Executive Intent

NINE

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

LATER THAT EVENING, EASTERN TIME

“This is just freakin’ unbelievable,” President Joseph Gardner said. He had just received the initial report on the engagement in the Gulf of Aden. Now he was watching a computerized three-dimensional holographic replay of the incident as reported by the aircrew and verified by Armstrong Space Station. “We told them we were coming, and they said as long as we followed international law, they were fine with it.”

“That’s the part we can’t figure out, sir,” National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. “There should have been no surprises. The aircrew did as the Russians told them: They changed to their radio frequency and put in a transponder code that made it easier for the Russian radar controllers to track them. The Russians engaged anyway.”

“Our guys did it by the book, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Miller Turner said.

“Oh, no, not quite, Miller, not by a long shot,” Gardner said, shaking a finger at him. He entered commands into a keyboard to speed up the holographic animation floating above the conference table. “The Russians repeatedly warned the crew away; they kept on coming, which in my view wasn’t a smart move.”

“Legal, perhaps,” Secretary of State Barbeau said from a secure videoconference link from Beijing, China, “but we don’t know what was going on with the Russian fleet. They could have had some other sort of emergency, or were under some other kind of attack, and they warned our plane away thinking it was part of the other emergency.”

“That’s speculation, Stacy,” Turner said. “We don’t know that.”

“In any case, Miller, the smart thing would have been to reverse course and get out of there,” Barbeau said. “Why risk your life unnecessarily? It was a stupid move on that pilot’s part.”

“Exactly right,” the president said, pointing at the hologram. “And then look at what she does-”

“‘She’?” Barbeau exclaimed. “A woman bomber pilot?”

“Colonel Gia Cazzotta, the squadron commander,” Carlyle said, glancing at his notes. “Veteran bomber pilot, engineer, unit commander, lots of flying hours, experience in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan.”

“Sounds like a cocky type A jet jockey,” Barbeau commented. She thought about her last encounter with a type A but laid-back jet jockey, Hunter Noble-he was actually a spaceplane jockey-but then remembered how that encounter ended, and quickly dismissed the memory.

“Friend of Patrick McLanahan’s, too, I heard,” White House Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said.

“What?” Barbeau asked, her eyes flashing in complete surprise. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Here’s where the fighter attacks, sir,” Secretary of Defense Turner said, pointing at the hologram. “Our guys didn’t do a thing wrong, but they were shot at!”

“She should’ve bugged out and gotten out of there,” the president said. “Instead…” He stared at the holographic replay in amazement. “Look at this-she’s diving out of the sky, fighters on her tail! Now she’s skimming over the water…now she’s supersonic, for God’s sake, heading right for this destroyer. More warnings on the radio. The ships are trying to lock her up, but she’s too low and fast and jamming them…Jesus, no wonder they thought they were under attack! Somebody tell me what in hell she had in mind here, please!”

“Sir, without having interviewed her myself yet, I believe Colonel Cazzotta was conveying to the Russians that she and all American forces weren’t going to be intimidated by hostile actions in open and free airspace,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain said. “There’s no reason for the Russian fighters and then their ships to engage the bomber-it was on a routine and legal patrol, one sanctioned by the Kremlin. There may or may not have been some other sort of emergency that the Russians were dealing with, but it doesn’t matter-Colonel Cazzotta had every right to fly there-”

“But what gives her the right to buzz those ships like that, General?” the president asked incredulously. “She is going supersonic and heading right for those ships! If it was me, I’d definitely think I was under attack!”

“Sir, international law prohibits overflying any vessel below one thousand feet altitude,” Bain said. “The bomber didn’t overfly any of those ships.”

“Don’t give me that crap, General-she may not have overflown them, but crossing in front of them at supersonic speed close enough to spray them with water kicked up by her shock wave? I’ll bet the law says something about flying close to a ship in a careless, reckless, or dangerous manner. The Russians were obviously spooked and opened fire.” He pointed again. “The Russian cruiser fires missiles but are either jammed or…what? What happens to the Russian missiles here? They just stop flying. Why?”

“The bomber has an advanced self-protection system that fires lasers at incoming missiles,” National Security Adviser Carlyle explained, “that are hot enough to destroy the missile’s guidance system.”

“But one gets through?”

“Yes, sir, one gets through,” Carlyle said. “An AA-12 radar-guided missile. A copy of our AIM-120 AMRAAM missile, fired from one of the Russian fighters. It explodes near the bomber’s tail, severely damaging it.”

“But the bomber not only keeps going, but shoots down the Russian fighter? How does it do that? With the laser?”

“The bomber is an EB-1C Vampire, a highly modified version of the B-1B Lancer bomber,” Carlyle said. “It can carry a variety of weapons, including air-to-air missiles.”

“McLanahan’s magic bombers,” President Gardner said, running a hand through his hair wearily. “I should have known. The guy could be thousands of miles away but still somehow involved.” He turned to Chief of Staff Kordus. “Didn’t you say McLanahan is personally involved with that bomber’s pilot?”

“Yes, sir,” Kordus said. “They’ve been seeing each other for a few years.”

“Maybe McLanahan was involved in this,” the president said. “Find out where McLanahan is; see if there’s enough reason for the Pentagon or the FBI to question him.” Kordus made a note to himself on his PDA to follow up with Defense and Justice. “This whole incident could have been invented by McLanahan to goad the Russians into attacking one of our planes. Then he can go on the campaign trail and complain that I’m not being tough enough on the Russians.”

“The campaign trail?” Secretary of State Barbeau exclaimed, looking up from her notes in surprise. “McLanahan? What’s he running for, Mr. President?”

Gardner realized he had way outspoken himself, so he waved a hand dismissively at the videoconference camera. “I meant lecture circuit, Stacy,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to do something crazy like that.” Judging by the blank expressions on their faces, many of the president’s advisers obviously didn’t agree, but no one said anything. The president turned their attention back to the holographic replay. “The bomber meets up with the tanker; they get jumped by four fighters from that carrier, and then one is taken out…how?”

“By one of those Thor’s Hammer interceptor projectiles from a Kingfisher weapon garage,” Carlyle said.

“Direct hit, too,” General Bain said, a boyish grin on his face. “Blew that plane into pixie dust-literally. Obliterated by a guided rod of tungsten steel traveling at fifteen thousand miles an hour!”

“And who gave the order to launch one of those things?” the president asked. “You, General?”

Bain quickly wiped the smile off his face. “No, sir.”

“I know I certainly didn’t! Miller?”

“The interim commander aboard Armstrong Space Station, a Major Jessica Faulkner, gave the order, sir,” Turner said.

“We may set an all-time world record for the number of persons whom I am going to shit-can, kick in the ass, or both!” the president thundered. “A major ordered the destruction of a Russian fighter, and it wasn’t in self-defense? What’s next-an airman one-striper is going to sink their aircraft carrier? I thought I ordered that those Thor’s Hammer things not be used and be removed from orbit? Include the space-station personnel, Ann Page, and the Secretary of the Air Force in the incident investigation.”

