Storming Heaven

New York City August 1995

When his executive assistant found Harold G. Lake, the first thought he had was, My God, he's going to jump.

The sealed high-rise windows designed to keep the heat and the odor and the noises of Manhattan out were triple-paned tempered glass, so, of course, it wasn’t possible for Lake to jump (from here at least) unless he had a sledgehammer hidden in his closet. But it was the way Lake looked that worried Ted Fell, Harold Lake’s attorney, executive assistant, and — if anyone could properly be so categorized — friend and confidant. Harold Lake. He was a brooder even on his best days, and he could be depressing most days. Today, the tall, dark, slim entrepreneur, investor, and Wall Street trader looked like a dog left out in the rain all night.

“Got those letters of intent ready for your signature,” Fell reported. “I see no problems at all with the debt restructuring. The next few weeks should be okay. We’re in the clear.” Fell set a small pile of papers on Lake’s desk, the only item on the expansive and empty marble and mahogany desk that looked out of place. Lake continued to stare out the huge picture window of his downtown Park Avenue office into the gray steamy overcast. It was already 80 degrees in the city, and threatening to hit 90-plus with 90-plus-percent humidity — one might actually be cool and comfortable standing out on a forty-first-story ledge right now, Fell thought wryly. “You got my notes there on top, but I got a few minutes to talk about the deal if you—”

“Who did the deal?” Lake asked. When Fell hesitated that extra moment, Lake replied for him: “Universal. Shit. What’d you get?” His voice was uncharacteristically uneven, with a trace of his native New Jersey accent mixed in, even after years of trying to excuse it.

“Universal Equity offered us ten-point-one percent,” Fell said quickly.

Lake irritably rubbed his eyes, moved toward the papers as if to confirm what Fell said was true, then sat back in his high-backed black leather chair and continued to stare out the window.

The president and founder of Universal Equity Sendees, Limited, based in Glasgow, Scotland, was Brennan McSor- ley, one of the world’s richest men, owner of the largest nonpublic investment group in the world. McSorley had his fingers in hundreds of different pies all over the world, everything from oil and gas to banking to shipping to computers. He and Lake, McSorley’s one-time disciple, had done business many times in the past, although their version of “business” nowadays was akin to calling the U.S. Civil War a “disagreement.” McSorley was like a giant stallion to Lake’s horsefly — Lake could irritate the hell out of McSorley and his investors, maybe even cause him to stumble or lose control, but Lake was small potatoes next to Brennan McSorley.

“If I say no to him now, I’m screwed and he knows it.” Lake looked at Fell with an accusing glare. “You agreed to his terms?”

“You have final authority, boss, so you can say no to the deal,” Fell responded, “but it’s what you wanted, right? A done deal, in time to pay the account and retain your shares.”

“You fucking agreed to pay Brennan McSorley ten- point-one percent, Ted?”

“No one else gave you the time of day, Harold. You needed eighteen million dollars by close of business today. If I had even three days, I could get that for you at eight- point-five. McSorley said yes right away, and I had to move.”

“Maybe you moved a bit too fast.”

“You may not like McSorley, boss, but he went to the mat for you this time,” Fell said. “The money is in escrow, ready to go. McSorley personally guaranteed the loan, boss, he showed up at the bank himself to sign the papers.”

“He’d like nothing better than to see me default, the prick,” Lake said gloomily. “He’d take great pleasure in seeing me file for bankruptcy or selling my assets. He’d be first in line to screw me in bankruptcy court. He probably showed up at the bank to conduct a news conference, to announce to the whole world what a loser I am.”

Fell elected to stay silent, but he reminded himself that Harold G. Lake knew a lot about screwing someone, whether it was in court, in the market, or just about any imaginable business or social setting. Along with many other talents, Lake was one of the world’s premier options traders. His business was enticing other investors to write option deals to buy or sell their stock. Lake had many ways to sniff out stocks that might come into play — lack of publicity, no returned phone calls, lots of unusual stock trading activity by company officers, even when, where, and how the officers went on vacation. Like a general planning an invasion, Lake was a master at setting an objective and then designing a vast, convoluted, sweeping series of trades to accomplish his ultimate objective — what he called the “perpetual motion machine.” Create a series of deals, contracts, and companies whose income and assets always exceeded the expenses and liabilities. Create a network, an empire, that was totally self-sufficient, that made contracts with itself, earned money off itself, paid expenses to itself, owed money to itself. It was a true “money tree,” the modern-day answer to Midas’s touch of gold.

Lake was a master at this kind of deal-making. After getting an undergraduate degree from Rutgers and an MBA from Harvard, Lake had spent his early career in middle management with a variety of companies and brokerage firms specializing in “creative” financing, long-term corporate debt (junk bonds), and market speculation. In 1980 he joined Universal Equity Services, where he handled all the real estate acquisitions. Then, in 1985, Lake engineered an insider trading scheme in which the price was artificially jacked up in a bidding war between Universal Equity and a company secretly funded by Lake. Lake was fired, but his illegal activities were never confirmed by Universal. Since leaving Universal, Lake worked in a variety of financial and stock trading positions before finally striking out on his own.

“We’re still in business, and we’ve got plenty to keep us afloat for months,” Fell said finally, standing up to Lake’s glare. “Let’s maintain the proper perspective here. Who the hell knew some nutcase in San Francisco was going to wipe out half of an international airport terminal and kill five hundred people? Plenty of investors lost big on this one, boss, including McSorley. It’s a glitch in the market, that’s all. Everyone in that investment consortium that bailed out on you this morning will be back in a few weeks, looking for fresh meat. They’ll know they looked bad when they punched, but they’ll come back because you made it happen. We can soak them when they come back, too, because they lost face by bailing out on you.”

Ted Fell was one of the few people, in fact the only one, who could really talk to Lake like this. Blunt, no bullshit. But that was because Fell was the best addition to the organization that Lake had made. He complemented Lake’s own strengths and made up for Lake’s weaknesses in other areas. A graduate of Dartmouth College and Harvard Law School, Fell had held several positions with large law firms in Albany, Wilmington, and New York City, most in the areas of finance, insurance, and corporations. Admittedjo the bar in sixteen states, he was considered a leading authority on corporation organization — i.e., dummy corporations and offshore shells. He had worked for Lake since his days at Universal Equity, helping him on his real estate deals and then unwittingly, and then knowingly, participated as an engineer in the stock manipulation scheme that had gotten them both fired.

Lake wasn’t totally listening to his attorney, but what little that did register in his head made sense. The terrorist bombing of San Francisco International last night was an aberration, a total fluke — damn it, it had to be, or Lake was really sunk. Several hundred persons dead, thousands injured, hundreds of millions in damage to aircraft and property, and perhaps billions in lost revenues due to the closing of the airport for perhaps as long as a year.

A one-in-a-million occurrence…

But the damage to Lake’s portfolio was just as devastating, and simply because it was caused by a random event would not mitigate the damage. Because he rarely used his own money for most deals, Lake liked trading on the edge, leaving himself uncovered for short periods of time. One of Lake’s favorite options trading tactics was writing uncovered put and call options, or “naked options,” in which he agreed — for a price of course — to buy stocks at a certain price that he didn’t have the money to buy, or sell stocks that he did not yet own. In ordinary circumstances, the premiums received for writing such contracts made the risk well worth it. But if the market takes a nosedive and the contract is assigned, as it was during the night by some astute overseas investor, Lake was obligated to sell his stocks at low prices or obligated to buy stocks with cash he did not have. In both cases, he needed cash in a hurry to cover all his contracts.

Normally, in case of impending bad financial news, Harold Lake’s overseas brokers usually executed closing purchase transactions that canceled the more risky uncovered options before they were assigned, but the sheer speed of the terrorist attack and the rapid reaction by overseas traders made it impossible. Lake was stuck holding all the IOUs, and they were all due and payable by close of business, or he was out of business. The huge drop in price of Lake’s stocks in overseas trading alone was enough to queer several other deals in which he was involved. The New York Stock Exchange was not due to open for another three hours, the Chicago Board of Options Exchange not for four hours, and already Lake had lost 40 percent of his portfolio’s value, much of which had to be covered with cash. Dozens of nervous overseas investors bailed out on him through the night, withdrawing money that had been earmarked for scores of other projects — it was a huge maze of dominoes collapsing as quickly as the sunrise moved across the planet. Investors heard of the awful terrorist bombing, took defensive cash-saving positions, and left speculators like Lake sucking wind. Borrowing the money to make up for the losses and to continue his current obligations only prolonged the inevitable. Eighteen million dollars wouldn’t last Lake two months, even at zero-percent interest, let alone at an exorbitant 10 percent. Foreclosures and bankruptcy were inevitable.

But even more devastating than just losing your possessions or property was the loss of prestige, the loss of face. Normally talking about losing face was a Japanese notion, but it is very true on Wall Street as well. You are only as good as your last bad trade, the Street version of the old saying goes. No one likes a loser, and the stigma stays with a trader for a long, long time.

Technically, he was out of business right now, because no one would ever do deals with him again, but now it was a matter of survival. Bankruptcy was out of the question— it would save him from a few, but not the ones that mattered. A lot of the people he dealt with did not allow anyone to hide behind lawyers and bankruptcy courts.

Lake took a deep breath, then got to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and tightened his stomach and chest muscles until they tingled. When faced with adversity, he was always taught, get the blood running and the brain working. Start thinking and feeling like a warrior and you’ll start acting like a warrior. It was time to get on the offensive: “I’m going to need a face-to-face with George Jacox and get a report,” Lake said. Jacox was the outside tax attorney and accountant, leading a staff of two attorneys and six CPAs who managed Lake’s affairs. “I need to restructure that debt with McSorley first thing.”

“George is in Alaska on that hunting trip,” Fell reminded him. “Completely incommunicado until Saturday. I can get in contact with his partner.”

“Scherber’s an asshole,” Lake said. “Besides, George knows where all the bodies are buried. Get the jet and go pick him up. Better yet, pack all his records on a portable computer, grab a satellite transceiver, and take it all to him. Then let’s put in a call to—”

“Boss, I think our first move should be to sign those papers and get the loan moving,” Fell interjected. He wasn’t about to tell Lake, at least not this minute, that they could hardly afford to reserve a court at the YMCA right now, let alone fly the company’s private jet from New York to Alaska and back. “We’ve only got two hours before the last wire transfer from Europe. In an hour and a half the phone’s going to be ringing off the hook, and we’d better have a wire receipt to show the institutions that we’re covered or we’ll really be in trouble.”

“I am not going to spend all day on the phone with a bunch of nervous bean-counters,” Lake said. “They wanted to play, and this is part of the game — let them sweat for a few hours while we get our shit together here. Next time, Jacox doesn’t leave the fucking city without a cellular phone or I’m finding a new legal team.”.

“We don’t needJacox to read a spreadsheet or make a pitch to the venture capital types,” Fell said. “I can handle the legal side of the opening negotiations. But let’s get solvent first before we start bending anyone’s ear.”

“You don't get it, do you, Ted?” Lake snapped, turning angrily toward his longtime associate. Lake was a bit shorter than Fell and physically smaller, with tight, wiry muscles and a lean physique — physically, he was no match for the huskier, more solidly built attorney. But the air of desperation that hovered around Harold Lake made him seem all the more fearsome. The veneer of cunning control was gone — as much as he tried, Lake was not going to get it back. He ranted, “I am not going to go into eighteen-million-plus dollars in debt, get bombarded by jerkoffs who think they can push me around because the market takes a header suddenly one morning, and then try to pretend everything is going to be okay. This is a glitch in the market, nothing more. We’re in the middle of a sustained bull market, for God’s sake! The market hits new record-high territory every three months! Is it my damned fault that a fucking terrorist drops a bomb on San Francisco International?”

“Take it easy, boss…” Fell tried.

The phone on Lake’s desk rang — the onslaught of inquiries that Fell was expecting was now beginning. “Tell whoever it is to fuck off,” Lake hissed, returning to his desk and resuming staring blankly out the window. Fell answered the phone, leaving instructions that Lake not be disturbed and that he would handle all calls himself. “Get out, Ted,” he told his assistant from behind his chair. Fell was going to stay despite his boss’s obvious anger, but when Lake appeared to be looking over the loan papers and getting back to work, he relaxed a bit and departed.

The bombing of San Francisco International by some crazed lunatic gunrunner may have been a random, completely unforeseen event, even an accident. But one thing Harold Lake knew for sure was that it could very easily happen again. Yes, a lunatic was behind it…

… and Lake, like the rest of the world, knew who he was.

Options trading was not the only kind of trading Harold Lake did. Some of the “institutions” he worked with were not listed on Standard and Poor’s or Dun & Bradstreet, and some of the CEOs and investors who paid him generous commissions and maintained fat accounts with him were not in any issue of Who’s Who unless that publication had a version on underworld figures. His biggest secret client was none other than Henri Cazaux, the one responsible for the financial mess Lake was in right now. Lake had never planned on getting involved with men of this caliber. He was far too vain and far too much of a self-preservationist to risk dying at their displeasure. But back in 1987, after being fired from Universal Equity and trying to strike out on his own, Lake kept getting approached by smugglers, hoods, and eventually bigger fish like New York-area mob bosses. They could smell a hungry, smart manipulator of cash, but Lake did all he could to resist their overtures. Until the market crash of 1987. It was then that Harold Lake, fully exposed in all his investments, took a nosedive and lost millions overnight. After that, needing quick cash in a hurry, Lake began to see the appeal of laundering money. He made a few contacts, and before he knew it, drug money was reinforcing his investments. Lake stayed solvent and slowly began to get completely immersed in the science of laundering money. In 1991 Henry Cazaux stepped in and demanded Lake handle all of his accounts. It was an offer, as the saying goes, that Lake couldn’t refuse. Unless, of course, he wanted a bullet in the head.

Cazaux was different from your typical sociopath. He was power-hungry, and a megalomaniac, and definitely psychotic, and very smart. Each of his various identities all over the world lived in completely legal surroundings, with proper books, properly filed tax returns, and proper documentation. True, only a small percentage of his total net worth was ever reported, but the funds and the persons that existed aboveground were squeaky clean, thanks to Harold Lake and others like him in other countries. He had to track down the sonofabitch and tell him to crawl back into his Mexico hideout, right fucking now, or his source of legitimate, laundered money was going to dry up.

The first thing Harold Lake did was pick up the phone and dial a tollfree number that connected him to a private voice-mail system that was untraceable either to himself or to his calling party. In case someone tried to trace the call, they’d reach a computer with two thousand names and addresses, and if investigators showed up to try to track down the names, they could be erased from computer memory in seconds. In turn, the voice-mail system connected him to a private paging service, again untraceable. Lake entered just three numbers on the pager—911—then hung up.

He then looked over the loan paperwork. Fell had placed Post-It Notes on several important or critical areas of the contract that he had changed or that required special consideration, but his final recommendation was to sign. Reluctantly, Lake did so, adding the words “I hope you choke on it” under the signature line. He then punched his intercom button to Fell’s office: “The loan papers are ready, Ted. Come get the fuckers.”

Just then he heard a faint beep coming from a desk drawer. He opened the drawer and retrieved his Apple Newton PDA (personal digital assistant), a handheld computer about the size of a paperback book. The PDA had a built-in wireless network system that allowed him to receive packet digital messages anywhere in the world, communicate directly with other computers, or send or receive faxes. He activated the PDA and called up the messaging system, entering a password to access the secret message area. The message read simply, OWL’S NEST, RIGHT NOW.

Stunned, he all but leaped to his feet, then put on a jacket, slipped the PDA computer into his jacket pocket, and left the office via the back door as fast as he could.

Beale Air Force Base, Yuba City, California That Same Time

Colonel Charles Gaspar, operations group commander of the 144th Fighter Wing (California Air National Guard), asked, “You’re standing there telling me that you’re sticking with this cockamamie story, Vincenti?” The tall, slightly balding officer got to his feet, circled his desk, and stood face to face with Lieutenant Colonel A1 Vincenti. The veteran Vincenti defiantly followed Gaspar’s movements with his head and eyes while remaining at attention, which angered Gaspar even more. The men were of equal height, but Gaspar was several years younger than Vincenti, and even though he was of higher rank, he couldn’t intimidate the older veteran fighter pilot. Gaspar had less than half of Vincenti’s flying hours, and the adage that Vincenti had forgotten more than Gaspar had ever known held true — and everyone there knew it.

“Call me on it, Chuck,” Vincenti replied hotly. “Try to refute any of it. You’ll lose.”

“Don’t challenge me, Al,” Gaspar said angrily. “Don’t even bother trying. They don’t need me to help throw you to the dogs — you’ve done that all by yourself. The FBI has taken over this case, and the first head they want is yours. So you better straighten out your attitude.”

Gaspar took a deep breath. It was important for Vincenti to stick to his story — if he couldn’t make Gaspar, his longtime friend and wingman, believe his story, no one else was going to believe it either. “You maintain that your last order was to pursue Cazaux, that you believed that the order to land at Beale meant land only when your fuel condition warranted or if you could not reestablish contact with Cazaux. Is that correct, Al?”

“That’s what I wrote in my report.”

“The controller’s tape says otherwise.”

“My gun camera tape shows that I acknowledge the order to pursue.”

“Played side by side, the tapes don’t jive, Al,” Gaspar said. Although military aircraft did not have cockpit voice recorders, the F-16’s heads-up display system used a color videotape system to record gun camera video. The system, which also recorded radio and intercom conversations and copied flight and aircraft performance data like an airliner’s inflight data recorder “black box,” was often used by the pilots to record significant events inflight as well. “We hear you acknowledging orders that we never hear on the radio. It looks like the tape’s been doctored, or that you simply fake receiving orders to pursue.”

“So now I’m being accused of falsifying orders?” Vincenti asked. “Looks like I’m being set up to take the fall for this entire incident. Henri Cazaux blows up two airports and kills hundreds of persons, and I’m to blame. Wonder how the media would react to this?”

“You’re prohibited from talking with the media.”

“If the Air Force tries to court-martial me for what happened last night, Chuck, I’m spilling my guts,” Vincenti said angrily. “I’m not bullshitting you. I’ve got a copy of the HUD tape, and I’ll give it to every TV and radio station I can think of.”

“What the hell’s with you, Al?” Gaspar exclaimed, his voice serious now, searching his friend’s face with a definite edge of concern — Vincenti usually was not evasive or secretive at all. Claiming he had an engine malfunction, Vincenti had landed all the way back at Fresno Air Terminal instead of at Beale Air Force Base, as he had been directed to do. Although Fresno was closer and was his home station, he had plenty of gas to make it to Beale as he was ordered. As the F-16 pilots do every mission, Vincenti pulled his own mission videotapes, and he had his videotape in his possession when he was met by a representative of Fourth Air Force’s Judge Advocate General’s office about two hours later. The JAG officer confiscated the videotape, supervised a blood-and-urine test, and escorted Vincenti here to Beale Air Force Base, where the accident investigation board was going to be held. Theoretically, Vincenti had time to work on the videotape, doctor it, and duplicate it before someone finally ordered him to surrender it to the judge advocate. Gaspar didn’t think he really did all those things — Vincenti had always been a team player — but there was no doubt that Vincenti was pissed enough to do anything right about now.

“I’m sorry about Linda’s death,” Gaspar said softly.

