Primary Target

4

Scott Dalton stumbled sideways in the Kenai River when a king salmon snagged his line. Thrashing wildly, the powerful fish almost jerked the rod out of Scott’s hands. He quickly found his footing and regained his balance while line screeched off the reel. This was Dalton’s third attempt at landing a king salmon and he was determined not to let this one get away, especially not in front of his longtime friend and fishing buddy, Greg O’Donnell.

The former Marine Corps Harrier pilots had a standing wager. When they rendezvoused in Alaska for one of their fishing trips, whoever caught the first fish of the day enjoyed dinner at the expense of the loser, and the winner of the biggest fish of the day received free drinks for the evening. The traditional rivalry had been pretty much a wash thus far, with Dalton buying most of the drinks and O’Donnell paying for the majority of their dinners.

Enjoying the cool of early morning, Dalton fought the fish and stole a glance at O’Donnell’s king salmon lying on the edge of the riverbank. The gleaming trophy was a rare beauty that Scott figured would tip the scales at 40 to 45 pounds. He looked at the sun rising over the picturesque river, then cast a look at a moose and her calf. He decided that life couldn’t get any better. The day was in glorious bloom, the birds were trilling, and the salmon fishing promised to live up to the reputation of the Kenai River.

The descendant of a disciplined Confederate general, and the son of a hard-charging Vietnam-era Marine Corps brigadier general, Scott Johnston Dalton was a strapping native of Nashville, Tennessee. Broad-shouldered and strong-willed, Dalton was an intelligent, intense man who had learned to take time out for a few of life’s pleasures. He enjoyed flying aerobatics in his Great Lakes biplane and sailing his immaculate Morgan 33 around Chesapeake Bay. At six feet even, with dark hair, he was ruggedly handsome and had startling blue eyes that exuded charm and wit.

A three-year varsity quarterback for the “Commodores” of Vanderbilt University, Scott had been Greg O’Donnell’s flight leader during a number of combat missions in support of Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. When Captain Dalton’s Harrier was shot down over southern Iraq, O’Donnell flew cover for him until an Army rescue helicopter could reach the injured pilot. Shortly after he returned to flying status, Scott made the difficult decision to leave the Marine Corps and pursue a different career.

Less than six months later he reported for initial training at the Central Intelligence Agency. During his first years at the Agency, he established a solid reputation for successfully completing the most complex and hazardous assignments. After he qualified as a counterterrorism-strike-force team leader, many of Scott’s daring and courageous feats made him an instant legend in the CIA. As his reputation grew, the White House began calling on him to conduct special covert operations in various corners of the world.

Following several years of political infighting within the Agency, Scott elected to resign and start his own security consulting firm in the Crystal City complex near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Specializing in corporate security measures, which many of his former associates knew was a sophisticated front, Dalton also accepted “sensitive” assignments for the Terrorism Warning Group within the Counterterrorist Center.

Reporting to the CIA director, the CTC was designed to bring all elements of the intelligence community together to collect and analyze information about terrorist groups from all over the world.

In his role as a private citizen and consultant to international entrepreneurs, Scott could circumvent certain obstacles that might prove embarrassing to the White House or the Pentagon if one of his covert operations went awry. In addition, Scott’s activities were not subject to the cumbersome congressional reporting requirements that accompany CIA-directed covert operations. Scott’s assignments centered around one basic element of covert operations, no fingerprints and no headlines.

To that end, Greg O’Donnell often provided pilot services for Dalton’s far-flung expeditions. The off-the-record excursions, sometimes as a jet captain and sometimes as a jump pilot, provided a sound financial base for Greg’s Learjet charter service.

“Grab the net,” Scott yelled as he waded farther into the rushing current. “This one weighs at least fifty pounds.”

“In your dreams.” The stocky redhead laughed as he snatched the net and splashed into the swirling river. O’Donnell lost his balance and plunged forward into the frigid water. “Holy mother!” he said in a high-pitched voice. “I’m awake now.”

“That’s good, ‘cause I need some help,” Scott declared as he continually hefted the rod, then reeled down. “This guy is strong.”

“Hang on.” Greg laughed as he regained his footing.

The battle continued while Scott desperately tried to maneuver the thrashing fish closer to shore. Finally, he waded toward the salmon until ice-cold water poured into his hip boots.

“Net him!” Scott gasped.

“I’m trying.”