“Undersecretary Page resigned her post, sir.”

“I don’t care. I want her included in the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the crew from that Vampire bomber, Miller?” Vice President Phoenix asked.

“Still listed as missing, sir,” the secretary of defense said. “The Reagan carrier group is heading west and launching a rescue mission as we speak.”

A phone buzzed, and Kordus picked it up, listened, then put the call on hold. “What the hell is it, Walter?” the president asked.

“President Truznyev of Russia on the line for you, sir.”

He motioned for everyone at the conference table to pick up their dead-extensions, then punched the “HOLD” button again.

“Put him on.”

A moment later: “Mr. President, this is President Truznyev, via an interpreter.”

“Hello, Mr. President. This is about the incident in the Gulf of Aden, I presume?”

“‘Incident’? Three Russian airmen are dead and one is missing,” Truznyev said. “In addition, several sailors were injured due to your bomber’s provocative high-speed pass near our vessels, which also sustained some damage. This is more than just an ‘incident,’ sir-it is an act of war!”

“What it is, Mr. President, is a terrible misunderstanding, a complete lack of communication, and the case of a bomber pilot who far exceeded her authority and performed in an extremely careless and reckless manner,” Gardner said. “But that doesn’t excuse you sending four more jets out there and attacking the bomber and its tanker.”

“I understand that you would choose to forget about the Russian pilots killed by missiles launched from that very same bomber,” Truznyev said. “But I have another grave concern to ask you about, Mr. Gardner, and I hope you will be truthful with me, because tensions are already high in that region, and lying would only make matters worse.”

“Lying? Mr. President, I’m not in the habit of lying. What is it that-”

“It is our finding that one Russian airman was killed at the very same time that one of your space-based attack weapons was detected deorbiting in the same area,” Truznyev interjected. “We have not been able to extensively interview the surviving pilot yet, but it appears to us that an American space-launched interceptor weapon destroyed one of our planes. Is this true, sir?”

“Stand by, please, Mr. President,” Gardner said, hitting the “HOLD” button again. “Shit, he knows about the Hammer thing taking out one of his planes! How could he know that?”

“ Russia operates space surveillance and intelligence-gathering sites from an island off the coast of Somalia, from India, and from ships that can be deployed anywhere, sir-they might even have one in their task force out in the Gulf of Aden,” Director of National Intelligence Gerald Vista said. “I’m sure they carefully track any of our spacecraft in range, especially the weapon garages.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to say now?”

“Mr. President, if you tell Truznyev that Major Faulkner acted without authorization,” Vice President Ken Phoenix said, “it’ll appear as if the entire U.S. military is out of control.”

“It does look like it’s out of control, Ken!” Gardner snapped.

“Colonel Cazzotta and Major Faulkner were doing their jobs, sir-Cazzotta had been ordered to inspect and report on the Russian fleet, and Major Faulkner was ordered to protect American interests with their space-based weapons.”

“I didn’t tell the bomber pilot to race around the ships as if he-I mean she-was getting ready to attack them, just fly nearby and show the damned flag!” Gardner exclaimed. “And I ordered those Thor’s Hammer things not to be used, and I was in the process of doing away with them.”

“Sir, I recommend you use this opportunity to challenge Truznyev,” Phoenix said. “This whole thing started when the Russians gave us permission to inspect their task force, then engaged the bomber offensively with radar and verbal challenges, acting as if they were ready to attack. If the Russians had simply allowed the plane to fly by, none of this would have happened. It’s not our airmen’s fault they reacted aggressively-they were only doing their jobs.”

The president thought for a moment. Finally the expression of confusion and doubt lifted, and the rest of the president’s national security team thought they were going to watch the commander in chief get tough with the Russians. Gardner hit the line button: “Mr. President, I…apologize for what has happened today,” he said. Most of the national security team looked as if they tensed all at once-even Barbeau’s surprised expression on the video teleconference screen was evident. Ken Phoenix’s expression was utterly blank. “The actions of the bomber crew were uncalled for and provocative at the very least, and were possibly a violation of orders punishable by a court-martial. As for the downing of one of your fighters…yes, sir, a weapon was fired from space by our Space Defense Force.”

“So you admit it.” Truznyev crowed. They could hear the Russian president’s angry, incredulous voice in the background, even though the translator delivered it in his usual even monotone.

“Mr. President, it underscores the absolute necessity of instituting a ban on offensive space-based weapons,” Gardner said. “The space-station crew felt it was necessary to help defend the bomber and tanker, and so they acted. If such weapons are banned, such actions will not occur.”

“So you ordered this attack from space to induce Russia to agree to a ban on the very weapons you used to kill our airman?” Truznyev asked. “How dare you, sir! It is bad enough holding a gun to our heads by placing those monstrosities in orbit and then asking for a ban on such weapons, but then you dare try to increase the pressure by killing a Russian with one!”

“That was not my intention, sir,” Gardner said. “I did not sanction either action-the bomber crew and the space-station crews acted without my prior permission. They thought that their actions were part of their standing orders. They should have asked…”

The Russian president’s incredulous voice in the background completely drowned out the translator’s: “Vy ne odobrjaet ikh dejjstvija?” Truznyev shouted. The translator quickly cut in: “You did not approve their actions, sir?”

“Of course not!” Gardner said. “Things happened too fast.” He realized he had just about lost control of this entire conversation, so he quickly added, “We told you we were going to patrol your task force, sir, and you engaged us anyway. Why was-”

“No, sir, do not attempt to place the blame on Russia,” Truznyev said. “Your airmen and Space Defense Force troops’ provocative and warlike actions resulted in the deaths of perhaps four Russian airmen and a dozen injuries.”

“And I deeply regret the loss of Russian life, Mr. President,” Gardner said. “But we are still confused as to why you would grant permission for a simple patrol overflight of your fleet, and then attack it. Were you trying to instigate a response, or-”

“Do not change the subject, Mr. Gardner,” Truznyev said. “You promised the world you would not employ those space-attack weapons and you called for a ban of such weapons, then you proceed right along and use another to shoot down a Russian aircraft. You simply cannot be trusted any longer, sir. You are a liar. And if you seek to pretend that you did not give the order to employ those weapons, you are not only a liar but a coward.”

“There is no need for such language, sir,” Gardner said.

“This is Russia ’s demand to you, Mr. Gardner,” Truznyev said. “All patrols by aircraft within strike range of our task forces will cease immediately. We will consider any such aircraft hostile and engage it immediately and without warning. Do you agree, sir, yes or no?”

“We are allowed freedom to navigate the sky as well as the sea, sir. We will not-”

“I said, Mr. Gardner, do you agree?”