Vincenti swallowed hard, nodded, and let his anger wash away, to be replaced by an empty numbness. Linda McKenzie never got full man-seat separation after ejecting from her Falcon on the runway at McClellan. She was still in the ejection seat, with only a partial parachute, when it hit the ground at over one hundred miles an hour. She mercifully died of her horrible injuries after several hours of emergency surgery.

“That’s not your fault, and I understand the pain you’re feeling, and the pain you felt last night,” Gaspar went on. “But now you’re breaking with the program, Rattler. You’re abandoning the Force, abandoning your uniform, abandoning your responsibilities.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Chuck,” Vincenti retorted. “All I see around here is brass rushing to cover their butts. Linda and I did the shitty job we were assigned the best we could. They should have never tried to capture that mother- fucking terrorist, especially knowing he had all those explosives on board. And sure as hell they should have never herded him over Sacramento or allowed him to get anywhere near San Francisco. We should’ve either blown his ass away or let him go.”

“I’m not arguing with you, Al, and I’m not going to second-guess the brass,” Gaspar said. “All I’m trying to do is get the facts.”

“This is not a debriefing, Chuck. This is not a ‘lessons learned’ session. This is not even an accident investigation. You don’t want my observations or opinions, and you don’t care about the facts because everyone’s already made up their minds about who’s to blame. This is a fucking inquisition. Everyone’s looking at me and Linda as to why we allowed it to happen, why we let Cazaux fly over Mather and SFO and drop those explosives, why we let Cazaux kill so many persons on the ground. I will tell you right now, bub, I’m not going to allow it. If I’m still getting the third degree, I’ll clam up, get an attorney, refuse to talk, take the Fifth, get immunity from prosecution, and screw you and screw the Air Force and the entire federal government. I owe my wingman my full support, even if she’s not here, and goddammit, I’m going to give it. Now, how do you want to play it from here on out, Chuck?”

“Okay, Al, I’ll add my endorsement over your signature, recommending no disciplinary action and immediate return to flight status — for all the good it’ll do,” Gaspar said. “I think you’re right, chum — the feds want heads to roll because Cazaux got away — and you’ve been elected. The new director of the FBI herself, Lani ‘Trigger’ Wilkes, is coming here in a few hours to begin the investigation and to do the press conference at the airport.”

“Great,” Vincenti muttered. Lani Wilkes, the new director of the FBI, had been given the nickname “Trigger” for two reasons — her stand on strict gun control, favoring not just an all-out ban on private purchases of handguns but complete nationwide confiscation of all guns with more than five rounds in them, and because of her hair-trigger temper, first seen during her Senate confirmation hearings and in many courtrooms, press conferences, and congressional hearings since. “Chuck, you might as well just pass my report along to the FBI without your signature. Wilkes is a tough liberal bitch. She’ll accuse everyone involved in this thing as being a bunch of screw-ups, tell the press how evil and out of control the military is, then talk about how society, or guns, or the military, has messed up the youth of the country, or some such horseshit. There’s no use fighting her.”

“Hey, I don’t report to Wilkes, Al,” said Gaspar.

“I know, but the press and the White House love her, and if she makes you an enemy, she’ll bury you alive,” Vincenti said. “The further you steer clear of her, the better.”

“Well, the wing king wants us to go with him to her press conference at the airport, so I’m going,” Gaspar said resignedly. “The press is having a field day with the air traffic controller tapes of you threatening Cazaux and chasing him through the San Francisco Class B airspace. The press thinks you goaded Cazaux into blowing up his plane over SFO.”

“That’s horseshit, Chuck,” Vincenti interjected. “Cazaux had no intention of surrendering or safely jettisoning any of those explosives — he jettisoned a palletful of military gear and kept the pallet of explosives on board. His target was either to ram an airliner in midair or bomb SFO, whichever he could do before getting shot down.”

“The press and the government don’t see it that way, Al,” Gaspar said. “Anyway, you’re in the hot seat now. If you have any friends in very, very high places, I suggest you call them in.”

“Fuck it,” Vincenti said bitterly. “If they want my wings, they can have ’em. But I’ll tell you something, Chuck— Henri Cazaux is not going to dive underground now. He blew up Mather Jetport on purpose, not by accident, and I think the motherfucker enjoyed watching the fireworks. When he found out I was on his tail, he went right for the next big airfield he could find — San Francisco International. The bastard’s going to go after more big airfields, Chuck. I know it. If you have a chance to tell Lani Wilkes that, tell her.”

“Forget about Cazaux and Wilkes now, Al,” Gaspar said. “Let’s deal with your problems. My group commander hat is off now, the recorder is off, my fellow fighter pilot hat is on, and it’s just you and me. I’m not trying to coach you here — you had better tell the truth during the accident investigation board or your ass is grass — but I want to go over your statement and the sortie chronology minute by minute. Don’t leave out a thing.”

But as Vincenti started talking, the onus of what he had said started to make an impression on Charles Gaspar — and he realized that Vincenti was right. He too had a feeling that Henri Cazaux would be back, and that no airport in the United States was safe any longer.

The phone in Gaspar’s office rang, and he snatched it up irritably: “I thought I told you no calls, Sergeant.”

“Sorry, sir, but I just got a call from base operations,” the group commander’s clerk said. “VIP aircraft inbound, and they just released the plane’s passenger list.” The clerk told him the plane’s lone passenger, and Vincenti saw Gaspar’s mouth drop open in surprise. “He wants to meet with you and Colonel Vincenti right away at base ops.”

“No shit,” Gaspar exclaimed, looking with total amusement at Vincenti’s puzzled expression. “We’ll be right over.” He replaced the phone and smiled broadly at Vincenti. “Well, cowboy, looks like you do have a powerful friend, and he’s decided to crash Lani Wilkes’ press conference. Let’s go.”

“The terrorist bombing incidents over Sacramento and San Francisco last night are terrible and tragic ones for all concerned,” Lani Helena Wilkes, FBI Director, said to the members of the press from the podium erected on the aircraft parking ramp just outside the base operations building at Beale Air Force Base. This was where the bulk of the FBI’s field investigative work for the Cazaux attack was going to be conducted. “Because this is an investigation in progress, I cannot talk about our investigation itself, except to say this: one of the largest manhunts in U.S. history is under way right now in California for Henri Cazaux, who bailed out of the cargo plane seconds before it crashed into San Francisco International. Over three thousand federal agents are on his trail, and I’m confident — no, I’m positive — that he’ll be captured soon.”

Wilkes was a powerful and dynamic presence, and the press corps treated her with great respect. An accomplished trial lawyer, state and federal district court justice from Alabama, ordained Baptist minister, and political campaign consultant, Lani Wilkes was one of the preeminent personalities in American politics. Rising from a life in the Montgomery slums to leading the number-one criminal investigative force in the world, Wilkes was undoubtedly one of the most notable and most respected figures of either sex in the world. Once mentioned as a vice-presidential candidate, there was no question that the forty-eight-year- old African-American woman, tall and statuesque and beautiful, would be one of the nation’s top leaders of the twenty-first century.

“Director Wilkes, do you have any leads yet on the case?” one reporter asked.

“I can’t go into details, but we believe we’ve tracked down the origin of the explosives and other weapons used in the attacks, and the registration of the aircraft used. It was a U.S.-registered aircraft, belonging to a small cargo firm in Redmond, Oregon — obviously a front for Henri Cazaux’s operation.”

“Henri Cazaux was operating here in California? Why wasn’t this discovered earlier?”

“As you all know, Cazaux is extremely intelligent and resourceful,” Wilkes responded. “And if I may give the Devil his due, it seems that in this case he played by the rules, which of course in a free society such as ours means that he’s relatively free of intrusive government scrutiny. So far we find only legitimate businesses doing legitimate business transactions here in California and much of the western United States and Canada for many years. He pays taxes, sends in his reports, keeps his nose clean. Even a merchant of death can roam free in our society if he doesn’t call attention to himself.”

“Director Wilkes, can you please go over again the path that Henri Cazaux took after departing Chico Airport last night?” another reported asked. “As I understand it, Marshals Service, ATF agents, and even the U.S. Air Force had a chance to apprehend or shoot him down.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to fully study the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms’ operation, so I can’t really comment on it,” Wilkes responded, smiling tightly. “I haven’t been briefed by the Treasury Department yet, but I understand they were the ones that requested support from the Air Force. As far as the Marshals Service, their role in this incident was to try to apprehend Cazaux as part of his numerous outstanding warrants. Unfortunately, their efforts, as far as I can ascertain, were not coordinated.”

“Not coordinated?” A general hubbub followed. Just then an Air Force blue sedan pulled up beside the group of photographers, and several Air Force officers and a civilian got out. Wilkes recognized the civilian who got out of the sedan, one of her assistants, and motioned him to bring the Air Force officers over to the podium.

Being invited to stand on Wilkes’ podium didn’t mean he had to wait for her expected barrage, so Gaspar took the initiative, stepped right up to the microphone, and without waiting for Wilkes to introduce him, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Colonel Charles Gaspar, and I’m the operations group commander for the 144th Fighter Wing, California Air National Guard, based at Fresno Air Terminal. With me is Lieutenant Colonel Al Vincenti, the lead pilot involved in last night’s incident.” Gaspar did not introduce the third officer with them, a young female Air Force captain who stayed away from the podium but within earshot: she was the area defense counsel, the military defense attorney assigned to Al Vincenti, and like any defense attorney her job was to be sure Vincenti was not forced or tricked into answering questions that might harm his defense, should he be brought in front of a court-martial.

“We arc here at the request of FBI Director Wilkes to make some general statements about last night’s incident,” Gaspar continued. “As Colonel Vincenti’s superior officer, and as the representative of the 144th Wing, I would like to speak for the Wing and Colonel—”

But the members of the press didn’t allow him to finish. One reporter shouted out, “Colonel Vincenti, why did you chase Henri Cazaux over San Francisco? Tell us why you wanted him dead. Is it because of what he allegedly did to your partner, Linda McKenzie?”

“Why is it,” Vincenti blurted out, “that you call what Henri Cazaux did ‘alleged,’ and what I did you think is a certainty? Cazaux bombed Mather and San Francisco International, for God’s sake!” The press corps’ photographers snapped away at the pilot’s angry face, and within seconds the reporters were inching back in to hear every word. “And I didn’t ‘chase’ him over San Francisco,” Vincenti continued. “He flew over the city and into the traffic pattern to try to get away from me.”

“But who gave you the order to pursue him into San Francisco? Who gave you the order to attack him?”

This time the area defense counsel pushed her body in front of the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Colonel Vincenti will be appearing in front of an Air Force flight review board and accident investigation board, and he will certainly be part of the FBI’s investigation. Please don’t try to convict him in the media as well.”

“I think the Captain is right,” Wilkes said, holding up her hands protectively in front of the area defense counsel. “Colonel Vincenti is not on trial here, and we don’t expect him to be responsible for what someone like Henri Cazaux does.” Those remarks made Vincenti and his defense counsel relax — and that’s when Wilkes continued: “But I think this incident points out the enormous hazards involved with asking the military to participate in any way other than in an indirect supporting role in law enforcement operations. The military’s primary function is to destroy and kill, and that’s what Colonel Vincenti was trying to do last night when he drove Cazaux’s plane over San Francisco.”

“I did not drive Cazaux over San Francisco, he flew there all by himself,” Vincenti snapped. He stepped over toward the microphone, and Wilkes had no choice but to give ground. “And the military’s primary job is not to destroy and kill — our job is to ensure national security by protecting this country from all enemies, domestic as well as foreign. A terrorist in the sky is a threat to our national security, and it calls for a military response. Just because we operate over American soil rather than foreign soil doesn’t mean the military can’t or shouldn’t do the job. The cops and the federal authorities — even the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms — are all outgunned. Cazaux realizes this now—”

“Excuse me, Colonel, but this is not the time for a sermon or a call to arms,” Wilkes said, smiling benignly as if Vincenti had cracked a joke or was a streetcomer preacher. “The FBI can handle Henri Cazaux—that I promise.

“I think that concludes this press conference,” Wilkes said into the microphone. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.” Wilkes’ security team appeared in front of the podium as if by magic, and except for a few questions shouted out by reporters, the briefing was over. But Wilkes was not through. She stepped away from the microphone, turned her back on the cameras and reporters, and seethed at Vincenti, “I strongly advise you, Colonel, to keep your mouth shut and to cooperate in every way possible with this investigation. This is not the time to be mouthing off about things you know nothing about. Do you understand me, Colonel?”

Vincenti was going to reply, but a sudden motion got his attention. He saw an Air Force C-20B, a military version of the Gulfstream III business jet, roll up to the parking ramp, aiming directly at the podium — and it kept on coming. Just as it appeared as if it was going to hit the red rope at the edge of the ramp, and just as the FBI security agents started to reach for their concealed weapons, the jet turned away, came to a stop, and shut down engines. As it was obviously intended, the members of the press stopped and turned their full attention to the jet as the airstair opened up and the C- 20’s passengers emerged.

Vincenti was surprised — no, shocked — not by the look of the man who came down out of the C-20, but by Lani Wilkes’ reaction to seeing him. The tall, wiry, gray-haired man that stepped out of the Air Force VIP jet commanded instant attention.

The other men and women that followed the first man were well-known national figures as well — including the former Vice President of the United States, Kevin Martin- dale; the junior U.S. senator from Texas, Georgette Heyerdahl; the U.S. House of Representatives’ Minority Leader from Georgia, Paul Wescott; and a congressman from the San Francisco Bay Area, Samuel Leyland — and it was Martindale who took the lead and headed toward Director Wilkes and the podium, but the press was riveted on the tall, imposing man beside him.

“I sincerely apologize for this late arrival and our intrusion,” Kevin Martindale said into the microphone as the members of the press hurriedly assembled back at the podium. “We were watching Judge Wilkes’ press conference on the TV, and when we saw it was over I didn’t think anyone would mind if we parked here. Sorry for the lousy parking job, but it was my first time at the controls of one of these babies. It’s hard to drive and read the instruction booklet at the same time.”

He waited for the laughter to die down, then continued: “I’m sure you all know my colleagues here. Mr. Wescott is of course the House Minority Leader, and our gracious host for this fact-finding trip. Senator Heyerdahl is the new cochairman of the Senate Subcommittee on the Future of the Military and National Defense, part of the Senate Military Affairs Committee, the group which is trying to design a framework for the U.S. military in the next fifteen to fifty years. And I believe you all know retired Coast Guard Rear Admiral Ian Hardcastle, former commander of the U.S. Border Security Force, the antismuggling and border security group, also known as the Hammerheads. Paul Wescott was kind enough to notify me that Congressman Leyland from San Jose was heading a congressional investigation on the incident last night, and he invited myself, Senator Heyerdahl, and Admiral Hardcastle to come along as his guests and advisers.”

Wilkes tried hard not to show it, but the appearance of these four persons, and especially Ian Hardcastle, was precisely the last thing she needed right now, and her stomach was doing exasperated backflips.

Since the Cabinet-level Department of Border Security was disbanded in 1993 after the new Administration took office, Ian Hardcastle, who founded the paramilitary group called the Border Security Force back around 1990, was regularly on every TV and radio talk show in the country, talking about the decay of the U.S. military in general and of home defense in particular. Every move the Administration made in terms of the military — efforts in Somalia, policies regarding Bosnia, defense cutbacks, gays in the military, base closures, and a hundred other topics — was routinely criticized by Hardcastle, seemingly minutes after a decision was made by the President or his Cabinet, oftentimes even before they made a move. Hardcastle, who was articulate, handsome as hell, well-read, and knowledgeable about every military program, was a formidable opponent.

“I would first like to extend my sincere condolences to the families and colleagues of California Air National Guard Major Linda McKenzie; Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Special Agents Russo, Foreman, Wickers, Kritchek, and Bowman, and all those who lost a loved one in San Francisco,” former Vice President Martindale continued. “It was a tragedy of simply shocking proportions that has outraged this nation. It is absolutely imperative that Henri Cazaux and all those who were responsible for this insane and ruthless attack be brought to justice immediately.

“But it is also in our best interests to do something to ensure that a tragedy like this never is allowed to happen again in the future,” Martindale went on. “As you all know, Admiral Hardcastle has been very actively speaking out against some of the current Administration’s policies regarding the military and national security and defense issues. Up until now, his has been largely a lone voice shouting as it were against the winds of change. Since our defeat in the last election, Admiral Hardcastle has been encouraging me to give up my self-imposed exile from the national debates of the issues of the times and get involved in shaping policies for the future. Unwisely, I resisted.” He half-turned to Ian Hardcastle, gave him a wry smile, and added, “Frankly, Ian, you old sea dog, you sometimes come on as quietly as a tidal wave.

“But last week, in a speech to the National Press Club, Admiral Hardcastle talked about the threat of terrorism here in the United States. After reading the text of his speech, I made a few inquiries into some of the issues he raised and the accuracy of the facts he presented. In short, Admiral Hardcastle knows what he’s talking about. He virtually predicted this very incident. That’s when I decided to join forces with him, the American Congressional Citizens Alliance, and the Project 2000 Task Force, and accept an invitation by members of Congress to investigate this tragedy and make some observations about the threat that faces us and what we can do to stop it.”

It was a thinly disguised reason for being here, and Lani Wilkes and most of the members of the national press knew it. The Project 2000 Task Force was a group of right-of- center moderates and conservatives who would in all likelihood form the basis for a major run on the White House in 1996. Formed after the 1992 elections, the American Congressional Citizens Alliance was a mirror image of the Project 2000 Task Force, composed of present and past members of Congress, including one-fourth of the U.S. Senate and about one hundred members of the House of Representatives. After its inception, Project 2000 was most noteworthy for who was not in it, namely, the former Vice President, Kevin Martindale, who had always been considered a major front-runner in the next presidential elections. Obviously, with this surprise appearance as a major player in the Task Force, he was now out of seclusion and back in the White House hunt. It was a very unexpected and dramatic coming-out for the former Vice President to take on one of the Administration’s toughest and most influential personalities. Worse for her, right in the middle of her own press conference.

But such a move was typical of Martindale. A former U.S. Congressman from Minnesota and former mayor of Minneapolis, Martindale’s style of politics was full-speed- ahead, smash-face, down-in-the-dirt nasty. It was those traits that had made him such a prized pit bull in dealing with Congress, the liberal left, and others during his two terms as Vice President during the previous Administration. Tough and conservative, he was one of the country’s biggest advocates of tougher laws, tougher sentences, the death penalty, and a strong military. During his term as Vice President, he had been a huge supporter of Admiral Ian Hardcastle’s Border Security Force (the Hammerheads) and his disdain for the current Administration had been known practically from the moment the new President was sworn in. Martindale had little use for a man whom he considered a Southern political snake with a duplicitous and questionable private life. He had even less use for the President’s wife, a tough-as-nails political infighter he and every other Republican in the capital referred to derisively as the Steel Magnolia.

Representative Wescott, Senator Heyerdahl, and Representative Leyland all made brief comments after Vice President Martindale. The usually outspoken Hardcastle declined to make a comment or take any questions, which probably evoked more questions and surprise than if he had spoken. Afterward, Martindale and his group left the podium and encircled FBI Director Wilkes and her staff. “Judge Wilkes, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Martindale said, extending a hand. The press, out of earshot, snapped away as Wilkes took his hand. “I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion, but the Senate subcommittee wanted to be in on this investigation from the very beginning, so we had little choice.”