O’Donnell made two attempts at snaring the hefty fish before he stepped in a hole and had to swim back toward the muddy bank.

“Anytime you’re ready!” Scott laughed while he struggled with his catch. “I hope there aren’t any serious fishermen watching this.”

O’Donnell lunged again and scooped the thrashing salmon into the net. With his thinning red hair plastered to his head and water gushing over the tops of his waders, the freckle-faced aviator proudly displayed the big fish. “Are you implying that I don’t look like a professional outdoorsman?”

“You look like Howdy Doody coming out of the rinse cycle.”

Scott’s comment was interrupted by the familiar whop-whop-‌whop-whop of a Sikorsky helicopter. Less than fifty seconds later an Air Force H-60 swooped low over them, then pulled up in a sweeping turn as the pilot circled to land near the riverbank.

O’Donnell studied the helo, then turned to his friend. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

Scott flashed his mischievous grin. “I’m always in trouble.”

Carrying the salmon toward the riverbank, O’Donnell shielded the bright sun from his eyes while he watched the helicopter descend. “Maybe they think we’re lost.”

“With a bright red Explorer parked on the road?” Scott asked with a chuckle. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s it.”

They watched as the Night Hawk slowed to a hover and settled into a small clearing by the edge of the river. A moment later Dalton saw two figures exit from the side door as the main rotor began winding down. He immediately recognized Hartwell Prost, his former boss at the Directorate of Operations. What the hell is he doing here, and who’s the woman?

“Greg,” Scott said in a barely audible voice, “I believe my vacation is about to come to an end.”

Shifting his gaze to the strangers, O’Donnell’s aqua-blue eyes widened. “Is that Hartwell Prost?”

“None other.”

Greg raked an unruly cowlick from his forehead. “What’s your guess?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t good news,” Dalton quietly replied. “My secretary wouldn’t have told anyone where to locate me unless there was a major problem.”

Prost and the young woman stopped on a rise, her arms on her hips while he waved to the two fishermen.

Returning the friendly gesture, Scott and Greg sloshed out of the river and met the couple on a gravelbar below the vegetation line.

The president’s national security adviser had fatigue-induced bags under his olive-gray eyes and a firm set to his angular jaw. Medium in stature, Prost had wiry salt-and-pepper hair and a warm, fatherly demeanor that made him look very professorial.

Born to a life of wealth and privilege, Hartwell Huntington Prost IV had eschewed a secure career in his family-owned investment empire. Instead, much to the dismay of his father, Hartwell joined the CIA after graduating with honors from Harvard Law.

Now a retired chief of the elite Directorate of Operations — known to insiders as “the DO”—Prost was still regarded as one of the most ingenious spymasters in the history of the Agency.

The attractive, darkly tanned woman was wearing a khaki jumpsuit that complemented her athletic figure. Allowing a hint of a smile, she made brief eye contact with Scott.

Interesting, Dalton thought as he gave her a friendly smile and casually checked her military-style name tag. In bold letters under a set of embossed Air Force wings was the name JACKIE SULLIVAN. The name and face seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember from where or when.

Although O’Donnell had met Prost on two previous occasions, introductions were quickly exchanged. Since Greg was not “officially” in the loop, Jackie glanced at Dalton to see how he was going to handle the situation.

Diplomatically, Scott smiled at his friend. “Greg, why don’t you take the Explorer back to the cabin. I’ll catch a ride in the helo.”

“Sure,” the friendly man replied with disguised relief, then turned to the visitors. “If you have time, stop by for some fresh salmon.”

After Prost and Sullivan thanked him for the invitation, O’Donnell lugged the two large fish away while the trio walked to a log at the edge of the gravel bar. A tense, restless energy filled the air, the strain showing on Prost’s face.

“Your secretary,” Prost quietly chuckled, “is a very cautious woman.”

Scott struggled to wipe the grin off his face. “She’s, ah… what I would describe as mission-oriented.”

“A former Marine, huh?”

“Through and through.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Once they were seated, Prost cast a glance down the serpentine river, then turned to Dalton and apologized. “Well,” he began, and raised his voice a little, “I sure know how to ruin a perfect day for fishing.”

Displaying an understanding smile, Scott overcame the awkward moment. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

“Iran,” Prost said contemptuously. “It looks like they may have shot down a Tomcat — a TARPS bird.”