Gardner hesitated, but only for a few moments: “Agreed, Mr. President,” he said. “In the interest of mutual peace and trust, the United States will fly no patrol aircraft within one hundred miles of any Russian warship.” His national security advisers looked aghast as they listened in on the conversation; Phoenix still wore the same stony expression.

“And you must deactivate all of the Kingfisher interceptor satellites immediately,” Truznyev went on, “and they must be allowed to burn up in the atmosphere.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President?”

“ Russia has the capability to monitor signals between those weapon satellites, Earth satellite control centers, and your military space station,” Truznyev said. “Those signals must cease. With prior permission, you will be allowed to maneuver the weapon satellites to deconflict with other satellite traffic or pick a safe reentry crash area, and you will be allowed to approach the satellites to recover sensors or other valuable equipment, but otherwise you may not alter their orbital path or activate any systems on board. They will be allowed to crash in the atmosphere.”

“Mr. President, those satellites perform a function over and above attack,” Gardner said. He glanced at his advisers around him and their shocked expressions-all but Phoenix ’s. The president didn’t know enough about the Kingfisher satellites to defend them; no one at the table really did, except perhaps for Phoenix, and the president wasn’t about to ask him. “They are used for…for reconnaissance, uh, and communications…”

“Mr. Gardner, we both know that their primary function is to destroy satellites and attack targets on Earth, apparently now including aircraft,” Truznyev said. “You can prattle about this and that as you please, but we all know that they were designed to kill, and have now done so many times. They must be deactivated, immediately, or Russia has no choice but to respond in kind.”

“What do you mean, Mr. President?”

“The United States and China are deploying antisatellite weapons- Russia shall start deploying them as well, in great numbers,” Truznyev said. “ China is placing long-range hypersonic antiship missiles all over the world in strategic locations- Russia will do so, too. America depends on Russian cargo spacecraft to supply the International Space Station and to boost it in its proper orbit-perhaps Russia ’s resources can best be used to help another nation’s space program.”

“So you’re threatening to start a new arms race?”

“The race began when you began deploying these armed satellites in orbit two years ago,” the Russian president said, “as well as engaging in this rapid buildup of aircraft carriers. You seek to dominate space like you dominate the world’s oceans. This will not stand. You will agree to stand down your space weapons and leave our fleet in peace, or you will begin encountering more and more antiship and antisatellite weapons arrayed against you all across the planet.”

“ America is not Russia ’s enemy,” Gardner said, his undertone almost pleading. “What happened over the Gulf of Aden will not be repeated. We have no designs on your task force, and we agreed to let Russia secure Yemen against further terrorist acts.”

“Mr. Gardner, words mean very little right now as we pull bodies and wreckage out of the Gulf of Aden,” Truznyev said. “Actions show your true intent, not words. Prove to Russia that you want peace and freedom of the seas and skies: Remove your armed patrols so our ships can move without fear, and remove the satellites of war so we can look up into the night sky again without fear of an artificial meteor streaking down on our heads. Then we shall see who is the enemy and who is a friend. Until then, you will find no cooperation from Russia.” And the line went dead.

The president hung up the phone, as did the rest of his national security team, then sat back in his seat, staring at nothing on the conference-room table. He looked utterly deflated, like the home football team’s coach suffering a bad defeat in the Homecoming Day game.

“I wouldn’t agree to anything that bastard says, Mr. President,” Ken Phoenix said after a few strained moments of silence. “He attacked without warning. We should demand-”

The president held up a hand to silence the vice president. “I’m not demanding anything, Ken,” he said. “Right now, I’m ordering: All patrol planes stay at least a hundred miles away from the Russian and Chinese fleets. Our radar planes can still keep an eye on them from a hundred miles.” He took another deep breath, then went on: “I’ll have to have a talk with the congressional leadership, explain what happened.” He paused for a moment, then looked directly at Vice President Phoenix and said, “And I’m ordering the Kingfisher satellites deactivated.”

“What?” Phoenix exclaimed. “Sir, you can’t do that!”

“They’re not worth the aggravation, Ken,” the president said wearily. “Truznyev is right: They are fearful weapons. An aircraft-carrier battle group is intimidating when it’s parked off your shore, but when it sails away and disappears over the horizon, it’s not anymore. The satellites are overhead each and every day. If we completed the constellations, there’d be six overhead every minute of every day. How can we expect any sort of friendship or cooperation from any country who’s facing something like that?”

“Sir, Truznyev created this incident, provoking us to react, just so he could accuse you of belligerence and make unreasonable demands of you,” Phoenix said. “He’s hoping to get you to accept full responsibility for this to force you to pull our forces back from engaging or even monitoring them. Then they’ll be free to sail anywhere they please, conduct any operations they care to, completely without supervision.”

“There won’t be any more provocations, Ken,” the president said, “because we will pull back. We kept an eye on the Russians just fine without flying supersonic bombers around their carriers, and we sure as hell won’t shoot down any more Russian fighters with a space weapon. We’ve protected the nation and the world just fine before Kingfishers and hothead bomber pilots arrived on the scene. No more. I want them shut down immediately.” He turned to Secretary of Defense Turner and added, “I want all other military and intelligence operations in the area to stand down for a couple days. The tension level is getting ratcheted up too high. Keep our carrier away from the Chinese and Russians and let’s everybody just cool down.”

“The intel mission on Socotra Island…?” Director of National Security Vista asked.

“I said all missions,” the president snapped.

“Mr. President, that mission to Socotra Island is meant to provide positive proof that Russia is actively attacking our satellites with damaging streams of data,” Phoenix said. “If we call off the mission, we won’t have proof. I recommend we-”

“We don’t need any proof if the Kingfishers are all shut down.”

“So what will prevent Russia from doing the same attacks to other satellites?” Phoenix asked. “Will we shut down our intelligence satellites next because the Russians don’t like them, or just wait for the Russians to attack them, too?”

“Ken, I said I want to ratchet down the tension level, and any ops against a Russian base will just create more headaches and force everyone’s finger closer to the red button,” the president said.

“Everyone just back off, and let’s hope things quiet down.” He lowered his head for a moment, then said, “Keep me up-to-date on the search for the bomber crewmembers, Mil. Thank God we didn’t lose the tanker, too.”

DIEGO GARCIA, INDIAN OCEAN

A SHORT TIME LATER, EARLY EVENING

“ Mission ’s been scrubbed, guys,” U.S. Army Reserve Lieutenant Colonel Jason Richter said. “No plans to go in the foreseeable future.” Richter was young, tall, and dark, but the stress of this hastily prepared mission had spread concern across his handsome features. He was sitting in the air-conditioned briefing room of the expeditionary bomb wing stationed at the military airfield on Diego Garcia, a former British navy base located 450 miles south of the southernmost tip of India.