Wilkes tried very hard to continue to maintain her composure. “I would be happy to brief the subcommittee or any other chamber of Congress on the status of this investigation at any time, Mr. Vice President,” Wilkes said crisply, not bothering to acknowledge Martindale’s apology. It was obvious to all that she was greatly displeased with her press-conference-tumed-circus. “It wasn’t necessary for the Senate to appoint a commission; I pledge full cooperation. I’m of course happy to see you and pleased to be working with you, but all this congressional attention to an unfortunate but random act of violence seems rather unusual, Mr. Vice President.”

“I seem to recall an investigation begun by the Senate Judiciary Committee back a few years ago, around 1991,” Martindale said, affixing the beautiful Lani Wilkes with a boyish, mischievous hint of a smile, “that produced a lawsuit against the old Border Security Force in a Mexican drug-smuggling-investigation incident. You might be familiar with that case, Judge Wilkes — that lawsuit was filed in your court.”

Wilkes did indeed remember the Maria Fuentes incident. A young, pregnant female Mexican drug “mule”—not a drug dealer, not a true smuggler, but someone who, most times knowingly, carries drugs — had swallowed thirty condoms filled with cocaine, almost thirty pounds and two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, and had tried to take the drugs into the United States on board a small motorboat, with two young children. She was detected, but could have gone unchallenged had she not panicked and gunned the engine when the Border Security Force’s V-22 Sea Lion armed interceptor aircraft flew near her. The chase took two hours, with a small air force of sophisticated aircraft buzzing overhead.

Fuentes ran the boat aground near a popular seaside resort at Palmetto Beach, near Mobile, Alabama. The woman grabbed her two kids and tried to flee across the beach on foot. To the astonishment of about a hundred stunned onlookers, she was finally apprehended in a spectacular assault by the V-22 tilt-rotor aircraft. But during the arrest, one of the condoms of cocaine inside the woman broke open, poisoning her and creating an instantaneous stillbirth for everyone to watch, including Fuentes’ two terrified children.

The public outcry was deafening — and it was all directed against the Hammerheads; then-Vice President Martindale, who was a strong Department of Border Security ally; and then-co-commander of the Border Security Force Admiral Ian Hardcastle. In response, the Senate Judiciary Committee unexpectedly launched an investigation, “leaking” its supposedly classified information to the press, which led to a lawsuit filed on behalf of the dead woman’s family charging the Hammerheads with an unreasonable pursuit, unreasonable “search and seizure”—actually charging the Hammerheads with using the V-22 to force the woman to disgorge the drugs — and unreasonable use of force. Federal Judge Lani Wilkes’ court blasted the government, equating the Hammerheads with East German border guards shooting Germans trying to escape over the Berlin Wall.

The government was ordered to pay an incredible ten- million-dollar settlement to the dead woman’s family and to some of the onlookers, who claimed they were “traumatized” by watching the incident. Kevin Martindale and Ian Hardcastle were publicly ridiculed. Although the verdict was overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court years later on appeal, the case was regarded as the beginning of the end of the Hammerheads and the Department of Border Security, which was abolished shortly after the new President took the oath of office in 1993.

“I remember the Fuentes case very well, Mr. Vice President,” Wilkes said uneasily. “But the Judiciary Committee was completely within its bounds to investigate the incident then. Besides, that was an investigation of a serious incident by the Border Security Force, not of an ongoing FBI criminal investigation. The FBI enjoys a certain immunity from Congressional oversight in the course of an investigation. I’m sure you understand…”

“I can’t speak for the Senate, Judge Wilkes, but I think the rules have changed — we’ve been authorized to proceed,” Martindale said. He accepted a sealed folder from an aide. It carried the seal of the U.S. Senate on its cover. “And I assure you, we won’t interfere with your investigation. We’ll just require a briefing — no more than three times per day — with the items stated in this folder included. Also, we have observers that will accompany some of your investigators. If you would, please provide us with a list of your senior investigators, and we’ll pair an observer up with him or her right away.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President, but there’s been some mistake,” Lani Wilkes interrupted. “I can’t allow nonBureau observers on an investigation. And I wish I had the time to give you special briefings on the status of the case, but I don’t. The Bureau gives daily press briefings in Washington.”

“Our observers are fully trained former FBI, DIA, or CIA investigators, Judge Wilkes,” Martindale said. “They know your procedures — our chief Bureau consultant is Jeffrey Peck.” Wilkes’ eyes grew wide — Peck was the former Bureau deputy director, a longtime FBI veteran, fired from his post as number-two man because of allegations of wrongdoing. No specific charges were ever brought against him. Peck had vehemently argued his innocence and never resigned even though the pressure to do so was enormous, but there had to be a housecleaning when the new Administration came in, so Peck was forced out. The President expended a lot of political capital to fire Peck — now they were going to face him again. Martindale’s pleasant smile dimmed a bit as he added, “And I certainly hope the three briefings a day won’t be too much of a burden for you — because our charter demands nothing less of you. I’m sure you understand.”

Wilkes saw the smile diminish and knew that Vice President Martindale wasn’t going to spar with her any longer. But she wasn’t going to be bullied by any of these outsiders either. “Of course I understand, Mr. Vice President. I’ll extend every consideration to you and your people. All I need is confirmation from the president pro tern of the Senate.” Wilkes knew the current Vice President would put a halt to all this nonsense right away. “We can start as soon as—”

“I’m sorry, Judge Wilkes, I should have handed this over earlier,” Senator Georgette Heyerdahl said. It was a warrant, signed by the Senate Minority Leader. “As you know, the Vice President is overseas, and he turned the gavel over to the Majority Leader. Unfortunately, Senator Collingsworth lost an aunt in the explosion in San Francisco airport last night, and he is on emergency leave. Since the Senate Majority Whip is also out of the country, he allowed the gavel to be transferred to the Senate Minority Leader. Here is his charter for our organization to conduct this investigation.”

Wilkes accepted the letter but did not look at it — she was very familiar with this type of provision, called a “roundhouse.” Officially, the U.S. Senate is never formally adjourned — the gavel, or presidency of the Senate, is always in someone’s hand, day and night, while the Senate is “in recess.” The president pro tern of the Senate (the Vice President of the United States) usually leaves it up to the leader of his party in the Senate to choose who would preside in his stead, but there is a definite “pecking order” in case of emergencies or disaster. Usually the day-to-day presidency of the Senate is ceremonial in nature, but it also conveys a lot of power to anyone who knows the law and who has the guts to use it. Establishing a charter to a Senate subcommittee to begin some work is one such power of the president pro tern, and pulling a roundhouse is a quick way to get it enacted. “The charter is only good for five days or until the full Senate can vote to cancel it,” Heyerdahl added, as if trying to instruct Wilkes on the law, “but it’s in force right now.”

“I’m well aware of the law, Senator, thank you,” Wilkes interrupted. Of course, the Vice President, who was away in Tokyo, could snatch the gavel back immediately just by stepping aboard Air Force Two or into the American embassy — both were always considered American territory— and he could yank the group’s charter away in a New York minute. But at this stage of the game, with a very public press conference just concluded, it was probably not a wise decision. Any hesitancy the Vice President or Wilkes might show toward such a distinguished group as the Project 2000 Task Force might appear like a cover-up.

“As I said, I’ll be more than happy to cooperate with your subcommittee, Mr. Vice President.” Wilkes sighed. No use in trying to fight this anymore, she thought. She had to contact the Justice Department and the President right away and let them handle Martindale and Hardcastle. “An office has been set up in one of the SR-71 hangars for our team, and I’m due to receive a situation briefing as soon as I arrive. You’re welcome to sit in.”

“Thank you, Judge Wilkes,” Martindale said, the famous boyish smile returning. He shook hands again with her, making sure that the press photographers captured the moment.

After the impromptu press conference broke up, Hardcastle noticed several Air Force officers standing by a blue sedan nearby. He walked over to them, extended a hand, and said, “Colonel Vincenti, Colonel Gaspar? I’m Admiral Ian Hardcastle, U.S. Coast Guard, retired.” They shook hands, and Hardcastle was introduced to the public affairs officer and Vincenti’s area defense counsel. “I’m sorry for what happened to Major McKenzie. I know what it’s like to lose a good crewman.” The Air Force officers nodded without saying anything — Hardcastle could easily read the distrust in their eyes. “Colonel Vincenti, tell me about Henri Cazaux.”

“Colonel Vincenti has been advised not to speak with anyone else, Admiral,” the area defense counsel said.

Hardcastle shot her an angry stare, then turned back to Vincenti. “I need to know, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “I’m a part of a Senate investigation into the incident.”

“Another government investigation,” Vincenti scoffed. “Great. Just what we need.”

“We’re not trying to pin the blame on you, Colonel — I’m trying to pin the blame on where it belongs: on the White House and the Pentagon,” Hardcastle said. “I’m trying to get Congress and the President to act seriously about national defense.”

“I appreciate that, Admiral,” the area defense counsel said, “but we’re still not going to discuss—”

“One question, if that’s okay with your ADC,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti did not respond, but he did not object, either. “You were the hunter, Colonel. You had your prey in your sights. Now tell me about Henri Cazaux.”

At first Vincenti didn’t know what to make of this tall, lean, ghostly-looking man. He had seen Hardcastle on all the TV shows, of course, but when Hardcastle said the word “hunter,” he heard something else. Yes… yes, Vincenti thought. I know what he’s talking about. Al Vincenti knew about the mystique of the hunter.

The hunter, at the moment of unleashing deadly energy against his prey, forms a sort of mind-meld with his quarry. Deer hunters feel it, experience the synergism of minds linked together for a brief instant. Bombardiers sometimes feel as if they are on the ground, watching their bombs fall on their own heads. The inexperienced hunter can’t handle it and gets “target fixation” or the “shakes,” and the spell is broken and the quarry usually escapes. A young or emotional bombardier that feels it turns to the bottle, gets a Section 8, or gets a .45 and blows himself away. Vincenti remembered that Hardcastle had once lined up lots of targets in the sights of his awesome V-22 Sea Lion tilt-rotor interceptors, so he definitely knew what it felt like to search, track, find, pursue, attack, and destroy a target— Jesus, he had done it for real Hardcastle had fired on many real targets. Vincenti didn’t know how many men he had killed, but he knew he had killed before. He knew what it was like. And so did Vincenti…

“Defiance,” Vincenti said. “No fear. Not at any time did I feel fear from Henri Cazaux. Even in his parachute. He was… happy. Satisfied. Ready to begin…”

“Begin what, Colonel?”

“I don’t know, Admiral.” Vincenti shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about. You asked me what I felt when I thought about Cazaux, and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. I wish I had taken him out. I won’t miss next time.”

As the group headed toward their cars to take them to their first meeting, Lani Wilkes turned and noticed Admiral Hardcastle talking with the F-16 pilot involved in the previous night’s incident, along with his group commander. She excused herself from the former Vice President and the Senator and walked back to them.

Hardcastle ignored her as she approached. “I hope you get the chance, Colonel,” Hardcastle said as Wilkes got closer, a grim, angry expression on her face, “but I rather doubt you will. We’ll meet again. No matter what the press says, remember you’ve got someone on your side—”

“Excuse me, Admiral Hardcastle,” Wilkes said testily, standing several paces away from the group. “Can I have a word with you, please?”

Hardcastle closed his notebook, shook hands with both Vincenti and Gaspar, clasped Vincenti reassuringly on the shoulder, and moved aside with Wilkes until the crowd passed her by, with just a few of Wilkes’ aides remaining. The press had left, and they were alone. The veteran Coast Guard flier extended a hand to Lani Wilkes and said, “It’s very nice to see you again, Judge Wilkes.”

Wilkes put her hands on her narrow hips, sliding her jacket open and slightly exposing a shoulder holster with a small automatic pistol as well as a slender waist and a firm bosom. With her sunglasses now in place against the hot summer sun, her lips red with a touch of lipstick, it was hard not to notice that this tough lawmaker and civil rights activist was a very beautiful woman. But, like Sandra Gef- far, his partner and co-commander of the old Border Security Force and other good-looking female public figures, Hardcastle knew that a very tough woman still lurked under that beauty.

“Listen, Admiral,” Wilkes said testily, “let’s get something straight. I’m going along with this charade only because I’ve got you and Martindale and Wescott in my face in front of the press. Your Senate subcommittee charter is a joke — it’ll be nullified by the Vice President before the day’s out, and they might even pass a law banning all such charters by the gavel. You may not realize it, even Martindale may not know it, but all this is a sham. I know it and Wescott knows it. After that, you’ll be off this base and out of the picture — permanently.”

“That remains to be seen, Judge.” Hardcastle smiled.

“So what is it you want, Hardcastle?” Wilkes asked. “Is this just another publicity stunt?”

“No more of a stunt than trotting Colonel Vincenti out here in front of the press, accusing him of screwing up the mission, and then letting the press feed on him,” Hardcastle snapped. “I heard your press conference, Judge, and I think you’re wrong: Henri Cazaux is not just ‘a merchant of death,’ he is a homicidal maniac. He will kill anyone to escape, including himself. He has no conception of the sanctity of life.”

“Spare me. We have a full psychological profile on him, Admiral.”

“Then you haven’t read it, Judge — because it would say that trying to apprehend Cazaux would be a waste of lives,” Hardcastle continued. “He will slaughter anyone within reach before taking his own life.”

“The Bureau has dealt with homicidal personalities before, Admiral, and Cazaux is no different.” She sighed, rolling her eyes.

“He’s different, Judge, because he’s got access to aircraft, special weapons, and sophisticated military expertise,” Hardcastle said. “He can begin a reign of terror the likes of which this country has never seen before.”

“Listen, Admiral, I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time for your pro-military speeches — I’ve got an investigation to run,” Wilkes said impatiently. “We will deal with whatever he throws at us — and we’ll do it without using the military, without big, expensive tilt-rotor aircraft loaded with machine guns and guided missiles, without one-hundred- million-dollar oil platforms which are now gathering barnacles and rust out in the Gulf of Mexico, without blimps with radars on them, and without weird robot helicopters that crash-land every time you turn around. Unlike former so-called law enforcement agencies, the FBI doesn’t feel as if we have to harass and scare half the law-abiding population just to find one slimeball.” Her indirect jab at the Hammerheads, Hardcastle’s high-tech drug interdiction and Border Security Force, was fully intentional and heartfelt: Wilkes had always believed the military had no place in law enforcement, and that the rights of all individuals — the accused as well as the innocent — needed to be protected at all times.

“But let me remind you of a few things, Admiral,” the FBI Director went on. “This is my investigation. I am running the show here. I will not hesitate to throw your tail off this base and into a federal lockup if you try to interfere with my investigation while you’re part of this Senate probe. You are not to talk with the crews, you are not to talk with the commanders, you are not to talk with the press about anything you see or hear. Charter or no charter, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with an FBI investigation. I may not be able to hold you for long, what with David Brinkley and Larry King, your good TV talk-show buddies, on my ass, but it’ll be long enough to disrupt your TV schedule. Is all that clear, Admiral?”

“Yes, it’s very clear, Judge,” Hardcastle replied. “But I’ve got one thing to say to you. I’ve seen this once before. Agusto Salazar, Pablo Escobar, Manuel Noriega — they all thought they could take on the United States and win. Henri Cazaux will hide behind the Bill of Rights and use it to get what he wants. Don’t let it happen now. Use all the forces you have available.”

“You’re paranoid, Hardcastle. Why don’t you run for office? You’d fit right in.” She spun on a heel and stepped away from Hardcastle as quickly as she could.

The former Vice President’s limousine was waiting for Hardcastle, and he joined up with them a few moments later. “Well, how did it go, Ian?” Martindale asked Hardcastle as he sat down opposite the Vice President, beside Senator Heyerdahl.

“I don’t think she’s going to cooperate.” Hardcastle sighed. “We’re going to have to battle her every step of the way.”

“Too bad,” Martindale said.

Hardcastle said, “I think I scared her a bit, and that pissed her off.”

“Well, she’s certain to go to the White House and vent now,” Heyerdahl concluded. “Our charter will be history by the end of the day, after the press has gone to bed for the night.” She turned to Hardcastle and said, “Wilkes is a very powerful and very dangerous opponent.”

Hardcastle said, “She’s tough, and strong, and beautiful. The press loves her. But as tough as she is, Henri Cazaux is tougher. And in a battle of wills, his is superior.”

“How do you know this Cazaux so well, Ian?” Wescott, seated next to the former Vice President, asked. “You chase him when you were with the Hammerheads?”

“We’d received a bit of intelligence about him,” Hardcastle replied. “We thought he might begin working with Salazar’s Cuchillos pilots, using military hardware to protect drug shipments. Cazaux was trained to fly everything from Mirage fighters to Huey helicopters, and he was one of Europe’s top commando instructors. Cazaux never moved in, and I lost track of him when the Border Security Force was disbanded. But I know a few Henri Cazauxs, Congressman Wescott, and a few Agusto Salazars.”

“I have no doubt that you’d like to see every one of these sleazoids in prison, or better, at the bottom of the deepest ocean you can find,” Kevin Martindale said. “But let’s keep our ultimate objective in mind — to call attention to the current Administration’s piss-poor military utilization and lack of military planning. But we don’t want to look like armchair quarterbacks to the press.

“We’re here to observe, yes,” Martindale went on, affixing a stern glare on all of those around him in the limo, “but our attitude should be that we’ve got a better way. So the question facing us all during our trip here is simple: if we were in the driver’s seat, what would we be doing better? Faced with the threat from Henri Cazaux ourselves, what would we be doing that the current Administration isn’t? We shit in Lani Wilkes’ cornflakes by crashing her press conference, but in fact the President is doing pretty — much what I’d expect — call for a massive manhunt, order the FBI Director to set up a command center in the area and personally coordinate the investigation. So far, we’d be doing the same thing as the current White House residents.

“We need a specific plan of action, something we can point to and say, ‘The President should be doing this,’ and the American people lean forward toward their TVs and respond, ‘Yeah, the dipshit, he should be doing that, I’m voting for Martindale in ninety-six.’ Everyone got the picture?” There were nodding heads and “Yes, sirs” all around. “Okay, good. Comments?”

“Judging by Wilkes’ attitude, I’d say the Administration is treating this as a random, isolated, one-in-a-million incident,” Hardcastle surmised. “Focus of the FBI’s investigation will be the coordination of the federal agencies involved — actually, their lack of cooperation. Wilkes has already tipped her hand by trotting Vincenti and Gaspar out in front of the press — no doubt Vincenti’s record in Europe will be ‘leaked,’ and everyone will make the same conclusion — that Vincenti screwed up. The federal government, and the Air Force in particular, will take the heat for a screwed-up pursuit and needless deaths, simply to avoid a general panic.”

“You mentioned something about him on the way out here,” Martindale said. “What was it again?”

“Vincenti was flying F-4 Phantoms up in Iceland — this was just before Gorbachev came to power,” Hardcastle explained. “He scrambled on a Badger bomber that he found flying low-level across the ice pack. The Defense Early Warning radars were out, but he did the pursuit on his own and shoots the damned thing down.”

“You’re kidding! I never heard about that.”