Scott’s smooth face, chiseled in strong, clean lines, was devoid of expression. “What about the crew?”

“We don’t know anything yet. They just disappeared into thin air, no Mayday or anything that—” Prost paused in mid-sentence. “At any rate, that’s not what I came here to see you about.”

Prost turned sideways and threw a leg over the log. “Before we discuss why I’m here, maybe I should bring you up to date on the Iranian situation. We — actually the Agency and the State Department — have irrefutable evidence that Tehran has a stockpile of nuclear-tipped missiles, and Russia’s fingerprints are all over the warheads.”

Casting a quick look at Sullivan, Scott paused a moment. Where have I seen her? ”How’d they confirm it?”

Prost allowed a slight smile of satisfaction to spread across his face. “One of Sandia’s remote monitoring systems detected a breach in security at a nuclear weapons storage vault near Moscow. When our people arrived, they found fourteen nuclear warheads missing. They also discovered that the arsenal was being guarded by a group of homeless, desperate soldiers.

“The soldiers, including the officer in charge, were moonlighting at menial jobs and foraging for their basic necessities. They hadn’t been paid for three months, so they turned their heads and pocketed enough money to keep them going for a while.”

Prost gazed at the river. “To no one’s surprise, the senior officers and bureaucrats who were behind the theft had taken their payoff and were long gone. Our friends at Sandia said it had to have been an inside job.”

“That seems to be happening on a regular basis,” Scott said lightly. “We’re going to see a number of ‘rogue’ countries with nuclear weapons in the near future.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Prost admitted. “Less than four days later the Agency traced the weapons to Taganrog.”

“On the coast of the Sea of Azov?” Scott asked.

“That’s right,” Jackie interjected with an air of confidence. “The place has become a magnet for weapons exporters, and a clearinghouse for Russian scientists and engineers who have the ability to construct nuclear weapons.”

Dalton’s quick glance studied the sparkle in her eyes, quietly sizing her up while he focused his attention on Prost.

“At any rate,” Prost continued. “One of our informants spotted the truck carrying the warheads when it entered the ship repair yards. A few hours later we had an unmanned aerial vehicle monitoring the stolen weapons. Shortly after midnight, the warheads were loaded on a small cargo ship which sailed with the tide.”

“Russian?” Scott asked.

“You guessed it,” Prost confirmed with a frown. ‘The Agency stayed on top of the situation until the Vasily Proshkinov left the Black Sea and entered the Bosporus Strait. Between the flotilla of fishing boats, oil tankers, cargo vessels, and the fog, the ship simply vanished, or so it seemed to the Agency.”

Prost shook his head in mild disbelief. “Three weeks later one of the NRO’s advanced KH-lls spotted the Vasily Proshkinov as it lay at anchor in the Strait of Hormuz near Bandar-e Abbas. The 5th Fleet dispatched a destroyer and a frigate that were conducting interdiction ops near the Shatt al-Arab waterway. By the time the ships arrived on the scene, the nukes were gone.”

“Do you have any idea where they are?”

“Oh, yes.” He chuckled very weakly. “They’re sitting atop missiles on the launchpads at Bandar-e Abbas and Bushehr.”

“Out in the open — not even camouflaged?”

“That’s right. Our spacecraft data, and the photos from the recon flights show most of the details. The Tomcat that went down was photographing the launch pads with the sun directly overhead.”

Tilting his head down, Prost seemed to search for the words he wanted to say. “Their nukes can easily reach all of their regional enemies, including our military units in Turkey, Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia.” Prost caught Scott’s eye. “And, they’re daring us to do something about it.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Scott said as he struggled to contain the remark he really wanted to make. “When we didn’t take a tougher stance against Iran for helping Saddam circumnavigate the oil embargo, what did we expect? Same with Saddam’s cheat-and-retreat strategy.”

“I agree.” Prost nodded. “It made us look like fools.”

“And,” Scott added, “our lack of determination encouraged the boys in Baghdad and Tehran to be more aggressive toward us. Hell, Saddam is still playing rope-a-dope with us while he continues to strengthen his nuclear capability.”

“I’m with you,” Prost said hastily. “While everyone was focused on Saddam, Iran has been busy stockpiling advanced weapons, including nukes. Look, we all know that the Arab leaders never wanted Iraq too weak because their real nightmare is Iran, not Baghdad.”