Jason Richter was the commander of the Army Infantry Transformational Battlelab at Fort Polk, Louisiana, designing, building, and testing new devices for future Army infantry forces. He was in charge of developing and fielding a specialized weapon system he had designed years earlier called the Cybernetic Infantry Device, a creation that would eventually change the entire face of land warfare-if anyone could ever find money to fund it.

“I had a feeling it would be,” former U.S. Army Reserve captain Charlie Turlock said. Charlie-her real name, not a call sign or nickname-was slim and athletic, but the heat and humidity of the central Indian Ocean had drained a lot of her natural energy, as well as taken a lot of the bounce out of her short strawberry-blond hair.

“I hate getting dressed up for a party and having it canceled,” former U.S. Air Force major Wayne Macomber said. The former Air Force Academy football star and special operations commando always looked angry and on edge, as if he was expecting trouble to start any second. Patrick McLanahan’s private military contracting company, Scion Aviation International, had hired Macomber and Turlock to manage some very special assets for the company-several Cybernetic Infantry Devices and Tin Man commando units Patrick had absconded with from his former command, the Air Battle Force. Most of the CID units had been destroyed in the brief skirmish between Turkey, Iraq, and the United States two years earlier, and the rest had been returned to the U.S. Army and Jason Richter.

“Let’s get our stuff out of the Condor,” Charlie said.

“I’m not going out there until I get this poopie-suit off,” Whack said. He was referring to the full-body gray suit he wore. Nicknamed “Tin Man,” the suit was composed of a material called Ballistic Electro Reactive Process that kept it flexible until it was struck by any projectile or object, when it would instantly harden into composite armor that was impervious to even medium-caliber cannon fire. The Tin Man commando system also used an exoskeleton of microhydraulic actuators and limb braces that gave its wearer almost superhuman strength and abilities, and a helmet with several advanced sensors and communications equipment that made him a one-man infantry squad.

It took Whack several minutes to wriggle out of the Tin Man armor and put on athletic shorts, shirt, and shoes, and loop his ID card on a chain around his neck, and then he, Charlie, and Jason walked out to a nearby aircraft hangar. He was bathed in sweat during the short walk across the tarmac, even though it was almost dark, and then instantly chilled again in the air-conditioned and humidity-controlled hangar. “She’s a beauty,” Whack said after their IDs were checked by an Air Force Security Forces officer.

“Are you canceled, sir?” the officer asked.

“Yeah, Casone-my first flight on a B-2, and it’s nixed,” Whack said. “We’ll get to fly in it someday.” He was referring to the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber inside. The bat-winged composite long-range strategic bomber and its five sisters composed virtually all of America’s long-range air-breathing strike forces after the B-2’s lone base, Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, had been destroyed in a Russian nuclear sneak attack eight years earlier-four of the six survivors had been forward-deployed to Diego Garcia as part of an Asian bomber task force, and two had been airborne.

“She’s pretty, that’s for sure,” Charlie said. She touched the almost completely smooth dark gray skin. “Smooth, like a baby’s bottom.”

“Yeah, but flying in the Condor is just plain loco,” Jason said. They walked over to the open bomb bays. The left bomb bay had a rotary launcher with two RAQ-15 StealthHawk reconnaissance and strike cruise missiles, designed to loiter for several hours, transmit images and data back to the Spirit bomber, detect and analyze possible targets, then attack with small guided missiles if directed. The missiles were meant to neutralize any area defenses or patrol ships and make it easier to extract commandos on the ground.

The right bomb bay held something entirely different: an MQ-35 Condor air-launched commando insertion and extraction air vehicle. The Condor could carry up to four commandos and their gear. The commandos entered through the Spirit’s bomb bay, and the Condor was dropped like a bomb. The Condor could glide for up to two hundred miles and had a retractable landing gear for landing on a hard surface. If undamaged, the Condor had a small turbofan engine that allowed it to take off again and fly up to two hundred miles to safety.

“Almost as loco as flying in space stuffed in the back of those little spaceplanes,” Whack said, “but we’ve had the opportunity to do that, too.”

The three waited as a weapon-loading crew arrived and downloaded the Condor from the bomb bay. After it was placed on its storage cradle, Charlie opened a hatch on the left side, and the three dragged a large dark gray rectangular box resembling two refrigerators bolted together-but considerably lighter in weight-out and set it on the glossy polished hangar floor. “Hey, Carlo,” Charlie called out to the security officer. “You haven’t seen this thing in action yet, have you? C’mon over here.”

“I’m on duty, ma’am,” Sergeant Casone said. “I’ll watch from here.”

“Rog.” Charlie turned to the box and spoke, “CID One, deploy.”

At that, the box began to move. Sections of it shifted and popped out, quickly replaced by other moving pieces, until the box became a ten-foot-tall two-legged robot.

“Awesome,” Casone exclaimed.

“This is the best part,” Charlie said. “CID One, pilot up.”

The robot squatted down, its left leg and both arms extended backward, and a hatch popped open on its back. Charlie used the outstretched leg as a ramp and the arms as handrails to climb up and wriggle inside the robot. The interior surface was composed of a soft electroconducting material that completely surrounded her entire body, cushioning her from shock and picking up neural impulses in her body for transmission to the robot’s haptic control computers. Her head fit into a helmetlike device with a breathing mask, communications gear, and an electronic wide-angle multi-function visor.

Moments after the hatch closed, the robot stood up-and it moved as lithely and naturally as a human. “All systems in the green,” Charlie spoke, although her voice was heard as a male electronically synthesized growl. She ran around the B-2 bomber to Casone, curtsied before him, and extended a massive armored hand, its fingers moving as realistically as her own. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Casone.”

“All right, Charlie, stop screwing around,” Whack said. “Put the CID away and-”

Jason’s secure cellular phone rang, and he answered it immediately. “Richter here…who?…General McLanahan…you mean, General Patrick McLanahan? Excuse me, sir, but how did you get this number?” The name got everyone’s attention instantly. Jason looked at Whack, then said, “Stand by, sir.” He held out the phone to him. “It’s Patrick McLanahan. He wants to talk with you.”

Whack smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I should have known he’d be involved with this,” he said, reaching for the phone. “If it has to do with the Tin Men, the CIDs, or big bombers, McLanahan’s got to be behind it, civilian or no.” He took the phone. “Hello, General. Fancy talking to you.”

“Hello, Whack,” Patrick said. “Listen up. We lost a B-1 bomber over the Gulf of Aden. Gia’s plane.”

The smile was instantly replaced with a scowl. “Where and when?” he asked.

“About ten minutes ago, approximately four hundred miles southwest of Salalah, Oman. The Reagan carrier group is en route; fixed-wing searchers should be on scene within the hour.”

“Any 406 signals?”