“Hardly anyone did,” Hardcastle explained. “Turns out the bomber was a rogue — a crew of fliers sympathetic to Andropov wanted to start World War Three by bombing U.S. bases in Iceland. They had nukes on board, but they say they never would have gone off.”

“But Vincenti’s not a hero in this story, right?”

“Yes, sir. Problem was, Vincenti never got clearance to shoot — no communications between the controllers and the plane. Vincenti just went ahead and did it, much like the incident last night. He gets a reputation as a hero with the crew dogs, but a wild-dog reputation with the brass. The. Badger shoot-down is highly classified—”

“But the Pentagon’s recollection of Vincenti isn’t,” Martindale finished for him. “Vincenti can’t follow orders. Vincenti likes to shoot first and ask questions later. Question, Ian: is he a wild dog?”

“No, sir, he’s not — but my reputation is not exactly fresh and clean either,” Hardcastle said with a wry smile. “In my opinion, putting on my pundit’s hat for a moment, I think it would be ill-advised for you to openly support Vincenti. But I want to consult with him on a regular basis. He knows his shit, and he will be very valuable to us and the Air Force when Cazaux tries to take on the authorities again.”

“Wait a minute, Ian… So you don’t think this is a random incident?” Martindale asked Hardcastle. He was getting nervous already — his high-profile military guy was thinking in a totally unexpected direction, and with more press conferences scheduled for that day, he had to be brought up to speed immediately. “Just bad luck that Cazaux hit that terminal with a cargo plane and killed several hundred people…?”

“Sir, I can’t explain it, but talking with Colonel Vincenti, the F-16 pilot that chased Cazaux’s cargo plane, I wonder if this is the last we’ll hear from him,” Hardcastle said. “Cazaux is not going to dive underground.”

As enthusiastic as they were about pointing out the inadequacies of the current White House Administration’s military policies, the others in the limo were not at all ready to agree with the former Coast Guard and Border Security Force officer. The former Vice President ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “Jesus, Ian,” Martindale exclaimed, giving him a tired smile, “I pray you’re wrong.”

There was no more time for discussion, because just then the limousine pulled up to the aircraft hangar turned investigation center, and the members of the Senate subcommittee task force began to step out. The line of twelve hangars on the parking ramp at Beale Air Force Base once housed the SR-71 Blackbird spy planes, which were the fastest air-breathing aircraft in the world before the advent of the still- classified SR-91 Aurora. “A minute, Mr. Vice President,” Hardcastle said. Martindale let everyone else out, and the Secret Service agent closed the door again.

“Spit it out, Admiral.”

“Sir, you know that I believe in your campaign,” Hardcastle said easily. “No one was happier than I to see you at our board of directors meeting, getting involved, helping to raise money for the Task Force, all that. I know publicly you haven’t announced if you’re going to run in ninety-six, but I feel you will, and I’m one hundred and ten percent behind you all the way.”

“I hear a big ‘but’ coming…”

“Yes, sir. But, after speaking with Vincenti, I realized that we are not faced simply with gathering ammunition to use against the current Administration — we need to formulate a policy to make sure that attacks like last night don’t happen again.”

“Attacks? They weren’t attacks, Ian, it was the act of a madman trying to escape pursuit,” Martindale scoffed. “The odds of Cazaux blowing up another airport in this country are… well, hell, they’ve got to be astronomical.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Hardcastle said. “I think he’ll strike again. I think we need to set up a program to defend this country’s major airports from attack. With all due respect, sir, I need to know if you’re serious about responding to the threat, or if this is just a way to make some political hay until you’re ready to throw your hat in the ring.”

“Christ, Hardcastle, ease up a bit with that rhetoric — and the threats,” Martindale said, motioning with his body that he was ready to get out of the car. “First of all, whatever use I have for my activities with you and the Project 2000 Task Force is part of my campaign. You and the membership agreed to spearhead my campaign. Like it or not, I’m in it, and I’m calling the shots. You know I’m serious about national defense, Ian. When I joined forces with the Task Force, you agreed to my terms. You and the other Task Force members fall in line with me or I walk — it’s as simple as that. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Kevin to you, Ian,” Martindale said. “Both now and when I’m in the White House. And I am going to the White House, my friend, let there be no doubt about that.

“As for my thoughts on Cazaux: So far I haven’t seen any evidence indicating the beginning of a wave of terrorism. We start creating fear like that, and we’ll look bad. Hell, even if we’re right, we’ll look like doomsayers. I don’t want to start putting Patriot missiles on the front lawn of the White House, Ian — all I want to do is point out to the people of this country that the current President’s got his head up his ass when it comes to the application of military force and his support for the military.” Martindale paused for a moment, then seemed to decide to go ahead and say what was on his mind — Kevin Martindale never had any trouble keeping his feelings to himself: “Frankly, Ian, your alarm-ringing reputation is well known in town. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I feel a lot of people might be turning you off. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the attack. Let’s not come to any really dire conclusions until we get some more concrete evidence. Okay?”

“That’s fine, sir,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll stand by my reputation and my opinions.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Ian,” Martindale added. “I consider you a valuable asset, and your thoughts mean a lot to me. But let me make the decisions and the public announcements, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Hardcastle said. He exited the limousine, but turned to face Martindale just before the former Vice President stepped out. “But think about this, sir — what if Henri Cazaux strikes again? Then what will you be prepared to do to stop him?”

Martindale had already been psyching himself up to get ready to speak with the press that had assembled outside the hangar being used to headquarter the FBI’s investigation, so he really wasn’t fully listening to Hardcastle — until that very last sentence. If Cazaux did return, if this was only the beginning and not the end of a horrible nightmare, then what could be done to stop it?

“Damn it, Hardcastle. the former Vice President of the United States muttered. Ignoring Admiral Ian Hardcastle was never an option.

Newburgh, New York Later That Day

The sleepy little town of Newburgh, about an hour’s drive north of New York City, was the perfect place for an American terrorist base of operations. The small city of twenty thousand was easily accessible to New York City by Thruway, train, overland, or even via the nearby Hudson River, but it was much smaller and much more rural than a typical New York City bedroom community, offering lots of seclusion and privacy. Newburgh’s first-class airfield, Stewart International, had direct flights to La Guardia; Chicago; Washington, D.C.; Raleigh-Durham International; Hartsfield-Atlanta; and even Toronto and Montreal, but it had fewer than a dozen arrivals and departures a day. The U.S. Military Academy at West Point was just a few miles away, and the resorts and ski areas of the Catskills were just a few hours away.

Passengers liked Stewart International Airport because it was so easygoing and efficient — Henri Cazaux liked Stewart because security there was relatively lax, which made the little airport the perfect place to run a small-scale smuggling operation, or smuggle weapons into the commercial air system. Cazaux had often smuggled a fully loaded Uzi right through security in a briefcase by partially disassembling it and packing it in a candy or gift box with a gold foil wrapper — the wrapper shielded the contents from the X rays, and the guards never bothered to hand-check, especially during the early-morning rush-hour confusion of commuters on their way to New York, Boston, or Washington. The old “gun-in-the-Bible” trick worked every time. If Cazaux ever considered hijacking a plane, it would be from Stewart International.

There were a lot of other factors: the large amount of general aviation activity at the airport, with small planes taxiing and parking very close to commercial traffic, made transporting contraband onto an airliner from the aircraft parking ramp easy; the amount of wooded area and the isolation of many parts of the base from all but roving security; the number of large, isolated vacant buildings and hangars on the airport; and the relative safety and security everyone felt by having a large New York State Police, U.S. Army, and Air Force Reserve contingent stationed there at Stewart. Cazaux used that complacency to his advantage many times. He once dressed like a USAir baggage handler, commandeered a baggage tractor, and personally loaded several hundred pounds of contraband aboard planes parked at the gates, and was never challenged. He had done the same with an Air Force Reserve military cargo plane, posing as a crew chief on a C-5A Galaxy transport. Cazaux stole whole pallets of weapons and equipment right off the back of the giant transports with a forklift, and was never challenged or questioned.

More importantly, the little city was quiet and peaceful — it was a good jumping-off point to just about anyplace in the world, but it was also a good place to lay low and think and plan. That’s why when Henri Cazaux safely made it out of Albuquerque, he booked a flight — not a direct flight, but a circuitous route to Chicago to Cleveland to Pittsburgh — and then on to his base of U.S. operations in Newburgh. He needed to get the roar of the destruction he had caused in California, the smell of gunpowder and blood and burning civilization, all out of his head for a while.

There were two other reasons for Henri Cazaux to come to Newburgh, of course. It was a convenient place to meet with his logistics officer, a private Wall Street trader named Harold Lake. When a face-to-face meeting was needed, Lake could be in Newburgh in an hour and a half, and banking transactions begun by Lake in a satellite brokerage house in Newburgh at noon would be on the books and in the system by close of business. Cazaux felt too trapped, too surrounded in New York City itself — Newburgh was more to his liking, large enough to allow him to blend into with the citizens but small and isolated enough to remain anonymous.

The second reason was Madame Rocci, M.M. Her real name, he knew, was Jo Ann Vega. The “M.M.” stood for Minister of Metaphysics — it sounded like a phony show, title or something out of a 1940s B-grade movie, but it was not. She was, and had been for several years, the psychic for the world’s most dangerous criminal.

For all of Henri Cazaux’s intelligence, military training, life experience, toughness, and survival instinct, his one foible, his one departure from clear, perfectly objective analytical thought, was in the realm of astrology — but of course Cazaux would not consider astrology a “weird” science. An astrologer in Denmark whom he visited while in high school told him he would be a great military man — he decided to go into the military based on the woman’s advice. During a United Nations deployment to Africa while in the Belgian First Para, another astrologer in Zaire, a shaman, told him he would be a great leader of men, known far and wide for his deeds. Since going into business himself, he had consulted with an astrologer once or twice a year. Their predictions were uncannily accurate, he thought, and he had never made a bad move based on their words.

He had met Madame Vega three years earlier. During a rare time traveling on foot during daylight hours — tactical considerations absolutely forbade travel on roads during daylight except in an emergency — Cazaux had ducked into the back door of her tiny storefront parlor while getting out of sight of a State Police cruiser. He surprised Vega as she came out of the bathroom, but she did not challenge him or try to throw him out. She seemed to know instantly that he was on the run and being pursued. She showed no fear, and offered him instant coffee and two-day-old donuts purchased from the thrift shop down the street, the only things she had to eat in her small kitchen.

Vega was in her early fifties, with long dark kinky hair streaked with gray and with small colored beads braided in her hair near her temples, large round dark eyes, a round, pretty face, large round breasts, strong fingers and hands, a firm waist and buttocks, and slender legs. She looked gyp- syish, and said her family were Jewish refugees from Czechoslovakia. Vega did not complain when Cazaux checked the house, the exits, and looked for evidence that she had a boyfriend, roommate, children, or husband living with her. She said she knew that he was afraid, that he was in danger, but that he would eventually prevail, and she would help any way she could.

All he wanted to do was hide and sleep. She showed him a hiding place in the attic, which he accepted — after finding at least three ways to escape — and rested. When he awoke, she was waiting for him. While he slept, she had done a complete astrological analysis on him. He was interested but skeptical — until she started to speak about the life of Henri Cazaux. She predicted his birthdate within a week, his time of birth within two hours, and his country of birth exactly — he was born at a hospital in the Netherlands, although raised in Belgium: she guessed all this.

Being Henri Cazaux, and cautious, he realized Vega could have researched his past — Cazaux was beginning to get a reputation in America equal to the one he had in Europe, although at the time he was not well known outside federal law-enforcement circles. But it would have taken a lot of work and a lot of time, far more than what a neardestitute storefront swami in Newburgh, New York, could ever do. No, she had learned about him simply from looking at the man, then reading her astrological books and putting the terrifying, mystifying pieces together. She talked about his military past, his fearlessness, his lack of regard for others. She talked about his brutal success, his drive for perfection, his intensity. She knew he had once been married, but had no children despite his desire to have them. But that was only the beginning — of what she had to say, and of the astounding accuracy of her predictions:

With the Sun, the blood planet Mars — named after the mythical god of war — the planet Jupiter, and the upper limb of the Moon all in the constellation Scorpio at the time of his birth, Henri Cazaux was a quadruple Scorpio — highly intelligent, secretive, passionate, and powerful. Vega had never seen a chart like his before. If a person could pick all the traits he or she ever desired — the tendency toward great wealth, tremendous sexual energy, animal determination, godlike invincibility, and intelligent introspection — Henri Cazaux had them. Only a few men in history ever had an astrological chart like Cazaux — such multiple-planet generals like Napoleon Bonaparte, Ulysses, and Alexander, politicians like Hitler and Lincoln, military thinkers like Sun-Tzu and Clausewitz. His astrological chart was confirmed by a palm reading and the tarot, but one look at the man would be confirmation enough for anyone. And if his scarred body did not say that his past lay in some expertise in the combat arms, his chart definitely said his future would be in warfare. Mars ruled his chart, and all other “peaceful” signs and planets and influences were nowhere to be seen.

Usually Cazaux liked to “rate” astrologers by how many guesses they got correct — he could not even begin to do this with Jo Ann Vega. It was as if she had written his biography, and then written his eulogy and epitaph. The future she painted was not bright. It was filled with adventure, and excitement, and wealth, and power, but it was a short, violent, lonely life. She said she understood all of those things, and said her life was rich and full despite her loneliness.

She also seemed to understand perfectly when he attacked her. She was so good at her profession that now she knew too much, and when the snarling, cornered beast in Cazaux emerged, she accepted it with professional patience.

Other than killing, raping a woman is tactically the best way to ensure her silence — few women report a rape, especially if they are alone. It is usually the best way to terrorize a woman into silence and cooperation. Cazaux was forceful and violent, but was careful not to cause any visible wounds that might compel others to act. He made her undress for him, made her perform fellatio on him, made her spread her legs and beg him to rape her — not because he enjoyed any of it or thought she might enjoy acting submissive, but because it further implicated her, further shamed her, gave her more events of which most women will not speak, more things for a woman’s consciousness to work harder to suppress. As helpless as she was, she was, in a horrible and brutal way, a party to what was happening to her.

The rape was an act of violence — none of it could be considered in the least sexual — but the motivation was not robbery or murder or assault or any other crime. It was an initiation into the life of the world’s greatest terrorist, a message that she was now, willingly or not, an acolyte of Henri Cazaux’s, a minister to the human incarnation of Satan himself. She could accept the fact, and live, or deny it, and die — but he did not have to tell her these things. Jo Ann Vega — in fact, all of Cazaux’s helpless victims — knew this when they looked into the killer’s eyes. The rape was an act of violence, yes, but it was more of a promise of the violence to come if the spell was broken.

He made her clean him with her mouth, then departed without saying a word — no threats, no taunting, no innuendos — leaving a small throwing knife stuck into the woodwork around the window behind the back door. It was a tiny warning to her, and a promise that he would return.

He did return, two to three times a year. The violence was gone, and they became lovers. They slept and bathed together, experimented with sex, and talked about each other’s worlds in intimate detail. Making love with Henri Cazaux was like trying to wrestle with a bonfire or control a crashing ocean wave — the heat, the power, the sheer energy he released was enormous. Vega was his spiritual adviser, his charge of quarters, his aide-de-camp, but she also got to experience the man when he unleashed his raw, unchained spirit only toward her, and no one else.

Although they shared each other’s passion, he was never close—“settling down” was never an option, although he did see to her needs and offered a level of security and protection unlike any other man in the world. He provided her with money — not enough to leave her little storefront or call attention to herself — but enough so she would not have to rely on reading horoscopes to survive. Some of Vega’s enemies — a city councilman who tried to have her kicked out of the city for being a drug dealer because she had refused to run a house of prostitution for him, a neighbor kid who liked to get drunk and would occasionally try to break her door down to get at her — both mysteriously disappeared. Jo Ann had never mentioned them to Cazaux.

Jo Ann knew that Henri Cazaux was coming to her, knew this visit would be different. She often read his cards in between visits, and she had just completed a reading on him before she had learned of the attack in San Francisco. She knew he had engineered the attack long before the news told the world so. The cards told of fire, and blood, and darkness. They did not tell of his death, as they usually did. In fact, none of the dark elements of Cazaux’s chart — a short lifespan, pain, loneliness — were present. The man coming to visit her soon was a man no longer — he had been transformed. The cards said so.

It was dark outside, and the rain was pounding down so hard it was forcing itself into the house through closed windows. Vega was just finishing a cigarette in her tiny living room/bedroom between the partition to the reading parlor and the kitchen, and was heading back to the kitchen to clean out the ashtray, when she turned and saw him standing in the doorway, watching her. He was already naked from the waist up — he had obviously been there several minutes, judging by the size of the puddle of water under his feet — but he was as silent as a snake. A small automatic pistol was stuck in his jeans waistband.

“Welcome home, Henri,” Jo Ann said, a touch of warmth in her eyes and voice. “I’m glad to see you.” He did not respond. That was typical — he rarely said ten words to her even on a chatty day. He looked thinner, but his chest was as muscular as ever, his stomach as rippled and hard as an old-fashioned washboard. He had shaved off all his hair. He changed his hair length and style often, although military short-cropped hair was his norm. But Vega’s eyes were drawn back to his chest, his rock-hard arms, and his flat stomach. For a brief instant, she felt her nipples erect and felt the slight ache of desire between her legs. She looked into his eyes, and the questions in her head only continued. Cazaux’s eyes were on fire — not from anger, or from fear, but from desire. Was it sexual desire? Sometimes she could feel the heat of his need from across a room — Scorpios were all powerful sexual animals, and multiple Scorpios sometimes had an aura of sexual energy that was palpable. Henri was soaking wet, but he was definitely on fire…

No, it was not sexual energy this time. He was after something else, something much more significant than Jo Ann. The fire in his eyes seemed to come from visualizing something so vividly that you could see it, touch it.

“Get out of those wet clothes,” she suggested. “I’ll make us some tea. I have hamburger if you’re hungry.”

As if he had read her thoughts, he pulled the gun from his waistband, then unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to the floor. My God, Vega breathed, he was magnificent! But her eyes were drawn from the bulge between his legs to the bandages wrapped around his left leg, with quarter-sized spots of blood soaking through. “Henri, you’re hurt. Go into the bedroom.” The big man silently complied.

After drying the floor carefully with a dishtowel and putting his wet clothes in the washer so no one would notice or question the mess, Jo Ann brought hydrogen peroxide, hydrocortisone cream, and fresh bandages to him. She found him standing naked beside her bed, his injured leg up on the bed, peeling off the old dressing. She sat down on the bed and examined the wound. It was long and deep, like a hot poker or sword had been slashed across his calf. Blood mixed with water and dirt had caked inside the gash itself — this was going to be difficult and painful to clean.

“This was from the chase with the Air Force, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied simply. The news of the incredible disaster in San Francisco had of course reached Newburgh. It had been page one in the nation’s newspapers, and the lead story on all the networks and CNN. The dragnet was out for Cazaux, but they were concentrating mostly in the west and southwest, thinking that he was on his way to Mexico.

“You came to me for advice,” she said, as if reading from Cazaux’s unwritten DayTimer itinerary. “You are meeting with your senior staff to plan something… but not to hide. You intend on attacking… attacking many targets, many persons. I saw much blood in your charts, much destruction. Why, Henri? Is it revenge? I did not see a clear reason…”

“You know the reason, Madame Vega,” Cazaux hissed in a low voice. “You know damned well.”

