediately hit the cruiser’s lights and sirens.

“No!” Jason yelled. “Turn them off!” But the deputy wasn’t listening. He got on his car’s radio and called for help. “Don’t go in there! Something’s happening…”

“Just shut up and stay put,” the deputy said. He raced across the empty parking lot up to the airport security fence, pulled out a white plastic passcard, and touched it to a magnetic card reader. Just as the gate started to open, an alarm bell rang in Jason’s brain, and he suddenly bolted out of the squad car. “Hey, where in hell do you think you’re goin’?” Jason didn’t reply—he just ran faster. By then the gate had opened far enough, and the deputy gunned the engine and zoomed inside…

…and no sooner had he advanced a few car lengths when a volley of automatic gunfire erupted, peppering the car and its driver in a deadly barrage of bullets. The smoking, unguided car started moving in a slow left circle, eventually crashing into a parked airplane.

Frozen with confusion and fear, Jason hid behind the terminal building until he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t being followed, then sneaked through the open gate and up to the shattered squad car. Thankful that no interior lights came on when he opened the passenger side door, he tried unsuccessfully to pull the shotgun out of the dashboard mount, then went around to the driver’s side. The body of the dead deputy slid onto the ground when he opened the door—ironically, that made it easier to pull the Glock semiautomatic pistol from the deputy’s holster on his right hip. He remembered to take the magazine from the officer’s utility belt before sneaking toward the burning cargo plane.

Zakharov was stunned into speechlessness. What in hell happened here? He couldn’t even imagine that his own men could turn against him and try to hijack these stolen nuclear warheads, but that was the only logical explanation.

The driver had immediately raced away from the stricken plane, and now they were in a different hiding spot, between two hangars on the southwest side of the airport grounds. He had his Dragunov sniper rifle at the ready across his chest on its sling; his pistol was in his right hand and the last antitank missile launcher was slung over his shoulder; the commando had an assault rifle ready.

“Who is out there, sir?” the commando asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Zakharov growled.

“Sir! I would never betray you!”

“No one else knew of our plans!”

“I would die before even thinking about turning on you, Colonel!”

He thought about killing the guy just to be certain, but he needed him to help him escape. “All right, Lieutenant, all right. There is only one entrance and exit to this place, and that is bound to be guarded. But there has got to be another emergency exit on the north side of the airport. We will find it and get out that way.”

“Yes, sir.” He put the van in gear, pulled away from the hangars, and drove north between the rows of airplane hangars. When they ran out of paved parking area, they went across the dry grass. Using their parking lights, they found the airport security fence.

“I will drive,” Zakharov said. “Use your flashlight and find the gate.” The commando got out, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. The commando wisely covered most of the lens with his hand in order to shed as little light as necessary. Moments later they came across a dirt road, and moments after that they found the gate, with a rusty chain loosely holding it closed. The commando fetched a pair of bolt cutters from the van, placed the jaws on the chain…

…and suddenly flew over sideways violently as a bullet pierced the left side of his skull, killing him instantly. Zakharov took time to let out a weak gasp of shock before reaching for the shifter…

“Freeze, Colonel. Hands where I can see them.” The voice…had a Spanish accent, not a Russian one! He slowly lifted his hands and turned. He couldn’t see the face of the man in the open driver’s side window, but he could smell the cordite coming from the muzzle of the sound-suppressed pistol he aimed at him. “Both hands, out the window. Reach for the handle outside the vehicle and let yourself out.”

Zakharov complied. “Who are you?”

“A loyal employee of a friend of yours, Colonel,” the man said. Zakharov heard the van’s cargo doors open, and excited voices in Spanish reported that there were two warheads inside. “Congratulations, Colonel. There have been many security breaches at the Pantex Plant over the past fifty years, but I believe you are the first to actually steal a weapon from there, let alone two. The Comandante will be very pleased.”

“The Coman—” And then Zakharov understood everything. “You mean, this is…this is the work of Felix Díaz?”