“No.” A 406-megahertz locator beacon with a GPS receiver built into each crewman’s survival harness automatically sent a survivor’s identification code and position digitally via satellite to rescue coordinators. “She missed the first manual-activation window.” To reduce the chance of location signals being picked up by enemy forces, survivors who could manually activate their beacons were instructed to do it for short periods of time at specific times every hour, based on Greenwich Mean Time. “I heard your mission was scrubbed.”

“You heard? How could you hear that? We just found out a couple minutes ago ourselves!”

“I had a little to do with planning your mission onto Socotra Island.”

That explained a lot, Whack thought-and it was probably a lot more than just “a little.” “We’ve got a badass bomber with four cruise missiles, plus a CID and Tin Man, all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he said. “What do you need?”

“I’m trying to get clearance to press forward with your mission,” Patrick said, “but the White House shut down all air intel and surveillance ops in the region. We have a backup plan to get two of you onto Socotra. A plane’s on the way to take you and your gear to Dubai. You’ll meet up with a CIA guy who’ll get you the rest of the info.”

“You know, General, I’m just a shooter here-you’d better speak to the boss,” Whack said. He handed the phone back to Richter. “McLanahan’s got a backup plan.”

Jason took the phone. “Richter again, sir.”

“Backup plan in progress, Colonel,” Patrick said. “A plane will be taking Macomber, Turlock, and the CID unit to Dubai.”

“How did you know who and what we have here, sir?”

“The same way I got your secure cellular number and codes, Colonel,” Patrick said. “That’s not important right now. The plane will be there in about eight hours.”

“I can’t tell Macomber what to do, sir,” Jason said, “but Turlock is an Army officer under my direct supervision, and she’s not going anywhere without proper orders.”

“It’s just a plane ride to Dubai, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Her orders will be waiting for her there.”

“Sorry, sir,” Jason said. “I don’t know how you’re involved with this-and I’m sure I don’t have a need to know-but until I get orders in my hands, Turlock stays put. You can come get Macomber anytime-the sooner the better.”

“And the equipment?”

Jason thought for a moment: “The Tin Man stuff isn’t the Army’s, so Macomber can take it and wear it for Halloween if he wants to,” he said finally. “The CID unit belongs to the U.S. Army, and I need a valid transfer order before it leaves my hands.”

“Understood,” Patrick said. There was a slight pause; then: “I studied your work with Task Force TALON, Colonel-tough, fast, gutsy, a lot like the Air Battle Force ground teams,” he went on. “And of course I’ve had a chance to work with the CID units on a number of occasions. Fantastic technology. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jason said, “although it’s never been fully explained to me how you as a civilian managed to get them.”

“I’d like the opportunity to explain it to you, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to work together in the very near future.”

“Apparently we already have been, except I didn’t know it,” Jason said. “Exactly what is it you do, sir?”

“Oh…a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Patrick said. “I help out when and where I’m needed.” And Patrick hung up.

SOCOTRA AIRPORT, SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN

DAYS LATER

The Yemeni customs inspection official looked surprised and more than a little indignant as the tall, beefy, white-skinned man carried an enormous blue-and-white nylon bag, a briefcase, and a backpack over to his inspection station. Although this Felix Air flight had originated in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a, visitors to Socotra Island, an oval-shaped, rocky island two hundred miles east of Somalia in the Indian Ocean, were required to have their bags and travel documents reinspected. “Salam alaykum,” he said in his rough, low voice reserved for European visitors, holding out his hand. “Jawaz as-safar, min fadlak.”

The big man fished out travel documents from his backpack and handed them over. The customs officer was pleased to see the man wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants-they were not as strict about Muslim clothing customs on Socotra Island because it depended so much on tourism, and shorts and short-sleeved shirts were allowed near the water and on hotel properties, but in public, even men and especially women had to cover their heads and bodies. He expected courtesy and respect for Muslim customs from every visitor-at least until they got to the hotel and beaches, where he enjoyed watching scantily clad Western, Asian, and African women just as much as the next guy.

“Wa alaykum as-salam,” the man said in extremely clumsy and heavily American-accented Arabic. He was tall, with closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion. Socotra was a remote but popular destination for European tourists, so the customs agent played his favorite game and tried to guess the man’s nationality-German or Scandinavian descent, he figured, although the accent was definitely American, maybe Canadian. At least he gave Arabic a try, the customs officer thought.

“I speak English,” the agent said with a slight thank-you bow for giving his language a try. The passport was American. He had flown to Yemen aboard Emirates Airlines via London and Dubai; the tags on his backpack and large duffel bag verified all the previous destinations. “I am required to inspect your bags, Mr… Wayne Coulter,” he said.

“They told me you might have to do that,” the man named Coulter said.

“It is required.” His documents were all in order, with a visa procured in Washington -getting three-month tourist visas at Yemeni airports was not always reliable, especially with the current hostilities. Flipping through his passport, he found a folded twenty-dollar bill stuck inside. The customs officer locked eyes with the man, then held out the open passport. “That is not necessary here,” he said disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” the man named Coulter said, although he certainly didn’t sound apologetic. He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “I don’t know how that got there.”

“Of course.” The passport was a couple years old, a few trips to Europe and Asia-this was his first trip to the Middle East. “Your occupation, sir?”

“Mechanical engineer. I design industrial robots, you know, to build cars, trucks, things like that. I’m demonstrating a robot to help fishermen.”

“I see.” If this man was an engineer, the agent thought, the sun would certainly set in the east tonight. He was definitely military. Everything looked in order, but he still did a couple of suspicious double takes at the photograph and a few of the pages to see if the man would react. He did not-a very cool customer indeed, he thought, a man trained and experienced in keeping cool. “How has your travel been, sir?”

“Fine,” the man said. “I had to sleep in the airport last night. They canceled a couple flights because of the Chinese and Russians in Aden and because of the weather.”

“I am sorry you were inconvenienced. The monsoons have come early this year, and of course the trouble with the Chinese…ma sha’ Allah. God’s will be done.”

“I hope I can still get some diving in.”

“I think so.” He flipped through the passport. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, please?”

“Demonstrating a machine for the Yemeni Fish Company Limited,” Macomber said. “I want to do some diving, too. I’m told it’s like the Great Barrier Reef of the Indian Ocean.”

“God has indeed blessed our island with great beauty, especially under the sea,” the customs officer said idly. He kept the documents in front of him on his desk as he unzipped the big duffel bag. It appeared to contain a gray scuba diver’s wet suit, weight belt with weights, gloves, and boots. “Such thick wet suits for the Indian Ocean? I am afraid you may be most uncomfortable in our warm waters.”

“I did some diving in the Irish Sea before coming here, demonstrating my technology,” Coulter said. “This equipment allows me to dive deeper and stay underwater longer.”

“I see.” The customs officer knew the equipment had come from the United States via London, so the Irish Sea story could have been real, but his interest was piqued-these were not typical visitor’s scuba equipment. The last item was even more curious-it looked like a cross between a full-face motorcycle helmet and a deep-sea diver’s helmet. “And this is?”