“Oui, mon cher, ” Vega responded soothingly, feeling her nipples harden and the lonely region between her legs grow hot and wet. Oh yes, she knew very well why Henri was on the warpath…

Henri had been a very bad little boy when he was younger. A bastard born in a country foreign to both his parents, now living in a foreign country, Cazaux was a ballistic missile without a guidance system — lots of energy but no sense of direction, no clear path, no destination. He amused himself by stealing and vandalism, and by the age of fifteen had become an accomplished criminal, roaming much of western Europe. He stayed out of the hands of the authorities until 1977. While trying to deal hashish to a U.S. Air Force F-4 Phantom maintenance crew near Antwerp, Belgium, he was caught by Air Force security police and taken to their brig. The Air Force sky cops could not charge him, only release him to the local gendarmes as soon as possible. The Americans had seen many locals get away with vandalism and other crimes because the American military forces had no authority… but, either because of manpower shortages, the holidays, or indifference, the local cops had no one to take the boy until Monday, so he stayed in the Air Force brig.

It was the opportunity the Americans had been waiting for to vent their own frustrations at being away in a foreign land among foreign peoples…

For the next forty-eight hours, Henri Cazaux had been passed back and forth between the security police teams so they could practice their “interrogation techniques.” Cazaux was stuffed into fifty-five-gallon barrels, hosed down naked with icy cold water from fire hoses, questioned by teams of interrogators for hours at a time, made to kneel naked on bricks while chained to concrete pillars, and ordered to dig his own grave and then buried alive in mock firing-squad executions. He was never beaten, never physically harmed…

… until the nights, the long, awful nights, when Cazaux was alone with just one or two guards in an isolated part of the brig where no one could hear him scream. Then they took turns with him, tying the strong, lean, handsome young man up to a table and performing the ultimate degradation on him again and again, sometimes with a nightstick, sometimes with a broken broom handle and, ultimately, the engorged penises of the men themselves. If they were afraid of the shift commander hearing the prisoner’s screams or cries for help, they would order the prisoner to suck on the end of a Colt M1911 pistol while they ravaged him — soon, Cazaux was praying they’d just pull the trigger and put him out of his misery.

Of course, Jo Ann Vega invented most of the more lurid details of the ordeal in her own fertile, twisted mind. Henri Cazaux had been imprisoned and abused for two days in the hands of the American Air Force, that much was known — exactly what had happened to him, Cazaux never said beyond only the vaguest hints. It certainly explained his bloodthirsty attitude toward the Americans, his intense fear and revulsion to the thought of capture, and his intense desire for revenge.

In her own way, Vega relished the idea of some big black soldier treating Henri like a ten-dollar whore… It was a fantasy that got her wet just thinking about it.

In any case, the Antwerp incarceration was for Cazaux’s third felony crime. He had a choice — ten years in the Auxiliaries (the virtual slave-labor arm of the Belgian Army), or ten years in prison. Cazaux willingly, even happily, joined the Auxiliaries. He reformed himself enough to join the regular army, then the First Para, the special-operations quick-strike brigade known as the Red Berets, flight school, and even received a commission. He stayed on an extra two years after his now long-forgotten sentence, then, as with most soldiers, he was given a Reserve assignment. He left the regular army a finely tuned, well-trained, precision killing machine — and as mentally twisted as a Swiss mountain road.

“I need to know if my plans of destruction will be successful, Madame Vega,” Cazaux said. “I need your advice. I cannot issue commands to my staff without some assurances that my plans will be successful.”

“I saw much blood, much destruction,” Vega said. “I saw death, Henri, lots of death — but I did not see yours, although death is all around you. I saw the wings of the angel of death, the dark master, sweeping across the skies in a fiery chariot, driven by you.”

“Your visions are not helping me, Jo Ann,” Cazaux said irritably. “All I need to know is, will my campaign be successful?”

She soaked a clean gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide and, without warning or fanfare, scrubbed the exposed wound to loosen the blood and dirt. Fresh water was necessary to clear away the bubbling flesh, but Cazaux did not cry out or even flinch from what had to be incredible pain. “I can see exposed muscle, Henri,” Jo Ann said. “You’ll need stitches and antibiotics.”

“Runyan,” Cazaux replied. She nodded. Lewis Runyan was a decertified physician who had tried to set her up as a drug dealer until Cazaux caught up with him. Rather than kill him, he convinced him to become the Cazaux operation’s medical officer, and now lived in Newark, New Jersey, under the watchful eyes of Cazaux’s lieutenants. “Continue to clean the wound, and pack it tightly. I need to travel within the hour.”

“All right.” She made no attempt to be gentle, but used her weight to scrub the wound until it bled. She knew she was working harder than necessary — was she trying to cause him pain? Why?

“Tell me what you are thinking, Jo Ann,” Cazaux ordered. “You have not answered my question, and you are bound as my spiritual adviser to do so.”

She looked up at him, her eyes pausing for a moment on his naked crotch before affixing on his stone-hard face. “I see more blood in your chart, Henri,” she said. “I see much more blood, by your hands.”

“Yes, yes,” he responded impatiently. “My campaign?”.

“Have you taken any drugs, any painkillers, any cocaine?” She knew the answer to that even before his flaming eyes rested on hers. Henri Cazaux never did drugs except for antibiotics and aspirin. She touched the leg wound again, with her fingernail. The touch did not register in even one muscle in his angular face. “You have transcended pain, Henri,” she said. She wrapped her hand around his calf, stroking his leg., “I see other human traits that are now missing in your soul. You have been touched by Death, Henri, and for some reason, the dark master has released you — for now.”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes widening as he accepted her words as truth. He couldn’t rationalize it before, but her words confirmed what he was thinking: the mission he had just completed, escaping the jaws of death so narrowly as he did, had changed him.

“You have completed a deal with the Devil,” she continued as she stroked his right leg, then kissed his left leg, then stroked his rock-hard buttocks. “You have traded what was left of your humanity for a few extra days of life. Show me your right hand.” She opened his right hand when he extended it to her. A fresh three-inch-long bum, caused by his grip on the nylon webbing of his parachute risers during his low-altitude bailout over San Francisco International, was etched across his palm, perfectly perpendicular to his already very short lifeline. “Here is the signed contract, Henri. You didn’t know this wound was here, did you?” Obviously he did not, because he stared at the cut. “I don’t know how long you have — maybe hours, maybe days. Perhaps only… minutes.”

His eyes flared, knowing she had added that last warning selfishly, that she wanted the next few minutes with him. “No — longer,” she admitted. “I see blood, too, a lot of blood. Not all of it is yours.”

“It won’t be. I can guarantee that. ”

“This is a serious contract, Henri, a contract with the dark master,” Jo Ann said angrily, returning to her nursing. “The contract is irrevocable. The dark master offers you incredible strength, a life without pain, with a tireless body, with sharp eyes. He demands a price for these gifts.”

“A price? From me?”

“Yes, damn you, the ultimate price — your very life, your future, ” she said. “Your soul is already his — now he wants control of your mind. He gave you these gifts because he wants to turn you loose on the mortal world, taking your revenge.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Her eyes flared, and she took a deep breath as the excitement welled in her chest. He could do it, she thought. “Then do it, Henri,” Vega said. “I’m telling you, Henri, you’ve been chosen by the dark master to carry out a baptism of fire on planet Earth. He has given you the gift of freedom from mortal pain. You will not feel hunger, or pain, or weariness. You will defy the laws of nature. You will see with the eyes of a hawk, hear with the ears of a wolf, move with the speed of a cheetah. You will think like no other general has ever done before. It is time to set it all into motion, Henri.”

“I have already set it in motion, Jo Ann,” Cazaux said, his voice as deep and hollow as if from the bottom of a grave. “Death from the skies, from nowhere, from everywhere. Men think they have conquered the sky; I say they will fear the skies, fear the machines and the physics that carry them aloft. My lack of pain is the sign that I have been given this assignment and that I must carry it out.”

“Turn your hatred into blood-lust, Henri,” Vega pleaded with him. “You’re not just a soldier, not a machine — you’re the sword of Satan. Be all that he has commanded you to be. Do it. Do it!”

She saw the smile creep to his lips, and it was then that she noticed his erection, and she knew he had indeed changed. Henri Cazaux was not interested in aides, or soulmates, or advisers — he was interested in conquest. The dark master had told him that anything he desired was within his grasp. She had confirmed the voice. Now he was going to act upon that advice.

Her blouse and brassiere ripped off her body in his grasp as easily as if they were of paper. The creature inside Henri Cazaux was free once again, and this time there was no restraining it.

An hour later, Jo Ann Vega wondered with the darkest sense of doom if the country would survive what Henri Cazaux had in mind for it. If the pain and the blood she had just experienced was going to be multiplied by even a fraction of this country’s three hundred million inhabitants, she knew that it could very well not survive his onslaught.

Near Bedminster, New Jersey That Evening

“That is what I desire,” Cazaux told the men assembled around him. The staff meeting was in an isolated house in rural New Jersey, owned by Harold Lake through several layers of U.S. and offshore corporations, as safe from government scrutiny as possible. The night was warm and humid, but Cazaux’s security forces kept all of the windows and doors tightly closed. Human and canine patrols roamed the thirty-acre walled and gated estate, and electronic trip wires and sensors ringed the compound. Every room of the seven-bedroom home was occupied by an armed guard who constantly checked in with a security monitor.

The men present were members of Cazaux’s “senior staff,” organized much like an army battalion headquarters with operations and plans, intelligence, logistics, transportation, maintenance, security, and munitions staff officer. Of all of them, Harold Lake — who did not consider himself a staff officer but was generally in charge of procurement, purchasing, and finances for Cazaux’s organization — had been with the organization the longest. Surrounded by some of the world’s most wanted terrorists, smugglers, murderers, and mercenaries, Lake was definitely the most out-of-place person there.

The “security officer,” Tomas Ysidro, was probably the most notorious officer besides Cazaux himself, and Lake had to be careful at all times to not do or say anything to piss the bastard off. Bom and raised in Mexico, Ysidro had been one of the Colombian drug cartel’s deadliest enforcers before joining Cazaux’s small army, and he was quickly elevated to a status very nearly equal to Cazaux himself simply because no one else dared challenge him. Ysidro was in charge of recruitment and training, and his tactics and forms of discipline were a lot harsher than anything the Colombian drug lords used. Only Henri Cazaux’s strength and sheer force of superior will could keep Ysidro’s psychopathic tendencies in check. They were like two peas in a pod.

“Henri, you’re insane,” Lake declared. “I don’t believe it. You want to blow up three major airports in the United States?”

“What I want is revenge on the United States government for chasing me like a scared rabbit,” Cazaux said. “What I want is to see the people of this country tremble when they hear my name. What I want is to see this country, this so-called democracy, destroyed by its own military forces. They shot at me, Lake, they dared shoot at me! I want to destroy the American military by creating fear and distrust in them by their own people. I want to show the world what kind of butchers and wild dogs they really are.”

“Hey, Henri, you want it, you got it,” Ysidro said, taking his first post-meeting slug of bourbon from a bottle. “Man, this is gonna be awesome. We don’t just take out one plane, we take out the whole airport, the whole fucking airport! ” He laughed.

“Why, Henri?” Lake protested, ignoring Ysidro for the moment. “Why are you doing this? You’ve already got half the federal government on your tail. You’re already the most-wanted man in fifteen countries—”

“Shut up, Drip, you asshole,” Ysidro hissed to drown out Lake’s voice. Harold Lake shot an angry glance at Ysidro — he hated the nickname “Drip,” but everyone there used it in fear and deference of Ysidro. “The man gave us our orders, and now we march. You just need to bring us the money, mule.”

“Three airports within thirty days, all attacked by heavy cargo planes or commercial airliners filled with explosives,” Gregory Townsend, the British-born chief of plans and operations, mused. Townsend was a former British SAS commando, an expert in planning and setting up all sorts of military operations all around the world. He had lost an eye in a hostage-rescue situation in Belfast several years earlier, and after fifteen illustrious years with the British Army, had been sent packing with only a modest monthly stipend. When Cazaux invited him to join his organization, he readily agreed. “Considering a one- or two- million-dollar deposit per plane, plus a million for fuel, plus a million or two for explosives — we’re talking eight to nine million dollars for this operation, Henri, ten million tops. As I recall, we had a balance of eleven million in the war chest. This’ll tap us out. What sort of deal did you make with the client? I’d say at least ten million per target struck would be reasonable.”

“No client,” Cazaux said. “No fee. This I do for myself.” Many of the officers around him averted their eyes, disappointed in Cazaux’s decision but fearful of showing any hesitation or protest. Lake looked stunned, and showed it; Ysidro looked immensely pleased.

“So, Drip, you might as well close the bank accounts and convert the whole enchilada into greenbacks,” Ysidro said. Townsend nodded his agreement. “We expect the cash in three days. Towney, I want to review the aircraft list with you by tomorrow afternoon. We’ll have to rig up a trainer system, get charts of the targets, recruit some more flyboys, all that shit. There may be a way to get our hands on some military hardware — imagine using a couple Harpoon missiles or laser-guided bombs on O’Hare or LAX!”

Ysidro took another swig, chuckling at Cazaux’s stem expression, noting with relief that Cazaux’s anger seemed to be all directed at Lake. Ysidro was a good friend of Henri Cazaux’s — at least, if Cazaux had a friend, it was Tomas Ysidro — but he still didn’t want to show any weakness to his boss or to the other officers, ever. If Cazaux ever failed to make it back from one of his missions, Ysidro and Townsend would battle for control of the organization and its assets, and he had to appear strong at all times. Townsend was smart and tough, but all those years as a Brit officer gave him an air of superiority that made everyone distrust him.

“Relax, Henri, everything’s gonna be fine,” Ysidro said to Cazaux. “We got enough in reserve to get started on the explosives payloads for the first couple missions. Butcher and Faker can pick over that Seneschet warehouse in Massachusetts and see what they got, but it’ll be no sweat — I think we can pick up about seven or eight thousand kilos of ammonium nitrate from the waste-storage area, and we got about a thousand kilos of TNT in storage for the primer loads. The fuzing will be tougher — we may have to go out on the market for the first few. I got a contact in a National Guard armory in North Carolina where we might get some fuzes.”

“I have information on some military ordnance,” Townsend said. “Several Air National Guard units recently returned from a European deployment, and much of their ordnance is in warehouses right over at Stewart International awaiting transportation to their home units. Their inventory counts never come out right after a big deployment. We can get gravity bombs, incendiaries, night-vision gear, the works. Drip, I’ll need some cash for earnest money.”

“The name isn’t ‘Drip,’ you asshole, and there’s no fucking cash,” Lake finally snapped. All of the other officers turned to him in horror — all but Henri Cazaux, who had been looking in Lake’s direction for most of the meeting.

Ysidro cursed. “What the fuck are you talking about? We got eleven million fucking dollars in the bank, Drip. The last meeting before the Chico mission was only eight days ago, and before that we had twenty million.”

“That was before Korhonen flew that transport plane into San Francisco International and killed several hundred people,” Lake retorted angrily. “That was before three-quarters of the air traffic to the west coast was shut down. That was before every investor in Europe told me to fuck off backwards.”

“You telling us you blew eleven million dollars in the stock market just since yesterday…?”

“I’m telling you that I lost one hundred million dollars yesterday, including this organization’s eleven million, because you”—Lake jabbed a finger at Cazaux, who was still staring at him—“decided to go on a joyride and blow up SFO. I lost everything I have, damn you, everything! I’m broke! I’m worse than broke. I’m ruined…”

Ysidro was on him like a panther, and before Lake could blink, Ysidro had him pressed up against the wall, a knife point pressed into his throat. The other staff officers had surrounded the two to watch the execution. “I think,” Ysidro said, his face pressed right up against Lake’s so he could feel his last breath as it gushed from his lungs, “we are about to need a new logistics officer.”

“No,” Cazaux said evenly. “Let him speak.”

“This fucker’s ripping us off, man.”

“Let him speak, ” Cazaux ordered.

His voice did not change, but the force behind Cazaux’s order seemed to everyone several magnitudes higher than the first. Ysidro glared at Lake, then held his head steady, gave him a cut on his neck about two inches long, licked the rivulet of blood, then spit it back in Lake’s face. “Fucking bean-counter,” he growled. “Unfortunately, you live for now.” The air in the room seemed to relax as Ysidro backed away.

Lake was shaking like a man possessed, but more from anger than fear. He wiped blood from his eyes, put a handkerchief to the cut on his neck, and said, “I’ve been laundering money for this organization for three years, finding legitimate investments and creating legitimate business fronts, and I’ve done a very good job,” Lake said. “I’ve done a good job because I have been steering each mission, preparing the businesses beforehand.”

“You haven’t done shit, Drip,” Ysidro said. “We hardly see you, and all you give us is Jew banker’s mumbo- jumbo.”

“You think you can just walk into a bank with your terrorist checkbook and write a check for three or four million dollars?” Lake asked angrily. To Townsend he continued, “You think you can take seven million pounds sterling that you just got from an IRA bomber, convert it to dollars, and drop it in the automated teller machine at the corner bank, Townsend? The money has to look clean, and that takes work. The money has to be legitimately traceable down three dozen levels in the United States alone, and a dozen layers down in twenty other countries, all at the same time. Plus, you want me to research the financial on your targets, your clients, their governments, and their relations and principals all the way to the highest levels. I do that, each and every time, so when you make the deal or make the hit, we know exactly what all the players are going to do or say all over the world.

“I can get you what you want and keep the cash in this organization flowing, but only if I call the shots,” Lake went on. “I was fully exposed when that LET hit the terminal, Henri, fully exposed. I lost everything! Now this damned psycho pulls a knife on me and tries to pin the blame on me. Well, go ahead and fucking kill me, Henri, because if you don’t do it, some Japanese or South African investor’s hit squad is going to do it.”

“He wants to die so bad, Henri, I will be glad to oblige him.” Ysidro laughed, brandishing the knife again. “No bean-counter is going to tell me what to do.”

“You broke faith with this organization, Harold,” Cazaux said in a low voice. “The Army doesn’t wait for clearance from a banker before beginning operations. You knew that. Your duty was to keep the funds safe and secure, not engage in wild investment deals.”

“Henri, you can’t keep eleven million dollars in cash in a shoe box under the bed,” Lake said. “You’re running an international organization, and you can’t efficiently run it with cash. You wanted real estate, business assets, licenses, government contracts, visas, letters of introduction, legitimate tax returns — you can’t use bloody cash to pay for legitimate stuff. You can launder a little bit of the stuff offshore in bank accounts, but sure as shit, the FBI or Treasury will eventually track it down, close down your U.S. operations and probably your overseas accounts. If you want legitimacy in the United States you have to dive deeper, get more creative, do more mainstream stuff. And you can’t do the same routine two years in a row, or even two months in a row, because the government tracks that stuff quarterly.”

“I am tired of this sheep’s bleating, Captain,” Ysidro said. He reached out with the speed of a cobra and grasped Lake around the neck, digging his fingers deep into the financier’s flesh. “Allow me to put an end to it.”