Scott paused a moment. “We can be sure of one thing,” Dalton said as he glanced at Jackie. “Our nuclear deterrence isn’t going to stop a bunch of fanatics set on martyrdom.”

“No question about that,” Prost said in a low voice. “We can’t prevent people from committing suicide.”

Scott’s glance locked with Prost. “If the Iranians launch their nukes at our forces, the entire Gulf region would be uninhabitable for hundreds of years. If they lob a few nukes on Tel Aviv at the same time, the Israelis will turn downtown Tehran into one gigantic smoking hole.”

“Gigantic radioactive hole,” Prost added. Tilting his head back, he studied the blue Alaskan skies and turned to Scott. ‘That’s the dilemma the president is struggling with. This is very different from the Cold War era. The Soviet premiers and their military leaders had wicked intentions, but they were at least rational, and somewhat predictable. They didn’t really want to have a nuclear exchange with us and risk losing the fragile control they had over their people.”

Prost continued with a sense of dread. “Iran is an entirely different anomaly. It is, without a doubt, the greatest non-deterrable threat we face, and Tehran now has the capability to deliver chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. One miscalculation and the Middle East could erupt into a war that might set off North Korea — and other rogue nations — and force us to use our nukes.”

“Take away their options,” Scott suggested.

“That’s what the president is considering,” Prost said emphatically. “Have you heard the latest threats from Bassam Shakhar?”

“I haven’t heard a thing for the past three days.”

Before leaving on his fishing vacation, Scott had seen extensive news coverage of the wealthy militant shouting threats at the United States, desecrating the American flag, and burning the U.S. president in effigy.

“The last I knew, Shakhar was threatening to assassinate the president if we didn’t pack our trash and get out of the Middle East.”

Prost slowly exhaled. “That hasn’t changed,” he said with a grimace, “but Shakhar added a new twist yesterday morning — a globally televised reminder of our deadline.”

Scott let it run through his mind, then shook his head. “Shakhar is backing himself into a corner.”

“He doesn’t think so.” Prost raised his arm and studied his wristwatch. “According to Shakhar, we now have less than four hours to begin removing our military forces from the Arabian peninsula, or his premier terrorists cells will assassinate the president of the United States and begin downing U.S. airliners. In fact, Shakhar brazenly stated that his primary target is President Macklin.”

“He actually said that?” Scott asked with an anxious expression of disbelief.

“Live on CNN and MSNBC,” Prost groused. “If the U.S. attempts to retaliate in any way, Shakhar said the Iranian Navy will close the Strait of Hormuz and starve the West of oil. He also said Iran has prepositioned a wide variety of biological and chemical agents in all major U.S. cities.”

The first warning light flashed in Scott’s mind. “The guy is crazy — he’s a madman who needs to be institutionalized.”

“Crazy or not, he is a major player in this whole scenario, and he has a sizable fortune at his disposal.”

“Is the president going to back down?”

“No way.” Prost’s voice was quieter, flatter. “He thinks they’re bluffing, and he intends to call their bluff.”

“What do you think?” Scott asked.

“Bassam Shakhar is not a man who makes idle threats.” Prost tossed a pebble in the river. “If they’ve prepositioned nerve agents, botulism, or anthrax in our largest cities, it would be easy to pollute our air and municipal water supplies. However, we don’t have any evidence to substantiate his claim — at least not yet.”

Prost picked up another pebble. “On the other hand, Shakhar knows our commercial aviation security system — for the most part — is inadequate and disorganized. It’s nearly impossible to develop and maintain security areas around congested urban airports. He also knows airports and airliners are vulnerable to sabotage, and shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons.”

“And,” Jackie said with feigned nonchalance, “the terrorists understand the primal fear that airline crashes strike in the hearts of millions of people who — by necessity — have to fly commercially.”

“Absolute fear is their primary goal,” Prost agreed in a sad voice. “If Shakhar can drop a dozen U.S. airliners, and orchestrate the assassination of the president, the members of the Supreme Council believe Americans will fall to their knees in fear and confusion.”

Jackie looked straight into Scott’s eyes. “We may think it sounds wacky, but they truly believe it.”

“I have no doubt. An assassination, combined with the airlines going bankrupt, would certainly put us in a bind.”

“If Shakhar isn’t bluffing,” Prost went on, “we’re a little late on the draw. We’re going to have to take some major risks, and we’re going to have to do it quickly.” He glanced at a moose ambling toward the river. “That’s why I’m here.”