“My diving helmet.”

“It is very unusual. I have never seen one like it.”

“It’s the latest thing,” Coulter said. “I can wirelessly talk to other divers or to surface crews while underwater, and it gives me readouts of air supply, dive depth and duration, water temperature and current, and even gives my location.”

“Quite remarkable,” the customs officer said, examining the helmet closely. Inside it did seem to have rows of tiny light-emitting diodes aimed at the visor, as well as microphones and earphones. Despite the fact that all this had to have been already inspected and approved in Sana’a, he knew he had to report it to the National Security Organization, or NSO, Yemen’s foreign intelligence service-this equipment, as well as this man who claimed to be an engineer, had to be checked out further. He did declare all this equipment, so he was not trying to hide anything.

Still, the agent was getting more and more suspicious and decided to give this man several more minutes of attention, so he carefully and deliberately repacked the odd diving gear, then started to go through the man’s backpack, again being slow and deliberate. The backpack contained clothes and toiletries, including some cold-weather clothing, giving further credence to the Irish Sea story, plus spare battery packs and a pair of binoculars, all listed on the declaration form. The briefcase had a laptop computer, cellular phone, power adapters, more spare battery packs, a personal digital assistant, pens, and other typical businessman travel things-no pornography, alcohol, or prohibited items, everything properly declared. He checked his papers and found permission letters to use a house owned by the Yemeni Fish Company in Hadibo, along with vouchers for scuba trips and island tours, all arranged online fairly recently through a tourist agency in Sana’a from a hotel in London using an American credit card. All very touristlike.

He really didn’t have anything to detain him here legally, the customs agent thought, but he had to be reported. The officer had recently received some advanced training in how to spot foreign agents and insurgents, and this guy definitely looked like a fighter, not an engineer. “You are aware of the pirate trouble in the region lately?” the customs agent asked. “The Chinese navy has successfully suppressed much of the pirate activity to the south, but it is still active in the Gulf of Aden and northern Indian Ocean.”

“Oh yes,” the man named Coulter replied. “I’ve already got some dives scheduled with Captain Said’s tour group, and the tourist agency told us he runs a very secure operation.”

“He does indeed,” the agent said, “but any business on the high seas that attracts the attention of wealthy Western or Persian Gulf customers attracts the attention of pirates. Traveling very far offshore is not recommended, and be sure to advise your consulate in Sana’a by phone where you will be and your expected time of return.”

“I will,” the man said. He locked eyes with the agent for a moment, then added, “Good advice,” in a tone that sent a chill down the agent’s spine. He had a feeling this American would like nothing more than to have an encounter with a Somali pirate.

The customs agent again took his time repacking the man’s bags, but the line was already getting long, and there was only one other inspector working this afternoon, so he quickly finished his paperwork and returned his travel documents to him. “Welcome to Socotra Island,” he said. “Please enjoy your stay.”

“Salam alaykum,” the man said, and the customs agent immediately thought that his Arabic was much better the second time-had he intentionally stumbled over his Arabic pronunciations to appear more like a tourist, and forgot to do so again now? The man collected his belongings and headed for the taxi area.

The agent processed several more visitors who had come off the Felix Air flight, got a cup of tea, then went to the cargo inspection area to find the man he wanted badly to speak to. He soon found a familiar white face, casually looking around, a cup of tea in his hand. The man noticed the customs officer and stepped over to him. “Greetings, Sergeant Dhudin,” he said in Arabic but with a very heavy Russian accent. “How is your family?”

“Very well, Captain Antonov,” Dhudin said. “And yours?”

“Everyone is fine,” the Russian replied. “Helping with the cargo processing?”

“No, I wanted to mention something to you, Captain,” the customs agent replied. He had known Antonov for about two years and they were friends, as much as any Arab could befriend a Russian. The Russians had provided a lot of upgrades and support for the airport since they had started using it more often-Dhudin had received security and firearms training from Antonov about a year ago.

Dhudin looked around and noticed a small pile of wooden crates, being watched by another white man-a Russian guard. Antonov and undoubtedly the guard were from the Glavno’e Razved’ vatel’no’e Upravleni’e, or GRU, the Russian Federation’s military intelligence unit. As before, when southern Yemen was known as the Democratic People’s Republic of Yemen and actively supported and manned by Soviet troops, in the past few years the Russians had become much more active in Yemen in general and on Socotra Island and on Barim Island in the Bab-el-Mandeb waterway between the Gulf of Aden and the Red Sea. Since the terrorist incident against the Chinese navy, the Russians were back in Aden once again.

“What did you want to talk about, Sergeant?” Antonov asked.

Dhudin nodded toward the guard and the crates. “Bringing in more electronics for the facility?”

“Not today-mail, payroll, probably some un-Islamic beverages and reading materials,” the Russian said. “Anything I can interest you in?”

“Russian vodka is always appreciated in my family.”

“Very well.” Dhudin was known to be an honest Yemeni government employee, but he was definitely not above taking bribes or tip money from infidels. “So. Something interesting today?”

“An American,” Dhudin said. “He claimed to be an engineer.”

“Claimed to be? You do not believe him?”

“He looks like a commando,” Dhudin said. “Big, muscular, and cool as a crocodile.”

“Few commandos would travel to their target on commercial airlines,” the Russian said.

“You asked me to be on the lookout for something unusual, Captain,” Dhudin said.

“Of course. My apologies.” Dhudin also wasn’t above passing along useless tips just to get his hands on Russian vodka or pornography, but he seemed genuinely suspicious this time. “Anything else?”

“His papers said he had a large case in the cargo hold, to be picked up by the owner.”

“Let us take a look,” Antonov said. After a few minutes of searching, they found a large fiberglass case, very high-tech-looking. Antonov stooped down and inspected the customs seals-they were secure, official, and the registration numbers agreed with the manifest. “Have any more seals, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Antonov pulled a multipurpose tool from a belt holster, cut off the customs seal, and opened the case. Dhudin hurried to sign the manifest indicating that he had opened the case. The case contained flexible tubing, some solid tubes and rods, and what appeared to be hydraulic actuators. There was a small stack of color brochures inside, printed in both English and Arabic. “What does it say?” he asked.

“It is apparently a machine that crawls along the ocean bottom and autonomously collects shellfish from traps, then returns to shore,” Dhudin said. “Ingenious.”

“A walking fish trap, eh?” Antonov commented. He searched through the contents more carefully but was unable to find any hidden compartments or anything that looked like spy gear. “This looks like spare parts perhaps.”

“He is scheduled to get another large container tomorrow.”

He would definitely like to take a look inside that container as well. “All signed off by inspectors in Sana’a?” the Russian asked.

“Yes.”

“His papers were in order?”

“Yes.”

“What else alerted you?”