“Let him go, Tomas,” Cazaux ordered. He pulled out his .45 caliber automatic. “If he is to die, I will do it.” The sight of the gun pleased Ysidro, who released Lake and stepped back to watch. “Speak, Harold,” Cazaux said. “Say your last words quickly. Tell me why you should not be executed for what you have done.”

At first Lake couldn’t breathe, which made him panic even more, but the sight of the big pistol squeezed the air out of his lungs. “I got one thing to say, Henri, and if you don’t like it, you might as well blow my head off, because my career on the Street is dead anyway. I’ve got an eigh- teen-million-dollar loan coming to me later today,” Lake said — not pleading, not whimpering, just stating a fact. “I can turn that into fifty million dollars if you follow my—” “You got our money?” Ysidro asked, grabbing Lake by the lapels instead of the neck this time. “You better hand it over, bean-counter.”

“Henri, you want to start a series of operations against U.S. airports, repeating the attack on San Francisco International,” Lake said, ignoring Ysidro and looking at Cazaux’s fiery eyes. “That’s fine with me. All I’m asking is that you let me pick your targets for you.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, bean-counter!”

“No, I’m not. Listen to me, Henri. I lost over one hundred million dollars when you attacked SFO last night. But someone made money on that attack, Henri, big money. They make money because they predict in what direction a group of stocks will go.”

“This is bullshit, Henri,” Ysidro said angrily — he had lost track of this conversation long ago. Money, women, and action were the only activities Tomas Ysidro really understood — everything else was bullshit. “He’s talkin’ buying and selling fucking stocks with our money. Off this sonofabitch, man.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Lake said. “I’ve got it all set up. Attack U.S. airports if you want to — just attack the ones that I tell you to do, or give me a few days’ notice before you begin an operation against an airport. Give me time to get my contracts lined up. I guarantee you, Henri, we’ll make millions every time we do an operation. Best of all, it’s one hundred percent legitimate. One hundred percent!”

Cazaux looked as if he wasn’t listening, and Lake closed his eyes, not wanting to see the muzzle flash of the big .45—but instead he heard Cazaux say, “Speak, Harold.” Lake opened his eyes. The .45 was lowered. Cazaux was staring at him, but Lake knew he now had his attention. It was now or never, Harold…

“Listen, Henri, here’s how it works. We do a put-option contract.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?”

“Listen, dammit,” Lake said. “I’m talking about fast money, one hundred percent legitimate. I’m talking about turning a few thousand dollars into hundreds of thousands or even millions.

“Let’s suppose you own one hundred shares of stock that you bought at seven dollars a share, but now it’s selling on the market at ten dollars a share,” Lake began. “You’re not going to sell your stock unless it drops below eight dollars a share because you bought it at seven and you’d start losing money—”

“What is this shit, Henri…?”

“I want your stock, but I don’t have the money to pay for it,” Lake went on hurriedly. “I think your stock is going to go down to five dollars a share soon, but if I wait until then, you’ll sell your shares to someone else at or above seven. And besides, 1 still don’t have the money to buy your shares even at five dollars a share. But I’m still not out of the game, because I’m willing to pay you cash for an option to buy your stock. Follow me so far?” Cazaux nodded, but Lake knew he was getting only a few more seconds, and only because he had been a loyal lieutenant of Cazaux’s for so long.

“We agree to do the deal. I pay you fifty dollars earnest money, and we write a contract that says that if the stock goes down below eight dollars a share within the next two months, I have the option of buying your shares at any time within that two months. If the stock stays at or above eight at the end of sixty days, the contract expires and nothing happens, and you keep the fifty—”

“I thought you said you didn’t have the money to buy the stock,” Townsend interjected. Of the senior staff, Townsend was by far the most intelligent and worldly of them all — Lake knew he had to not only convince Cazaux that he was honest and sincere, but he had to explain everything carefully to Townsend or it would not work.

“I’m not buying your stock, Towney,” Lake replied. “I’m buying an option to buy your stock. If the terms of the contract are not met, I don’t have the option. If they are, I can choose whether or not to buy. If I buy, I’ve got to have the cash. But the contract I hold has value — I can sell it to someone who wants the stock, for cash. I’m not trying to own the stock — all I want is cash.”

Lake had totally lost Ysidro by this time. Most of the others were watching Cazaux. The arms dealer was carefully paying attention, and Lake believed he understood what was happening and where Lake was leading him. Townsend was starting to get confused. “But how can you get the bloody cash,” he asked irritably, “and why do you have to pay someone to buy their stock?”

“I’m paying them to pledge their stock, to put it aside until the contract has either been executed or it expires,” Lake explained. “Your stock is at ten. I think your stock is going to go to five, and I’m willing to pay you cash to promise to sell it to me and no one else if it goes below eight. You basically think I’m nuts, but you want my cash, so you agree to the deal, take the cash, sign the contract, and put your stock in escrow. The cash I pay you is yours no matter what happens.” Townsend nodded that he understood. Ysidro took another swig of bourbon, belched, and a few other staff officers fidgeted uneasily, intrigued but bored and anxious to get this over with.

“But how in bloody hell will you know if a stock that you’ve written this contract for will go down like that—” And then Townsend stopped — and Lake knew then that the English terrorist was on board. “So you’re suggesting…”

“We target our attacks in order to drive the price of the stock in the direction we want,” Lake explained, a broad smile on his face now. “We want United Airlines stock to go down, so we hit a United terminal or repair facility. The price of the stock hits rock bottom, and we clean up.

“We can play this game the other way, too,” Lake went on. “If airlines go down, other airline-related companies like airplane manufacturers and petroleum companies also go down, and oil prices and other transportation stocks, like auto manufacturers, go way up. We write a contract to buy auto or railroad stocks at a certain price, or write a commodities option contract to do the same with oil, or gold, or aluminum. When the stock or the commodity zooms past the strike price, we execute.”

“So what about the federal authorities?” Townsend asked, a trace of old English civility creeping into his voice now that he better understood Lake’s plan. “If we start making money like you suggest, won’t the federal regulatory agencies become curious?”

“Yes,” Lake admitted, after gauging Cazaux’s expression. More than information, Lake felt, Cazaux was looking for honesty, and if Lake ever had to be one hundred and ten percent up-front, it was now. “I don’t think you can do this for very long — eventually someone will question all these coincidences…” His voice regained a lot of the confidence and steel that he had lost since the incident at SFO. “But I think we can plan Henri’s three strikes against carefully selected targets, take the proceeds, close up shop, and get away clean before the Securities and Exchange Commission alerts the Treasury Department and the FBI.”

“Now you’ve got three American federal agencies chasing us…?”

“These options trades are done tens of thousands of times a day,” Lake explained. “Hundreds of millions of dollars in options are traded every business day. The federal agencies have rules and enforcement officers examining these trades, but it works slowly, and they look for the big fish. Besides, we’re not stealing the money — we’re just diverting it, spreading it around, with most of it spread in our direction. Lots of other traders will be making money, and the guy who just lost money one day will make it all back, plus a little extra, the next day or the next week. This sounds like big bucks, gents, but it’s small potatoes — most big-time traders need to make ten million a day just to keep their spurs.

“We’ll be outgunned by the really big traders, the superbig investors and brokers and even some governments. That’s the time we take our profits and step back. We’ll be lost in the confusion — a perfect opportunity to escape. The feds will go after the elephants, and they’ll let the ants scoop up the crumbs and shoo — except our ‘crumbs’ will be counted in the millions, maybe even the tens of millions of dollars.”

“Henri, this bastard is givin’ us a snow job,” Ysidro said, totally lost and completely exasperated by Lake’s attempted explanation. “We gotta get the money this asshole stole from us back, that’s the fuckin’ bottom line.”

Cazaux looked at Ysidro, then Townsend, then at Lake, nodded solemnly, and said in response, “Harold, your plan of action has merit, but it still does not erase what you have done — risk this entire army’s very existence by compromising our financial resources. It is nothing short of treason and conspiracy. However, because of your long years of service to us and because I feel your plan should be considered by the general staff, you will not be tried of treason and conspiracy for a period of twelve hours.

“In that twelve hours, while under ’round-the-clock arrest, you are to turn all funds belonging to this organization over to me.”

“No problem,” Lake said. “I can have the eleven million dollars in your offshore accounts in three—”

“In cash,” Ysidro said, “not any of this Jew-banker contract-note shit.”

“In cash,” Cazaux agreed.

Lake swallowed hard, the back of his mind racing trying to determine the best way to transport a truckful of money to the Owl’s Nest from a friendly bank. He quickly determined that it was not possible. “Henri, it can’t be done in twelve hours,” Lake said. “One or two million, yes, but not eleven. The fastest way to get the money is from the Federal Reserve Bank in New York or Boston, but we don’t want to stir up that hornet’s nest, which means we try going to the commercial and private banks, which will take time. Not many banks carry that kind of cash on hand, which means we’d have to go to several banks, which greatly increases the likelihood of—”

“Then you will die, Harold,” Cazaux said, raising the big .45 again.

“Wait!” Lake shouted. “I can get four… no, five million with just a phone call. I’ve dealt with the Win Millions Casino in Atlantic City for emergency cash deals in the past — they can divert five million to me in just a few hours, before the gaming commission inspectors count their receipts tomorrow morning. They’ll charge twenty percent—”

“Which you will pay out of your own funds,” Cazaux said.

“Of course, of course,” Lake agreed. Twenty-percent interest for a one-week loan worked out to an astronomical one million percent compounded annual interest rate, but it was his only hope right now. “But Henri, the other six million should stay in the various offshore accounts. We can’t write those option contracts with cash.” The gun was still trained on him, distrust showing in every man’s face around Lake. “Henri, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I’ve got a loan commitment for eighteen million dollars in my hands. I pay Fraga at the Win Millions Casino six million, I need four million for my other creditors, that leaves you with the rest of the—”

“You will pay us fifteen million dollars,” Cazaux said. “Five million now, in cash, and ten million credited to our offshore numbered accounts. You will keep the rest.”

“But… but I can’t do that,” Lake protested. “I’ve got to cover thirty different trust and escrow accounts. The four million is just enough to hold off any legal action for—” “You will agree to these terms or die,” Cazaux said. “That is your only concern right now.”

“Henri, I can’t step on the floor of any exchange or even talk to a broker unless I—” Cazaux pulled the hammer back on the .45. The sound of the hammer locking into place was as loud as a church bell in Lake’s ears. “All right, all right!” Lake shouted. “Fifteen million for you. I agree. Five million now, ten in your accounts.” He paused, looking to Cazaux and Townsend, afraid to look at Ysidro, and added, “To be used for Operation Storming Heaven, yes?”

“What the hell is Operation Storming Heaven?” Townsend asked.

“It’s an appropriate name for this project,” Lake said. “Comes from a quote by the Roman tribune Quintus Hor- atius Flaccus: ‘Nothing is too high for the daring of mortals; they storm heaven in their folly.’ Quite good, don’t you think?”

Ysidro looked disgusted and angry enough to chew nails, but Cazaux nodded his approval. It was one of those touches that Lake knew that Cazaux appreciated — having a title for any operation he was about to undertake was important to him. Cazaux decocked the pistol and stuck it back in his belt. Lake had to look behind him to see what would have gotten ruined had he pulled the trigger. A nineteenth-century oil painting of Abraham Lincoln, once appraised at over a hundred thousand dollars, would have needed extensive cleaning and repairs to remove Lake’s brains and bone fragments if his explanation of Operation Storming Heaven did not convince Henri Cazaux.

Cazaux put the question to a vote of the members of his general staff — merely a formality, because almost no one ever voted against Henri Cazaux. Tomas Ysidro was the only one to vote against the plan, asking again that Lake be executed for what he’d done with the organization’s funds. “I’ll be on you like stink on shit, Drip,” Ysidro told Lake as the staff members were given their instructions to begin planning the three attacks. “You get out of line once, just once, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ ass off. Cazaux will bitch, and he might even throw me out on the street, but you’ll still be dead like you fuckin’ deserve.”

Ysidro then pulled up a chair and sat right beside Lake, staring at him and taking in every last word as Lake pulled out his cellular telephone and Apple Newton PDA and made the first calls and satellite E-mail messages, first to his office to verify the receipt of the loan money, then to Leonardo Fraga, the vice president and general manager of the Win Millions Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. Under Ysidro’s murderous stare, it was hard to keep his fingers from shaking as he began the first few steps of Operation Storming Heaven.

Beale Air Force Base, Yuba City, California Two Days Later

“The board has reached an initial evaluation,” Colonel Emerson Starr began. He was the operations group commander from McClellan Air Force Base appointed as the chief of the accident investigation board dealing with the crash of the F-16 at McClellan two days earlier. “The scope of the accident investigation has been greatly reduced because of the involvement of the FBI, Marshals Service, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms — in essence, this board can’t come up with a ruling on the cause of the crash because we haven’t been granted access to the data now in the hands of the FBI. We know there was an explosion, and we know the F-16 was in close proximity to the explosion, but we don’t know anything about the explosion itself. Therefore we can’t absolutely conclude that the explosion caused the damage on the F-16. However, based on radio transmissions, ground observers, and a cursory examination of the wreckage, the board determines that the probable cause of the accident was due to the F-16’s uncontrolled collision with the ground following sustaining engine and hydraulic damage due to proximity of a large ground explosion at Mather Jetport.”

Starr shifted uncomfortably in his seat and continued. “The preliminary report of this accident board in the matter of the death of the pilot Major Linda McKenzie is incomplete; however, we are prepared to issue the following statement to Air Combat Command, the chief of staff of the Air Force, and the adjutant general of the state of California: the death of Major McKenzie was due to violation of Air Combat Command regulation 55–16, ‘F-16 Aircrew Procedures,’ paragraph 5-53, and Technical Order 1F-16A- 1, section three, paragraph—”

“That’s bullshit!” Colonel Al Vincenti snapped, jumping to his feet. “Don’t pull this crap, Colonel. This was not a pilot error accident, damn you.”

“Sit down, Colonel Vincenti,” Starr said firmly.

“I want to address the board, sir.”

“The board has already heard your testimony, Colonel,” Starr replied. “Sit down or I’ll have you removed.”

“You can try, Starr.”

Colonel Gaspar was now on his feet in front of Vincenti. “Better sit down, Rattler,” he said. “You’re skating on real thin ice.”

“I assure you, Colonel, I have full authority to hold you in contempt if you don’t shut up,” Starr said. “Now, are you going to be quiet and let me finish, or will I have to ask you to leave?”

Vincenti riveted Starr with his angry stare.

“Colonel Gaspar, can you please escort Colonel Vincenti outside?”

“He’ll be fine, Colonel,” Gaspar said, pulling Vincenti back into his seat.

“Thank you, sir,” Starr said. “As I was saying, Major McKenzie violated several aircrew regulations that specifically directed her to eject if she was below two thousand feet above ground level in case of hydraulic failure, catastrophic engine failure, uncontrollability, low airspeed, inability to maintain altitude, unsafe gear indications, flight control transients or failure, inability to fly an approach pattern, electrical failure, center of gravity problems — the list goes on. By every account, and by the testimony of her fellow pilots and technical representatives of the aircraft manufacturer, Major McKenzie should have ejected much sooner and should not have attempted a landing.

“However, the board doubts whether Major McKenzie had full knowledge of exactly what was wrong with her aircraft, since it was dark and she had minimal cockpit indications,” Starr continued. “Colonel Vincenti on her wing also could not know the exact condition of her aircraft. The board concludes that it was reasonable for Major McKenzie to attempt a flameout landing with the indications she had. Considering the densely populated areas where the unmanned F-16 would have landed had she ejected, the board also finds that Major McKenzie’s and Colonel Vincenti’s actions in bringing the damaged aircraft to McClellan Air Force Base saved dozens and perhaps hundreds of lives.

“The board is therefore concluding that the actions of Major McKenzie and Colonel Vincenti were in keeping with the directives and tenets of the United States Air Force regarding safe operation over populated areas, and we conclude that Major Linda McKenzie did indeed risk and eventually sacrifice her own life to save others; although she would have been following prescribed directives by ejecting, and she is indeed guilty of not following those regulations which would have saved her life, failing to do so saved many other lives and much property damage, and Major McKenzie should be commended for her actions.”

Colonel Starr then looked over at Vincenti, affixing him with his own angry glare, and added, “The board further finds that damage sustained to Colonel Vincenti’s F-16 could have caused the malfunctions in the radios and videotape gun camera being questioned by the Air Combat Command flight evaluation board. Of course, these conclusions are preliminary, since we do not have access to information about the explosion, but it is reasonable for this board to conclude that Colonel Vincenti’s aircraft sustained much the same damage as Major McKenzie’s plane, and the malfunctions that Colonel Vincenti said were the cause of him disregarding instructions to land could have existed. Given that Colonel Vincenti’s last acknowledged instructions were to pursue the suspect aircraft, in our opinion his actions were consistent with his orders as he could have known them at the time. These preliminary findings will be passed along to the flight evaluation board convened to examine Colonel Vincenti’s actions subsequent to the crash at McClellan.

“I remind everyone present that the findings of this board are classified confidential, and you are instructed not to reveal any of them or discuss this matter with the press, which I understand is waiting outside. If you are questioned by the press, refer them to Air Force Public Affairs. Until such time as this board is allowed access to data about the explosion at Mather, this board stands in recess.”

Everyone in the room rose and departed — everyone except Vincenti and Gaspar, who returned to their seats after the board members had departed. Vincenti, weary and haggard, looked as if he had just been beat up. “Your mouth is going to get you in big trouble one of these days, my friend,” Gaspar said to his second-in-command. “You need to make friends with guys like Starr, not shout him down.” “I thought he was going to continue the press’s and the government’s feeding frenzy and trash Linda, like they’ve been trashing me and the unit,” Vincenti said. “I’m getting tired of this shit, Chuck. I feel so fucking isolated, like it’s our fault about San Francisco.”

“Since when do you care what anyone else thinks, Rattler?”

“Since I see and hear this stuff ten times a day in the papers, on the radio and TV,” Vincenti said. “Everywhere I go, I hear the same thing: I’m the guy that missed Cazaux, I’m the guy who let Cazaux go, I’m the one that screwed up. I’m starting to believe all this shit.”

“It’s all going to continue, Colonel,” a voice behind them said. They turned and found Admiral Ian Hardcastle standing in the center aisle listening to them, with his aide guarding the door to the room to keep anyone else out. “The government needs a fall guy, and you’re it. McKenzie’s name will be cleared — yours won’t. In fact, with Major McKenzie’s name cleared, you’ll appear doubly at fault.” “You know what I think, Hardcastle? I think you’re whipping the press up with all this talk of beefing up air defense,” Vincenti said angrily, getting to his feet to confront the retired officer. “I’ve seen disasters like this die away after a day or two, but you’re not letting this one die away. Where the hell do you get off?”

“Cazaux will strike again, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “I’m convinced of it.”

“So now you’re fuckin’ Kamac the Magnificent, huh?” Vincenti retorted. “What you’re doing here is screwing with people’s lives and careers just for your own political bullshit plans.”

“That was true two days ago when we showed up here, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “That’s why Vice President Martindale and the rest of them are here.”

“But you’re not?” Gaspar asked.