As he saw the deep concern written on Prost’s face, Scott’s entire body suddenly tensed. His glance sliced to Jackie, then back to Prost. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“We’ve penetrated a few of the terrorist groups,” Prost confided triumphantly. “During the past sixteen months, our undercover agents — including a number of Islamic recruits — have infiltrated the Hezbollah of Hejaz, al-Gamaat, al-Islamiyah, Hamas, and the Organization of Islamic Revolution at the Imam Ali Camp in east Tehran. It’s like playing the lottery: you have to dump a lot of money in, but every now and then someone hits the big prize.”

“And we hit the jackpot,” Jackie announced with pride in her voice. “One of my colleagues — also a civilian agent — successfully infiltrated one of the main training camps for the central faction of Islamic Jihad.”

Scott merely nodded.

“About eight months ago,” Jackie continued, her voice filled with exuberance, “Bassam Shakhar began spending three to four hours a week at the training camp. He’s surrounded by heavy security and comes and goes at random times, but he is the kingpin behind the anti-U.S. military operation.”

Scott felt a tingle of excitement. “The agent — is he still there?”

“She,” Jackie informed him in a pleasant voice. “Her name is Maritza Gunzelman. She’s still at the camp, but she recently came under suspicion, and they’re closely watching every move she makes.”

“Why do you think they’re suspicious of her?” Scott asked.

“I really don’t know for certain.” Jackie paused, eyeing Scott briefly. “She sent us a short message about three weeks ago. She’s gleaned a lot of important information about Shakhar, his plans, and his team leaders. Unfortunately, since they’ve become suspicious of her, we aren’t able to communicate with Maritza like we did before. She’s trapped there and we’re going to have to mount a covert operation to rescue her.”

Although he was intrigued by what she had divulged, Scott’s curiosity about Sullivan’s role was quickly getting the best of him. There was a bold and adventurous spirit about her — an air of courage that was both sensuous and reckless. About five and a half feet in height, she had dark brown hair swept back in a wedge, and seductive gray-green eyes that didn’t miss anything.

“No offense,” Scott said, aware that Prost had a tendency to be absentminded around attractive women, “but I’m a little confused about Ms. Sullivan’s role.”

“I apologize,” Prost hurriedly replied. “It’s been a long night for us. We left straight from the White House and went to Andrews to catch a flight to Elmendorf. Jackie and Maritza are former clandestine intelligence officers with the Defense HUMINT Service, and, like you, she and Maritza have become civilian consultants.”

Suddenly the synapse hit Scott like a two-by-four. I invited her to go sailing with me. His face flushed as it all came rushing back from the previous year. Her hair had been longer and she had been wearing a stunning black cocktail dress, but it was definitely the same woman he had met at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown.

Jackie and three of her girlfriends had been enjoying a lively birthday bash at 1789. Scott and another former Marine pilot had introduced themselves to the quartet, then hosted after-dinner cordials for the group. Later, when Scott managed to get Jackie alone, he’d invited her to go sailing. She accepted the invitation, but Scott left the following day for Buenos Aires, and during his quest to capture an international terrorist, he misplaced Jackie’s name and phone number.

Scott tilted his head down. I hope she doesn’t remember who I am.

“Besides speaking six languages,” Prost continued, “and being an excellent marks woman, Jackie’s an expert in counterterrorism and international weapons proliferation.”

Scott cast a quick look at her and noticed the guarded, aloof poise she maintained. He assumed a guise of nonchalance while she eyed him with close curiosity. If she remembers, she’s hiding it well.

“She’s a former Air Force F-16 pilot who also flies helicopters, and she teaches a course in high-speed evasive driving.”

Scott gave her a casual glance, then cleared his throat. “Okay”—he paused—“where do I fit in?”

Prost’s eyes hardened and a forced smile highlighted his cheeks. “President Macklin and I would like you — working in conjunction with Jackie — to extract Maritza Gunzelman from the terrorist compound.” The words came out as a challenge. “We have to know what Shakhar is really up to, find out if he’s bluffing.”

Scott’s response was stony silence for a few seconds, followed by a slow grin. “That’s a mighty tall order.”

“That’s why the president sent me to talk to you in person,” Prost confided. “This is extremely important. Our intel — CIA, the Brits, and Mossad — indicates a flurry of activity in the Shakhar camps, but Maritza is the only operative who has firsthand knowledge of his intentions.”