“He was carrying his diving gear-not the usual warm-water tourist stuff, more like professional underwater construction gear. He said it was for long-exposure deep diving-definitely not recreational, although he did say he wanted to do some recreational diving.”

“How interesting,” Antonov commented. Dhudin could see that the information was raising the Russian’s suspicions, just as it did his own. Antonov took out his cellular phone and took a few pictures of the equipment with the phone’s camera. “Staying at a house in Hadibo, you say?” he asked the Yemeni.

“Actually, it is between Qadub and Hadibo, the old Ottoman lighthouse owned by the Yemeni Fish Company. All vouchers and other papers checked.”

Antonov knew that the Yemeni Fish Company had been investigated in the recent past for being involved in smuggling-this was getting interesting indeed. “And you say he looked military?”

“Very much so.”

“Did you notify the NSO yet?”

“I was going to do it right after inspections.”

“Do it now. Also give the Yemeni Fish Company a call and find out when this demonstration will be. I want to visit this one while he is out of the house.”

“Should I keep this case for now?”

The Russian thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Go ahead and release it,” he said. “I do not want to alert the American yet, if he is not who he claims to be.”

As Wayne Macomber waited near the taxicab stand-a pitiful-looking place surrounded by trash, cigarette butts, and donkey droppings-a newer-looking Range Rover drove up and honked its horn. That, of course, got every local’s attention around the entire airport terminal, something Whack was hoping to avoid.

The driver jumped out. “Mr. Coulter?” he said in pretty good English. “Salam alaykum. Peace be upon you.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam,” Whack responded for the um-hundredth time on this trip. “And upon you peace.”

“Very good Arabic, sir,” the man said. “I am Salam al-Jufri from the Yemeni Fish Company. Al-Hamdu lillah al as-salama. Thank God for your safe arrival.” Whack knew that was a common salutation, even when someone just came across town to visit. “I am here to take you to your house.” He produced a business card, and Whack gave him his in return. “Yes, the robot maker,” al-Jufri said. “Very good.” He looked at the large fiberglass case. “I am sorry, but this must be strapped up.” Whack lifted the case up, and al-Jufri produced three tattered bungee cords and a length of rope. Whack would have felt more comfortable with the case inside and himself on the roof, but after two or three tries, it looked secure enough.

It was easy to see why the case couldn’t go inside: The back of the Range Rover was filled to the brim with every kind of article-fishing gear, miscellaneous items of clothing, spare fuel cans, a bicycle, and sacks of something. There was barely enough room in the backseat for the big duffel bag and backpack. Whack squeezed himself into the front passenger seat and took a few moments to try to roll the seat back, finally giving up.

They departed the airport down a dusty rock and dirt road, then turned east along a two-lane paved highway. Whack knew that his objective was west along the same highway, but certainly asking the driver to turn in the wrong direction would have attracted more attention. The highway twisted toward the Gulf of Aden, and he saw the spectacular blue-green waters and thought of McLanahan’s friend Gia Cazzotta, and of the three navies vying for position out in those peaceful-looking waters.

The highway was on a sandstonelike shelf about a hundred feet above the ocean, with a thirty-foot cliff to their right, so there was little to see except for the ocean. Whack checked behind them every few moments, not only to look for any sign of surveillance but to make sure the fiberglass case hadn’t fallen off the roof.

“You are well, sir?” al-Jufri asked after a few minutes.

“Aiwa, shukran,” Whack replied.

“Your Arabic is very very good,” al-Jufri said, nodding appreciatively, showing a mouthful of stained and rotting teeth. “You build robots, no?”

“Just drive,” Whack growled.

“Mish mushkila, mish mushkila,” al-Jufri said, swallowing nervously and taking a better grip on the steering wheel. “No problem, sir.”

It was only about six miles down the highway until they came to a wide, short peninsula where the cliffs to the right disappeared, so the highway twisted away from the ocean. They turned left down a short dirt road, past a three-or four-foot stone wall with a crumbling wooden gate, then across a yard of dirt and stone and a few scraggly trees to a whitewashed stone building with a flat roof, and another building beside it with what appeared to be a tapering cylindrical lighthouse with four windows on the top floor, crowned with a Muslim crescent. Beyond the lighthouse Whack could see a covered outdoor patio with a fireplace, and beyond that there appeared to be a stable.

“Here we are, sir,” al-Jufri said. He parked the Range Rover beside the lighthouse, then took Whack’s bags to the house. He unlocked a green metal door that had six circles of multicolored glass in it, probably the most colorful thing Whack had seen in all of Yemen except for the Gulf of Aden. “This is the old Turkish lighthouse and its caretaker’s home. It is now my boss’s weekend house. You will enjoy.”

The house was small but remarkably modern, and Whack thought this would be a nice place to vacation. The view of the ocean was spectacular from every room in the house. There was a small patio off the kitchen, and a long flight of stone stairs had been carved into the cliff down to a pink sand beach, with sailboats and fish boats moored alongside a short pier.

Whack went outside and helped al-Jufri untie the fiberglass case from the roof. “Shall I drive you somewhere, Salam?” he asked after he lifted the case free.

“La, shukran,” al-Jufri said. “No, thank you.” He opened the back of the Range Rover and retrieved the battered bicycle, then stood beside it proudly, smiling at Whack-he did everything but hold out his hand. Whack took twenty U.S. dollars from his pocket-about four thousand Yemeni riyals, about a month’s wages for most working-class Yemenis-and gave it to him.

The man’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “Shukran, shukran jazilan! Thank you, sir!” he said over and over. “Please, if you need anything whatsoever, call. My sons will be by later in the evening and in the morning to look after the horses, and my wife and daughter will come to light the outdoor stove and lanterns.” He bowed several times, clasped Whack’s hand in thanks, then rode off.

Whack wished no one would come during the day, but for the mission he had to continue to accept the hospitality of the Socotra manager of the Yemeni Fish Company. Fortunately, the real robotic trap was coming in a separate shipment tomorrow, so his planned meeting and demonstration would take place as scheduled the day after tomorrow. That gave him a couple days to look around.

First things first. Whack took one of the laptop battery packs from his briefcase and the binoculars from his backpack, put on a Bluetooth earset, and went outside. He made it appear as if he were looking the place over, but he was checking to see if any of al-Jufri’s family members were already here. The place appeared deserted except for two Yemeni ponies in a stone stable. His last stop was the lighthouse. Although the outside looked original, it had obviously been extensively reinforced with steel inside. There was a ladder to the top, with a metal grate as the floor of the top story, and it was an easy climb up. He found some toys, a battery-powered radio, and a nice German telescope up there-obviously the owner’s grandkids liked coming up here.

He used his binoculars to scan the compound and the highway, then scanned the coastline and the nearby waters for any sign of surveillance-nothing. He then took the battery pack out of his pocket, flipped a hidden switch, and hid it as best as he could on the floor. The battery pack was actually a powerful ultrasonic motion detector that could detect any type of motion for several hundred yards in all directions, even through walls. Ignoring the soft beeps in his ear set, indicating his own movements, he went back down the ladder and to the house.