“Not since I talked to you the first time,” Hardcastle replied. “Not after getting the FBI briefing on Cazaux. He’s deadly and very dangerous. Yes, I believe he’ll strike again. But the government is trying to calm people down by telling them that Cazaux is too crazy to organize another attack, that it was a fluke, that the manhunt will track him down before he can strike again. The FBI’s own profile on him says otherwise. The government is also saying that Air National Guard units will be restrained in their overland operations and that no other military precautions are necessary — there’s even talk of doing away with all continental air defense units completely. We’re giving Cazaux the perfect opportunity to strike.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, you don’t know shit,” Gaspar said. “You’re just guessing.”

“And all your guesses just happen to follow the party line—your party’s line,” Vincenti added. “You’re just as bad as Wilkes and the rest of the Justice Department that are jumping in my shit.”

“I’m trying to keep the government from completely dismantling the home-defense infrastructure of this country,” Hardcastle said. “That’s the truth, and that’s from the heart. You’re a career air defense pilot — you can tell if I’m bull-shitting you or not. Now, you can just sit back and let the Justice Department and the Air Force cut your nuts off and trash your career, or you can cooperate with me and my investigation. If my agenda helps Vice President Martindale and the Project 2000 Task Force, that’s fine, I believe in his candidacy and what the Task Force is trying to achieve. You don’t have to. But I’m running my show the way I want. I’m not a mouthpiece for anyone.”

“No, but you want me to be your puppet, right?” Vincenti asked. “You want to use me as the poor downtrodden sob story while you lambaste the White House and anyone else who gets in your way.”

“I want you to teach me what you know, Al,” Hardcastle said. “You know air defense — I’ve been out of it for too long. Yeah, I’ve got a political agenda, but I’ve also got specific ideas to help the system we have right now, no matter who is in the White House. I need your help to finalize my ideas. In return I can help put you back on flying status, keep your career intact, and help your unit recover from the whitewashing job you’re undergoing right now. I’m not saying you and your unit and maybe the entire air defense community will be toast if you don’t help me, but you can read the handwriting on the wall just as good as I can.”

Vincenti and Gaspar remained silent, defiantly staring at Hardcastle as if trying to recognize any hint of his hidden agenda. Hardcastle let them stare for a moment, then he turned to his aide standing by the door and said, “Marc, show the Colonel here who’s waiting to speak to him.”

Colonel Marc Sheehan, Hardcastle’s aide, unlocked and opened the door behind him, and immediately a throng of reporters tried to muscle their way inside, shouting questions. A few point-and-shoot cameras were poked through the door, rapid-firing at random for pictures.

“I’m not talking to the press,” Vincenti said. “No comment.”

Hardcastle motioned to Sheehan, who not-too-politely pushed back the reporters and closed and locked the door again. “Sure, you keep on with your no-comment routine, Colonel — without my help this time,” Hardcastle said. “You think you look bad on TV now — by tomorrow night’s evening news, you’ll be called either Cazaux’s accomplice or the biggest American military screwup since George Custer.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not talking about you, Colonel — I’m talking about your career, your future, your retirement, the continued existence of your unit, and everything regarding air defense you’ve ever believed in. You can’t fight the Fourth Estate yourself.”

“So now you’re blackmailing me, right?” Vincenti asked. “I either help you or swim with the sharks myself.” “I’ve got work to do, Colonel,” Hardcastle said simply. “You’re a big boy, an officer and a gentleman. You think you can fight your own battles, go ahead and fight. I’ll be fighting too — I just wanted to be fighting together with you, not separately. But I can do it separately. You think you can?”

Vincenti and Gaspar were silent once again. Hardcastle had had enough. He turned and headed for the door. “Have a nice life, Colonel,” he said. “I’ll lead these bozos away from the front door — slip out in a minute or two. But one last word of advice — try not to make it look like you’re running from them. Believe me, you can’t.”

Hardcastle had just reached the door and was about to open it when he heard, “All right, all right. I’ll help you.” The retired Coast Guard and Border Security Force officer turned and nodded at Vincenti and Gaspar. “Hangar Bravo, briefing room, six A.M. tomorrow,” Hardcastle said. “Bring the original gun camera tapes.”

“There are no original tapes. I told you, I told the board — the recorder was damaged.”

“Colonel, save that rap for the flight evaluation board,” Hardcastle said. “I need your honest inputs. Believe me, no FEB will see or hear those tapes — they belong to the U.S. Senate as of right now, and no one in the military below the Secretary of Defense has the authority to demand them.”

“I’ve got to get permission to be excused from the FEB and released from quarters.”

“It’s been done. You’re a special expert consultant and witness in a Senate investigation — your flight evaluation board and your court-martial have been suspended indefinitely.”

“What court-martial? What in hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, that’s right, you probably didn’t know,” Hardcastle said, a wickedly satisfied smile on his face. “Tell him, Marc.”

“Air Combat Command was directed by the Secretary of Defense and the President to convene a court-martial,” Sheehan said. “Dereliction of duty, actions unbecoming an officer, disobeying a direct and lawful order. Regardless of the outcome of the flight evaluation board, you were going to be summarily court-martialed, sentenced to four years restricted duty — probably as a warehouse officer in Greenland — reduction in grade to captain, then given a less-than- honorable discharge, maybe even a dishonorable discharge. We’ve seen the paperwork — it’s been signed and approved.”

“And you were going to just walk out of here and let this happen?” Vincenti moaned, his eyes wide in utter disbelief. “You were going to let me get busted if I didn’t cooperate with you?”

“You seem to think this is a game we’re playing here, Colonel Vincenti,” Hardcastle shot back. “You seem to think you can beat your chest and take everybody on. Let me assure you, it’s not a game. I am deadly serious when I say that Henri Cazaux is going to strike again; I’m serious when I say I’ve got a plan to stop him; and I’m serious when I say I need your help. Now, I didn’t sign those court-martial papers — your fellow blue-suiters did, the ones you dedicated your life to almost twenty years ago. I stopped it from happening. Who are you going to help now?”

Vincenti stepped over to Hardcastle — followed closely by Gaspar, ready to intervene if he was needed. But instead of venting his frustration and anger on Hardcastle or Sheehan, Vincenti held out a hand, and Hardcastle took it. “Before I forget what you did for me, before I remember you’re a fucking politician now,” Vincenti said in a low voice, “thank you.”

“Thank you for trusting me — and I hope I can keep your trust,” Hardcastle said. “Now, listen up: you and Colonel Gaspar stand beside me — right beside me, not in back of me. Don’t try to push your way through the crowd — Marc will do the pushing. Colonel Gaspar, you give them the nocomment routine — after all, you’re the military and you’re not on trial. Al, you try to answer every question they throw at you — you won’t be able to, but you have to look like you’ve got nothing to hide. Turn toward the reporter asking you questions, make eye contact but ignore the cameras. Don’t react to a question, don’t get pissed off. Think first, then go ahead and answer. Don’t listen to what I’m saying. I’m not your lawyer, and we can’t look like we’re conspiring against telling the truth. Don’t worry about what I’ll be saying — believe me, we’ll be saying the same thing.”

“The judge directed us not to talk to the press.”

“You work for the U.S. Senate now, Al — and you’re fighting for your career, remember that,” Hardcastle said. “We control the situation now. Defend your uniform after we get Henri Cazaux.”

Memphis International Airport Three Days Later

“Memphis Tower, Express-314 with you, GPS three-six left,” the pilot of the Universal Express Boeing 727 reported.

“Express-314, good evening, ident,” Bill Gayze, one of the six controllers on duty at Memphis International Airport’s control tower, responded. By force of habit, he scanned outside the slanted windows at the direction of the ILS (Instrument Landing System) outer marker, about six miles to the south. He could see a string of lights in the sky, all flying northward — airliners’ landing lights. Between eleven P.M. and one A.M., when the big overnight package company Universal Express had its incoming flights (Universal’s huge package-sorting “superhub” was located at the north part of Memphis International), it was normal to have one aircraft landing every sixty to ninety seconds.

Gayze checked the tower BRITE (Bright Radar Indicator Tower Equipment) scope, the short-range three-dimensional radar mounted high up on the wall where everyone could see it. An aircraft data block on the top of the BRITE scope in the control tower of Memphis International illuminated briefly — the Delta flight was number seven for landing. “314, radar contact, report five miles out, you’re number seven.”

“Express-314, wilco.” The Universal Express flight was using one of the new GPS instrument approaches, in which aircraft maneuvered from point to point on an instrument approach by means of satellite navigation. The satellite approaches, coupled with differential GPS signals from a nearby radio station, ensured incredible precision for arriving flights — using GPS, an experienced airline captain- could make a perfect landing and could even taxi most of the way to his gate, without ever seeing the pavement. Except for an aircraft emergency like an unsafe landing gear, going “missed approach” (where a pilot flies his plane within one or two hundred feet of the ground but has to abort the landing because he or she couldn’t see the runway) was almost a thing of the past here in Memphis. The added safety and reliability of the GPS approaches meant that the airport managers and the FAA could safely increase the traffic here at Memphis — every runway at Memphis, and indeed almost every runway in the country, now could have its own precision instrument approach. The concept of “blind flying” and “nonprecision approaches” had almost been eliminated, thanks to GPS.

Gayze’s thoughts were interrupted by a call on the interfacility interphone: “Memphis Tower, Romeo-17.”

“Memphis Tower.”

“Hi, Bill, Doug on seventeen.” Doug Latimer, at the sector-seventeen console, was a D-2 controller at Memphis TRACON (Terminal Radar Approach Control), located one hundred and eighty feet below Gayze’s feet at the base of the tower at Memphis International. The D-2 controller assisted the sector radar controller by making phone calls to other air traffic control agencies, making radio calls as necessary to back up the radar controller, and maintaining the computerized tracking strips on each flight assigned to the controller. “Arrival report visual three-six left for Universal Express 107, a Shorts 300, one-five miles to the southwest at eight thousand. Can’t find his strip. Can you handle him?”

“Sure,” Gayze said. Every aircraft on an IFR flight plan has a “strip,” or a piece of paper used by air traffic controllers to monitor and log a plane’s progress. All Universal Express flights flew on IFR flight plans — company policy — and they were carefully tracked from start to finish by both the company and the FA A. A tracking strip was generated by a Flight Service Station or an Air Route Traffic Control Center and electronically passed from sector to sector as the plane progressed. Although it was not unheard of for a plane to lose its “strip,” it was pretty unusual these days.

A plane without a strip was not officially “in the system” and was handled on a workload-permitting basis. This guy was lucky — it wasn’t too busy at the moment. Right now there were almost one hundred and fifty planes of all sizes scattered around Universal Express’s “super hub,” loading up and preparing for departure — it was busy, but not too bad to handle this one straggler.

“Tell him he can have runway two-seven if he wants it,” Gayze said.

Runway two-seven lay across the northern part of the airport, right beside Universal Express’s freight and package delivery complex. Normally it was a mad race for Universal’s pilots to get to their cargo gates ahead of the others — this guy seemed to be taking it easy.

“Stand by,” Latimer said. Gayze could hear the controller’s conversation with the pilot over the phone line, then: “Okay, Bill, he’s taking vectors to two-seven at six thousand feet, two thousand inside ten, D.L.”

“Approved, B.G.,” Gayze responded, passing the information to the tower controllers handling arrivals to runway two-seven. “How’s it looking out there tonight, Doug? Busy?”

“I think every plane in Texas is heading your way tonight, Bill,” Latimer said.

“Great,” Gayze said wearily. “Ask your boys to vector the southwest arrivals south of Tunica, we’re starting to bunch up.” The string of lights aiming at runway three-six was starting to get longer and more tightly packed, and the flights were coming in faster. Each airplane under instrument flight rules in the airspace around Memphis International had a protective “cylinder” at least six miles in diameter and two thousand feet thick, with the plane in the center, which could not be violated under any circumstance. If the pilots could see the runway or a preceding aircraft and advised the controller of that, Gayze could tighten the spacing up to about two miles and five hundred feet, but most pilots flying at night were too busy scanning their instruments and running checklists to accept responsibility for separation. Things were going smoothly now, but one plane going too fast or too slow could create a whipsaw effect that could cause problems very quickly. Better to start extending the traffic now, rather than wait.

“You got it, Bill, vector southwest arrivals south of Tunica, D.L.,” Latimer replied. “Talk at you later. ’Bye.”

“D.G., ’bye.” Gayze took a sip of coffee, laced with a little fat-free chocolate milk this time to boost the caffeine level. Things didn’t calm down in the tower until after one A.M., nearly four hours away, and it was looking like a busy night. He needed to stay sharp.

“He wants to take me over to runway two-seven,” the young pilot in the right seat of the Shorts 330–200 cargo plane said. “I said okay. He sounded like he was trying to help me out.”

Henri Cazaux was in the back of the Shorts, inspecting his deadly cargo, when he heard the call over his wireless intercom. He raised his microphone to his lips: “Follow his vectors, but do not accelerate,” Cazaux said. “I’ll be up there in a minute.” He then continued his inspection.

Although boxy and rather odd-looking, the Northern Ireland-built Shorts 330–200 was a popular short-range turboprop commuter/cargo plane — it had even been purchased by the U.S. Air Force, Army, and National Guard as a short-range utility aircraft. Over two hundred had been built for small airlines or major airline partners, carrying up to thirty passengers or 7,500 pounds of cargo. The twenty- year-old plane no longer flew for the U.S. military, and was now flown only by a handful of commuter and cargo services around the world. The used-airplane market was full of them, and it was easy and relatively inexpensive to build a small fleet of them and to train pilots to fly the small “trash-hauler.” Cazaux’s bird was a freighter version of the Model 300–200, called a C-23B “Sherpa” in the U.S. Air Force, modified with a rear cargo ramp and integral load rollers in the floor.

Tonight, the Shorts was a bomber.

Cazaux was inspecting three LD3 cargo containers, standard airline-use baggage, cargo, or mail containers, each filled with two thousand pounds of a mixture of waste ammonium nitrate rocket propellant, stolen from an industrial- waste storage facility in western Massachusetts, and TNT. The three containers were chained together, and the forward container was chained to a quick-release lever attached to the forward cargo-bay deck. A fourth pallet in the rear of the plane carried a six-foot-diameter pilot parachute and a forty-foot-diameter main cargo parachute, cabled to the LD3 containers.

This setup comprised a functional and tested parachute- extraction system, similar to the kind used by many tactical transport planes, including the Shorts 300. At the appropriate time, the pilot parachute would be released and inflated in the aircraft’s slipstream, applying tension to the three LD3 containers. Once over the target, the pilot parachute would be allowed to release the main parachute, and as soon as the main ’chute fully opened, it would drag the containers out of the Shorts’ cargo bay. Deceleration or G- sensors were installed in each container to set off the explosives one second after hitting the target, which would allow the containers to break through the roof of the target before detonating.

Satisfied that all was ready, Cazaux made his way back up to the cockpit and put on a headset. “Say again your last, Roberts?”

“I’m using the Universal call sign you gave me, Captain,” the young pilot responded, “and I asked for vectors to runway three-six right, as ordered. Approach Control asked me if I wanted the Universal runway instead, two- seven…”

“You should have replied no,” Cazaux said. “I ordered you to approach on three-six.”

“Sir, in my judgment it would have appeared very suspicious to not accept vectors to two-seven,” the pilot said. “Approach Control said I would be number two for landing on two-seven, but number eight on three-six right. The winds are calm, so all runways are in use tonight. I felt I had no choice.”

“Get a clearance back to three-six right immediately, Roberts,” Cazaux hissed. “You are not paid to exercise your judgment, you are paid to fly as you are directed. Now get a clearance back on course.”

As Roberts got back on the radio, Cazaux checked the portable GPS satellite navigation receiver’s moving-map display. They were many miles off course now, almost beyond the extended centerline of three-six right. It might be too late to get two-seven now, and their mission timing was way off. “You had better check your timing, and do whatever it takes to get back on course and back on time,” Cazaux warned his young pilot. “I want no more errors in judgment or you’ll be a dead man.”

A few moments later, the interfacility interphone came alive again: “Bill, Doug, Sierra-12. Universal-107 changed his mind again and now wants three-six right.”

“Bless him,” Gayze said impatiently, being careful (after listening to his controller tapes many times with a supervisor present) not to swear. This was not the time for new pilots to be messing around with multiple requests and weird clearances. “Send him over to me. I’ll give him three-six left and try to fit him in on the right. At least I’ll get him out of your hair, B.G.”

“Thanks, Bill, I owe you. Here he comes. D.L. ’Bye.”

A few moments later, the pilot of the Universal Express Shorts 300 checked in: “Memphis Tower, Universal Express-107, with you descending to two thousand, crossing Arkabutla, requesting vectors ILS three-six right.”

“Express-107, radar contact,” Bill Gayze responded, double-checking the radarscope. “Turn left heading zero- four-zero, descend and maintain two thousand, slow to one- six-zero, vectors for the GPS three-six left approach course, repeat, left. I’ll work on a sidestep to the ILS three-six right.”

“Express-107, roger, zero-four-zero on the heading, leaving six for two.”

The pilot sounded dejected, maybe even pissed off, but he brought it upon himself. Gayze didn’t recognize the voice, but the pilot must be a new guy and the old head flying with him must not be paying attention. Most Universal Express flights didn’t jam themselves into the normal inbound traffic flow, but overflew or circumnavigated the Memphis Class B airspace direct to Holly Springs VOR or the Loosahatchie NDB, then got their radar vectors to runway two-seven. Even with a stiff crosswind, most Universal pilots took runway two-seven because it cut down on taxi time, and those guys at Universal had to account for every gallon of jet fuel.

Things were going along smoothly for the next few minutes, but a bottleneck was beginning to develop — no surprise who was causing it. The pilot of Universal 107 was still flying over two hundred nautical miles per hour groundspeed and was starting to overtake the slower traffic in front of him. “Express-107, I need you at your final approach speed,” Gayze radioed. Airspeed glitches like that would create a ripple effect for the next three hours, Gayze thought sourly. Express-107 would slow to one-twenty, which meant that planes behind him would be overtaking him, so Gayze would have to slow everybody down to avoid a “deal,” or a busted separation. This kid had probably just ruined what could have been a pretty good night, and Gayze punctuated his instructions with a curt “Acknowledge” to accent his displeasure.

“107 correcting, slowing to one-two-zero knots,” the pilot replied.

This guy sure sounded overly green, Gayze thought, and he wasn’t getting too much help from his captain. Maybe he better put a bug in Universal’s ear about him. Gayze hit a telephone button marked UNIV DISP on his communications console, and a moment later he heard: “Universal Express, dispatcher, Kline.”

“Hey, Rudy — Bill Gayze up in Memphis Tower.”

“Hey, Bill how’s it goin’ tonight? What’s up? Not with any of our birds, I hope.”

“Minor problem, thought you might want to mention it to Mike.” Mike Chaswick was the chief pilot at Universal Express. He and Gayze were friends and had visited each other’s places of business many times on orientation tours. “One of your birds coming up on final approach now. No violations, but he’s skating on thin ice.”

“Sure, Bill… ah, which flight are we talking about?” “One-oh-seven.”

There was a very long pause, then: “107, you said?” “Yeah,” Gayze replied. “A Shorts 330, landing in about two minutes.”