“It’s critical,” Jackie asserted. “We have to find out what Maritza has learned about Shakhar’s specific plans.”

Scott arched an eyebrow, but remained silent while he contemplated the scope of the operation.

“President Macklin,” Prost went on, “asked me to tell you that you have carte blanche to carry out the mission.”

Prost placed his hands on his knees. “Scott, we have every reason to believe that Ms. Gunzelman has critical information that is vital to our national interest. We have to know what their plans are.”

Scott’s eyes shifted from Prost to Sullivan.

Jackie’s expression was intense. “Maritza had originally planned to disappear from the Bekaa Valley during one of her weekly trips to the marketplace. Now she isn’t allowed to leave the compound.”

Scott slowly shook his head. “I can’t perform miracles.”

“She’s in real jeopardy.” Jackie’s voice took on a sense of urgency. “We can’t storm the place, and there are too many obstacles in and around the camp to risk a simple helicopter extraction.”

“It sounds like a suicide mission,” Scott said. “The terrorists are well armed and ruthless, but that’s only part of the problem. That entire valley is a center of international drug production. The druggies and their security teams are also well armed, and they shoot at anything — and I mean anything—that threatens their billion-dollar business.”

Scott paused, then smiled ruefully. “Another minor problem is the thousands of Syrian troops in the valley. Target practice is their favorite pastime, night or day.”

“I’m fully aware of everything you’ve just mentioned,” Jackie retorted with a flash of anger. “I don’t know what else to say, except that I’m going after her — with or without you.”

Scott experienced a faint twinge of guilt.

“We really need your special skills and experience,” she implored.

Scott gave her a brief nod, then turned his attention to the man responsible for coordinating the activities of the National Security Council. “I’ll give it a try — on one condition.”

“It’s your show,” Prost said, knowing how Scott operated. “You call the shots, no questions asked. Whatever you need — just extract Ms. Gunzelman from the terrorist camp.”

Scott and Jackie exchanged glances.

“Is that acceptable to you?” Scott asked. “I make the final decisions?”

“Fair enough,” she said with a sly smile. “Unless, of course, you make faulty decisions.”

Scott saw the self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. He sensed that she was going to be a formidable challenge.

Prost broke the undercurrent of tension. “Scott, do you want to use O’Donnell as your drop pilot?”

“Absolutely,” Scott replied as he shifted his gaze to Prost.

“Ah, yes, the brotherhood,” Jackie deadpanned.

With his eyes reflecting a devilish trace of humor, Scott turned to her. “Now that’s what I like — a woman who is direct and honest.”

Refusing to take the bait, she smiled serenely and changed the topic. “Are you acquainted with Ed Hockaday?”

“I know of him,” Scott admitted with apparent indifference. “But I’ve never met him.”

Edward “Eddy” Hockaday was an eccentric and savvy English-born journalist who covered the Arab world. In addition, he pocketed a second income as a freelance spy for the Agency.

“I have arranged a meeting with him in Dallas late this afternoon.” Her eyes never wavered from his. “He’s been in the compound and has interviewed Shakhar for CNN, and he spoke at length with Maritza. He’ll be able to give us a detailed description of the training facility and the surrounding area.”

“Is he in Dallas for the seminar on terrorism?” Scott asked.

“Yes, he’s one of the guest speakers.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“Then let’s get moving.” She reached down and retrieved two American Airlines tickets from a pocket on the leg of her flight suit, then handed one to Scott. “The Air Force has a plane standing by to fly us to DFW as soon as you’ve packed your gear and briefed O’Donnell. He can fly back to Washington with Hartwell.”

“Whoa — wait a second,” Scott said, smiling faintly. “That assumes Greg will join the show.”

“You’re former Marine jet jocks, aren’t you?” she taunted.

“That’s right.”

“He’ll go,” she said with undisguised cockiness. “We’ll meet Eddy at DFW and fly back to Washington with him. If everything goes as planned, we’ll leave the following day for Athens — our staging area.”

She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Any questions?”

“Not at the moment,” Scott said lightly.

Prost signaled the helicopter crew and started walking toward the helo.

“Well,” Scott said as he glanced at her, “we better not keep Mr. Hockaday waiting.”

“You’re the boss,” Jackie demurred with practiced ease.