“He surmised your objective and your plans and set up this ambush for you,” the man said. “Now we will take the warheads. Your body will be found here, along with the body of a local sheriff’s deputy—I would not be surprised if they deduce that it was a collaboration between you and yet another corrupt cop. Meanwhile the warheads will be on their way to Mexico.” Zakharov heard the rustle of leather as the man raised his pistol up to head level. “The legend of Yegor Zakharov will end right…”

Suddenly several shots rang out, and Díaz’s henchman fell over backward. Zakharov dropped to the ground and pulled his pistol. He saw a muzzle flash ahead of him on the other side of the fence, fired at it, then dodged around the front of the van to the passenger side. He opened the door and reached between the front seats, looking for his sniper rifle but only finally finding the last antitank missile launcher. He grabbed it and turned…

…and ran headlong into a fist aimed squarely at his one remaining eye. “Not so fast, Colonel,” he heard a familiar voice say. His pistol was pulled out of his hand.

“Richter!” Zakharov retorted. “Give me my gun back and help me get this vehicle away from here, or we are both dead!”

“I’m not helping you do shit, Colonel!” Jason said through clenched teeth, muting his voice. “Tell your men to drop their weapons or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

“They are not my men, you idiot!” Zakharov said. “Would my men blow up our only escape? They are Felix Díaz’s men!”

“Felix Díaz…the Minister of Internal Affairs of Mexico?”

“His men followed me here to steal these weapons.”

“You lying sack of shit…!”

“Call me names if you want to, Richter, but I am getting out of here!” The big Russian, sensing rather than seeing where Richter was, swung both arms as if he were chopping a tree, and his fists landed squarely in Jason’s gut. He stepped over the American Army officer and ran toward the runway.

Jason had to struggle for several long seconds before he could catch a full breath. Just as he was able to get up on one knee, he felt a man running past him, shouting something in Spanish. A burst of automatic gunfire opened up, aimed in the direction of where Zakharov had run off to. Jason raised the dead deputy’s Glock, aiming just past where he saw the muzzle flash, and fired. The Spanish gunman screamed in pain and fell.

“Zakharov, stop!” Jason yelled, and he took off after the Russian. He hadn’t run more than a few yards when he heard gunshots behind him and felt bullets whizzing past his head and snapping at his heels, so he ran faster and began dodging back and forth. He heard more voices in Spanish behind him—they were coming for him, and they were getting closer. Other Spanish voices seemed to be yelling in celebration…

…and he realized they were celebrating because they were about to get away with the warheads. Two nuclear warheads…in the hands of a crazed politician like Felix Díaz?

Just before he reached the edge of the runway, he heard a voice with a Russian accent yell, “Get down, Richter!” In the darkness he saw a man appear on the opposite edge of the runway, a weapon raised, aimed at him. He screamed something, then dove for the ground. Just as he hit the ground, a blinding flash of light erupted right over his head. A split-second later, there was an immense explosion. A balloon of fire roiled over him, briefly illuminating the entire airport grounds and the high plains of the panhandle of Texas for miles around.

“May I suggest, Major,” he heard Zakharov yell from the relatively dark side of the runway, “that you get your stupid ass up and run as far away from here as you can? There was at least thirty kilos of plutonium in those warheads.”

Jason turned. Zakharov had fired that antitank missile at the van and destroyed it, and the warheads along with it. Nuclear debris was going to be scattered around this area for miles…and he was right in the middle of it.

All thoughts of capturing Yegor Zakharov disappeared as Jason Richter got up and started to run. The fence on the eastern side of the airport property was no barrier at all—he had enough adrenaline coursing through his veins to practically clear the ten-foot fence without touching it. He didn’t stop running until he had crossed three roads and came upon a farmhouse. He had just enough energy left in him to pound on the front door with his fist, then tell the person who came to the door that they had to leave immediately, before collapsing from sheer exhaustion.