Whack brought his laptop computer and AC adapter to the patio outside the kitchen, booted it up, then selected an application from a hidden and password-secured menu. It showed a satellite image of the compound, along with red dots that indicated motion. He rotated the image until the dots representing the horses’ movements in the stable was aligned with the image of the stable. When he stood up, he saw the dot corresponding to his own movement on the patio, so he knew the image was properly aligned. Now he would receive a warning beep in his ear set when the motion detector saw something, and he could see where the movement was on the laptop. He was able to squelch out the movement of the horses in the stable from alerting him, knowing but accepting the fact that anyone else moving in that same area wouldn’t trigger an alert.

Perimeter security done, he opened his e-mail application. Armstrong Space Station and the Space Defense Force’s network of satellites provided most of the world with free wireless Internet access, and although in this part of the Middle East it was not high-speed access, it was still impressive service. Just in case the Russians were able to tap into satellite e-mail services, he sent an e-mail address to his phony home office’s address, then one to a phony colleague’s address. He knew if the Russians could beam damaging data to American Kingfisher satellites, they could probably pick up wireless data broadcasts for hundreds of miles around, so he had to make this look realistic.

He then opened a Short Messaging System chat window with a phony girlfriend, but writing messages took much longer than normal because he used a mental encoding routine he had learned in Air Force special operations. Every commando learned a system of messaging to be used on unsecure transmissions based on a twenty-five character alphabet, arranged in a five-by-five grid. The date of the message told which of six possible encoding grids was to be used, and the first word in the main message would indicate the sequence to pick letters out of words to use to compose the coded message.

He then mentally used the grid and the sequence to compose a regular-looking message, filled in this case with standard boyfriend-girlfriend chat, remarks on the trip so far, and a few sexually suggestive lines. The recipient would use the same grid and sequence to pick out characters to form the message. All special ops guys had to learn this system by heart and be able to execute it without using pencil or paper to encode or decode, which took time but was a very effective poor man’s secure telephone.

The phony girlfriend’s e-mail address actually went via several secure servers directly to Patrick McLanahan. OK HERE he wrote. Those six letters took an entire 160-character SMS message to write.

McLanahan had a computer that would do the encoding and decoding for him, but he knew to keep the messages short because Whack had to mentally do the decoding. Patrick replied, GUARDS 24. That was a doubling of the known number of Russian guards at the facility, a sign that the mission could be compromised.

Whack sent: GIA.

Patrick replied: NO WORD.

Damn, Whack thought, it’s gotta be tough on the old guy. He wrote: GIA OK.

Patrick: CUSTOMS.

Whack: CURIOUS.

Patrick: GEAR.

Whack: ALL HERE.

Patrick: ASSEMBLED.

Whack: VISITORS.

Patrick: COPS.

Whack: MAIDS.

Patrick: LUCK.

Whack: GIA OK, then LATER.

Check-in done, he prowled around the house and the grounds. He found plenty of Irish whiskey, Scotch, bourbon, and tequila semihidden in the kitchen, got out a bottle, dumped a little in the sink to make the bottle look used, poured himself a half glass of water, and strolled outside-just in case he was being observed, it hopefully would look like he had fixed himself a drink and was settling in for the night. He then went back to his laptop and reviewed the information on the robotic fish-trap thingy he was supposed to demonstrate in a couple days.

About an hour before sunset, the motion sensor alerted him to a vehicle in the driveway, and a few minutes later Salam al-Jufri’s family arrived in a dilapidated Toyota pickup. Whack thought they acted as if he’d given Salam a yacht instead of a twenty-dollar tip-they bowed profusely every time they made eye contact, they brought enough food to feed a family of six, and they lit enough lanterns around the place to land a Boeing 747. The mother handed Whack a message written in broken English saying that they’d be back around seven A.M. for their morning chores, and reminded him to keep the big lantern near the front door lit so they would know not to disturb him in his bedroom as they worked. After they departed, Whack took the time to look around the compound for signs that any of the family had stayed behind. Satisfied he was alone, he got to work.

It took him just minutes to assemble the Tin Man armor exoskeleton from the parts in the big duffel bag, then hide it in the bathroom. He waited another hour until well after sunset, donned the Tin Man armor, then slipped on the exoskeleton and powered it all up using the battery packs in the duffel bag, which had been redesigned to resemble scuba diver’s weights. Everything appeared normal-another big hurdle crossed.

Now using the suit’s built-in secure communications system, he radioed: “Whack here.”

“Good to hear your voice,” Patrick McLanahan responded.

“Same here, General. Anything on Gia?”

“Navy helicopters have been on station for about two hours. They found wreckage but no survivors. No beacons. A destroyer from the Reagan carrier group will be there in a couple hours to assist.”

“She’s okay, General. They’ll find her.”

“Head back in the game, Whack. You copy the message about the guards?”

“I’ll be ready for twice that number.”

“You think customs suspects something?”

“The inspector didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill Jamaican glorified skycap-turned-customs-agent, General,” Whack said.

“He made me as military right away. I’d be surprised if he didn’t drop a dime.”

“Then maybe we’d better wait another night or two,” Patrick suggested.

“They won’t be expecting a Tin Man, General,” Whack said. “I assume the Russians are watching the house, and I assume they’ll be watching to see if I take off in the Range Rover-I’m a good six miles from the airport and to town at least. My tails will stay with the car, and I’ll be out and back in no time while they twiddle their thumbs. I say we press on.”

Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment, before replying, “Okay, Whack. Press on.”

WENCHANG SPACEPORT, HAINAN ISLAND, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

THAT SAME TIME

Riding an immense column of fire, the Chinese Long March-5 booster rocket lifted off from its launchpad on Hainan Island into the chilly, clear early morning sky. The massive rocket, China ’s heaviest-lifting model, had a three-stage, fifteen-foot-diameter core, with four ten-foot-diameter strap-on boosters, for a total of almost a million tons of thrust.

The launch window was very narrow for one reason: The payload for this mission was Shenzhou-10, the next component of the Chinese military space station, which was to link up with Shenzhou-7, already in orbit. Like the earlier spacecraft, Shenzhou-10 comprised three modules: the orbiter section, where most work was done; the command module, which was designed for reentry and had accommodations for the three-man crew; and the service module, which had all of the systems and equipment to support the spacecraft and also provided storage space. The payload also contained a docking module.

The launch was a complete success, and Shenzhou-10 entered its orbit in perfect synchronization with SZ-7. It would take just two orbits to close the distance between them, and then docking would commence. That would double the size and personnel aboard China ’s first military space station, Tiangong-1…

…which happened to be in precisely the same orbit as Armstrong Space Station.