“Our flight 107 landed four hours ago,” Kline said. “107 is a daily from Shreveport to Memphis, but it usually arrives at eleven P.M., not two A.M. Our last inbound is usually down around one-thirty — we start launching outbounds at three. What kind of plane you say it was? A Shorts?” “Yep. Tail number November-564W.”

“I don’t recognize that tail number,” Kline said. “We got three Shorts on the flight line, Bill, but we don’t use them for the inbound dailies — they’re for the short-haul last- minute outbounds. Used very little. I’m flipping through the schedule… nope, I don’t see any Shorts on the schedule yesterday or today, but that don’t mean too much because they come and go on short notice. He might be from the maintenance facility at DFW, but I sure as hell didn’t know about him. I’ll have to park him on the back forty— all my other gates are full.”

This was getting weirder by the second, Gayze thought — and the weird feeling was quickly being replaced by a feeling of fear. “Stand by one.” Gayze made a few radio calls for inbound flights, asked one of the other controllers a question, then turned back to the phone line: “We got another inbound Universal flight coming in on two- seven, flight 203 from Cincinnati, a 727.”

“We have a daily 203 from Cincinnati, Bill, and it’s a 727 usually, but he landed okay at eleven-fifteen. Yep, here’s the crew’s manifest on 107. Sure he’s a Universal flight?”

“Yep, that’s what he says,” Gayze replied, frowning. “I didn’t get a strip on my guy.”

“You got a strip on the 727?”

“Stand by one.” Sure enough, they did not. Well, he didn’t have any more time to work on this screwup, and besides call-sign screwups were common and not that important. Both planes would be on the ground in a few minutes. “Listen, Rudy, I gotta run, but I’ll call you back when I get a chance and we’ll sort this out after he’s on the deck. I’ll have Security escort them in. Talk to you later.” Well, whatever call sign he had didn’t really matter, Gayze thought as he punched off the phone button and returned to the radios.

“Tower, — 107, seven miles out, request sidestep for ILS three-six right.”

“107, stand by.” Gayze canted the strip holder for Universal Express 107, which would remind him that he had something to check on with him, then checked the arrivals counter, which held all the strips for arrivals and departures on the three runways. All counters were absolutely full. The traffic from the east was starting to pile up, so a sidestep maneuver — in which a pilot flies an instrument approach to one runway, then must be prepared to immediately transition to another instrument approach, usually on a parallel runway such as Memphis — was probably not going to be an option. “Unable at this time, — 107. Continue on the GPS three-six left, you’re number seven, report the outer marker. And give the tower a call on a landline after you land.” So it would take the new guy ten extra minutes to taxi to his cargo gate — an extra fifty gallons of jet fuel, about a hundred bucks. Knowing the Scottish tightwad that owned Universal Express, he was probably going to make the poor pilot pay it back. “Break. United Express- 231, right on intersection golf-golf without delay, ground point seven when clear.” Gayze made a mental note to keep an eye on the Universal Express flight until they made it to their terminal — being new on the job, pissed off at the world, and with a not-so-dynamic captain, on a busy night, this had all the ingredients for trouble.

“You are going to be thirty seconds late, Roberts!” Cazaux shouted. Ken Roberts was one of Cazaux’s best pilots, and had been with Cazaux almost as long as Taddele Korhonen had been, but he was much younger and far less experienced. He had been with Cazaux for about a year, and was one of his most capable and experienced pilots, but all he had done prior to this had been cargo missions, hauling drugs or weapons or troops to some dirt strip somewhere and back out. He had never done an aerial assault like this before. Further, Roberts was an American, one of the few Americans on Cazaux’s payroll. There had never been any doubt about his loyalty or commitment to following orders — until now. “Push your power up and get back on force timing now! ”

“But Captain, I was told by the tower to—”

“The tower is not in command of this flight, / am!” Cazaux snapped. The kid was a nervous wreck — Cazaux had to take the plane back. He slid back into the pilot’s seat, strapped in, took the controls, and slid the throttles up to 85 percent power. “Get back there and stand by on the fucking release mechanism,” Cazaux told Roberts. “And be prepared to release the payloads manually if the automatic system fails. Go!” The kid did as he was told, leaping out of his seat.

The terrorist switched radio channels to a discrete, scrambled UHF frequency, and keyed the mike: “Number Two, say status?”

“In the green and ready, lead,” Gennady Mikheyev, one of Cazaux’s newest and most promising pilots, responded. Mikheyev, a former Russian bomber pilot, was in absolute hog heaven at the controls of a Boeing 727–100, a very old but still reliable airliner, one of several aircraft leased from Valsan Partners, a Norwalk, Connecticut, company that specialized in re-engining and refurbishing Boeing 727s. “I wish I could feel more positive about this release system, Captain. It is giving us a lot of problems.”

“I want results, not excuses, Mikheyev!” Cazaux shouted on the scrambled radio channel. “You wanted this mission — you begged me to let you fly the 727 on the primary strike — and your partners were paid to devise a release system.”

Mikheyev and several of his fellow Russian aviators devised a complex but clever system to drop their explosives on the primary target — Universal Express’s huge packagehandling facility at Memphis International. The release system was similar to the one designed by Cazaux for the Shorts 300, but ten tall, skinny C08 cargo containers, each carrying fifteen hundred pounds of explosives, would be rolled out of the rear airstair door of the 727.

But preceding the main explosives string, six Mk 80 five-hundred-pound bombs would be automatically dropped out of the baggage compartments on the starboard side of the 727—these would hit and explode a few seconds before the main explosive charges, ripping off most of the thirty-acre roof of the Universal Express terminal and creating a nice hole for the main explosives containers to pass through.

Over twelve thousand pounds of explosives would explode inside the building, ensuring maximum destruction.

The system used a handheld computer and GPS navigation unit to roughly compute ballistics for the drop. Mikheyev had guaranteed fifty-foot accuracy on the string of containers from any altitude and at any airspeed, even though the term “ballistics” that he had used with Cazaux for selling his plan was a real stretch because no actual computations had been done on the ballistic flight path of the cargo containers. Mikheyev had been paid handsomely for the ambitious plan, and now, just minutes from his drop, he was trying to back away from his promise. “I will accept no excuses for failure,” Cazaux warned.

“Captain, the target is too small,” Mikheyev complained. The intended target was not the super hub, or aircraft parking and package-handling facility — that was mostly open ramp space, conveyor belts, and packages being sorted for delivery, all easily replaceable in relatively short time. The intended target was the westernmost part of the super hub that housed Universal Express’s complex of communications and package-delivery control computers, as well as its main corporate headquarters. The computers cost a whopping three billion dollars to install and modernize over the years — replacing them would cost two to three times that much. Of the entire thirty-acre complex, the target area was about fifteen thousand square feet. With an airliner flying at four hundred feet per second, using a sophisticated but untested release system, there was very little room for error. “I will do my best, but I cannot guarantee—”

“You will ensure that your drop is precisely on target,” Cazaux shouted on the radio, the anger in his voice barely attenuated by the crackle and warbling of the frequencyhopping system, “or I will personally hunt you and your family down. I know where your family resides in Belize, and I know about your eighteen-year-old mistress. I know the license plate number of the Land-Rover your wife drives. I know which Catholic school your twin daughters go to, and I know that your lovely daughters have just become women… ” Cazaux let up on the mike button, and sure enough, Mikheyev was letting loose a stream of epithets in Russian.

“If you fail, I will drag your wife, your mistress, and your daughters before you, have my soldiers sodomize them, then strip their skin off, one by one. You will watch them all die, slowly and painfully.”

“You bastard!” Mikheyev shouted. He said something unintelligible in Russian, but it was obvious that the force of his anger was subsiding. He knew full well that Cazaux would carry out his threat.

You are a professional soldier,” Cazaux added in a softer tone after Mikheyev had ceased his protests. “You know the price of failure — death, to you and your family. That is the law of the mercenary. My laws were well known to you before you signed up and before you took your very generous payment for this mission. Failure is not allowed.

On the other hand, if you succeed, I will see to it that your family is paid the full amount of what is owed to you. They will be made comfortable for the rest of their lives. I give you my word as a soldier, and I have never broken faith with a comrade-in-arms. Failure will be severely punished. Success will be rewarded — even if you do not survive.”

Cazaux was not going to say anything else to Mikheyev, but the Russian pilot did not reply anyway. He had his choice perfect accomplishment of his mission, or the undignified, horrible death of every woman close to him, then himself.

Of course, there was only one way Mikheyev could ensure that the target was totally destroyed…

At exactly four miles out, the call came in: “Express- 107, outer marker.”

Aha, Gayze thought, a new voice! Definitely older, definitely more professional sounding, with a trace of a foreign accent. The Captain was finally awake… “107, roger, traffic ahead is a MetroLiner one mile descending, you’re number five.”

“107, contact on the Metro, cancel IFR.”

This flight was finally starting to sound like they really had a professional pilot at the controls, Gayze thought with relief. Canceling IFR erased the cylinder of protected airspace around his aircraft and really helped to expedite traffic flow, especially since Universal-107 was the one responsible for gumming it up in the first place by keeping his speed up so high. Gayze could now tighten the spacing up on the arrivals and clear out the airspace that much faster. He didn’t know for sure if the Universal pilot could really see the much smaller Fairchild Metro commuter airliner, but he was committed to following it now: “Roger, 107, maintain visual contact with the Metro, squawk 1200, you’re number four now behind the MetroLiner, cleared to land.”

“Universal-107 cleared to land on the left,” the Universal pilot responded. Couple more minutes, Gayze thought, and this flight would be out of his hair for the night, or at least until it was time for him to turn and depart. Maybe he would be off on break by then.

“Memphis Tower, American-501, with you level seven.”

“American-501, good evening, winds three-zero-zero at three, you’re number six, report established on GPS inbound course.”

“501, wilco.”

Things were busy, but not too bad. To an air traffic controller, spacing was the name of the game. After ten years, Gayze could look at the lights in the sky and accurately determine a plane’s altitude, speed, and spacing — radar was the best way, but a quick glance at the landing lights usually told him what he needed to know the fastest—

And now there was a glitch developing and, no surprise, it was from the Universal Express newcomer. There was a noticeable gap in the sequence of landing lights — the Universal Express plane had no lights on, which meant its landing gear was probably not down. “Express-107, check wheels down, wind calm.” No response. “Universal Express-107, Memphis Tower, check wheels down and verify, over.” Gayze didn’t wait for tin answer this time, but said to the tower supervisor in a loud voice, “John, number four for landing three-six left has no lights — and I get no response.”

Simultaneously, someone else shouted out, “John, I got a NORDO and possible no gear down on two-mile final on two-seven. I think he’s going missed approach.” This was incredible — two radio-out planes landing at once with no radios and no landing lights! The chances of that happening were astronomically high — and so was the potential for disaster.

“Bill, what’s your NORDO’s altitude?” the supervisor shouted.

Gayze checked the BRITE scope: “Five hundred and level — he might be going missed too.”

“Is he turning?”

“No.”

“Damn it. Conflict alert procedures!” the supervisor shouted. “Abort all departures! Clear the runways, get on the lights, give those pilots some safe options.”

The tower supervisor calmly stepped over to his communications console while watching his radarscope. The phone and radio buttons on his console were arranged precisely in conflict alert procedures order, which connected with Memphis International’s two fire departments, the airport security office, the Memphis fire department, and with dispatchers for Universal Express and all of the major airlines on the field. One by one, he hit the buttons without looking at them and calmly started talking: “Victor, Gayze at Memphis Tower, conflict alert procedures, runways three-six left and two-seven, two NORDO aircraft, three inbounds going missed, one takeoff abort… Atlanta Center, Memphis Tower, conflict alert procedures, stand by… Memphis Crash Network, Memphis Crash Network, this is Memphis International Control Tower, we have an aircraft collision conflict alert, two no-radio airliners, possible landing-gear malfunction on both, on runways three-six left and two-seven, estimated six souls on board, all stations stand by.” By the time he finished all those calls, the pilots flying the affected planes should have gotten to the “What was that? What the hell did he say?” stage, and the supervisor went through all the buttons once again and repeated his instructions and notifications.

“Two miles out,” someone called out. With a phone in one ear and the radio earpiece in the other, Gayze scanned the BRITE scope. Both no-radio airplanes had accelerated and climbed slightly, both at about five hundred feet above ground. On the radio, Gayze said, “Express-107, are you able to execute the published missed approach? Ident if you are executing the missed approach.” No response, either on the radio or on the radarscope.

“Three-six left’s clear!” someone in the tower shouted.

Thank God, Gayze thought. On the radio, he called, “Express-107, you are clear to land, runway three-six left, winds calm, eight thousand three hundred feet available, rescue equipment has been alerted. Ident if you can hear me, over.” Still no response.

“107’s deviating right,” the tower supervisor shouted. “The other inbound is deviating right. Neither one of them is executing the proper missed approach, but at least they’re not on a collision course. Still at about five hundred feet… Jesus, the other Universal flight is accelerating past two- forty.” There was a speed limit of 240 miles per hour inside Class B airspace — the aircraft that was trying to land on runway two-seven was about to blow past that. “What in hell is going on? They look like they’re doing the exact same thing — they’re both accelerating, both flying at five hundred feet, both screaming towards the runway—”

“Like a friggin’ air show,” someone else remarked.

“Think they got stuck flight controls?” another controller wondered aloud. “Or are they trying to rendezvous? Maybe they’re military.”

“I hope this isn’t some kind of joke,” the tower supervisor said. “I’m gonna kick some asses up in Universal if this is some kind of company stunt.”

Gayze was still talking on the radios, trying to coach a few of the inbound flights on the proper go-around procedures and coordinating with Memphis Approach for handing off all these airplanes into their lap again. Suddenly he paused, and he looked at the spot of dark sky where Universal flight 107 was, as if he could see directly into the cockpit at the pilot. That voice, the pilot’s voice — not the young kid, but the newcomer, the older, more experienced voice…

It was foreign, slightly French, although the pilot tried hard to conceal it under a phony southern accent. Phony accent, phony call sign, now radio-out and coming in hot… “Jesus, I think this is an attack!” Gayze shouted. “/ think we ’re under attack! ”

“What? What did you say, Bill?”

“Damn it, we gotta warn—” But he stopped, confused. Who could they warn? There was nobody to notify. “I think we should wave off Universal-107 and the other inbound Universal flight until we straighten this out.”

“That’s not the proper procedure,” the tower supervisor said. “The best place for a NORDO plane is on the ground.”

“They’re not NORDO, they’re attackingGayze shouted.

“Now hold on, Bill… ”

The Shorts Sherpa was a military utility and cargo plane, and had been fitted with a simple drop system for paratroop and small-cargo parachute drops. A long boom mounted below the pilot mast on the nose of the aircraft had three arrows on it, calibrated for drops between eight hundred and two thousand feet and two hundred knots airspeed.

One minute before drop time, Cazaux ordered Roberts to open the cargo doors and extend the ramp. When the first arrow passed across the intended drop target, Cazaux issued the get-ready signal, pushed the throttles up to full power, and hit the first green release button.

Ken Roberts watched as a small cannon shot the pilot parachute out the open cargo ramp into the slipstream, and it instantly inflated behind the airplane, putting tension on the release system. When the target — the large main terminal building at the junction of the two angled concourses— passed under the second arrow on the pilot boom, Cazaux hit a red, guarded button. The packing doors on the main parachute case popped open, the pilot parachute pulled the main parachute out of its case, and the latches holding the cargo containers released. As soon as the main parachute was fully inflated, it pulled the cargo containers out of the Shorts’ cargo bay with a tremendous thundering sound, like a freight train whizzing by at full speed.

The chains connecting the cargo containers immediately began to break from the immense strain of the slipstream as soon as the wheels of the container ahead of it left the ramp, so the explosives did not drop together. There was nothing clean or aerodynamic about the containers — they cartwheeled, Frisbeed, and spun all across the sky during their fall to earth. The last two containers, with less inertia than the others, almost did not have enough energy to roll out of the cargo bay, but Cazaux lifted the Shorts’ nose skyward, providing the last nudge necessary. The last two explosives containers weren’t going to hit Cazaux’s intended target — but it was still going to do the job.

The eighteen-story control tower at Memphis International was located just north of the main terminal complex, where it had a clear view of most of the gates at the main, cargo, and Universal Express terminals and full view of all runways and taxiways.

Half the tower crew was staring out the windows to the east, waiting to catch a glimpse of the first emergency aircraft; Gayze and the other half were watching out toward the south, staring out into the darkness for the second Universal Express plane and alternately answering questions and vectoring aircraft away from the field. Gayze had a junior controller shining a red signal light at approximately where the northbound Universal flight should be, telling the pilot not to land. Another controller was doing the same toward the east.

Still no radio contact.

The southern part of runway three-six left’s hammerhead parking area was brilliantly lit with maintenance floodlights, and as soon as Universal Express-107 crossed just a few hundred yards east of that area, Gayze caught a glimpse of the plane and shouted, “I see 107! Jesus Christ, what is he doing?” The plane was low, but obviously too high to land unless he dumped power and the nose and made a dive for the runway. “I can see him easy — the pilot must be able to see the runway, but he’s gonna miss three- six left by a hundred yards.”

“He could be going for the right,” the tower supervisor said. Gayze got on the radio and announced that 107 was not cleared to land on runway three-six right. The eastern parallel runway’s approach end was a quarter mile farther north than three-six left, but the Universal pilot was still going to have to do some aerobatics to make it on that runway too. He looked as if he was going to overfly the main commercial terminal building — if he wasn’t careful, he could hit some of the tall antennas on top of the building. From the tower, he looked as if he was going nearly three hundred knots — there was no way he’d make it to the runway now. His altitude was not much higher than the control tower..

Suddenly, Gayze saw — well, he wasn’t sure what it was… “Trouble with Universal-107,” he said aloud. “I see debris, something falling out of the plane… I think it’s his landing gear… no, I see… a parachute! Damn it, someone’s parachuting out of the plane!”

“Here he comes,” someone in the tower cab shouted, pointing to the east. “Looks like he’s going to land on two- seven. I see a landing gear — no, it’s not a landing gear. Jesus, he’s screaming in! Is he going around? What in hell is he doing?”

Gayze turned. The westbound airliner was descending rapidly, aiming for the end of the runway. He was still off a bit to the right of centerline on radar, but his wheels were down and he looked like he was on a fast but good approach. It definitely appeared as if a low-time pilot or perhaps a stricken pilot was flying the westbound flight.

The tower supervisor punched the crash button: “Memphis crash network, this is Memphis Tower, one Universal Express 727 aircraft landing hot on runway two-seven. His gear is down. Be advised, the northbound aircraft is—”

He was going to miss the runway. At less than a halfmile to touchdown, the 727 would not be able to turn fast enough at his present speed to make the runway unless he landed well past midfield. “Crash, be advised, the 727 landing on two-seven is well north of centerline and fast. He may be going into the Air National Guard parking ramp. If he tries to turn back to the runway, he’ll mush in with his left wing… oh, shit… climb, damn you, climb… climb…”

And then the 727 hit the Universal Express package shipping center.

The entire northern part of the airfield illuminated brighter than daylight. The western half of the sprawling cargo complex disappeared in an enormous lake of fire. The fireball that was a 220,000-pound airliner plunged through the western half of the thirty-acre cargo complex, disappeared for a few seconds, bounced on the ground, blew out the northwest side of the building, and cartwheeled several times across the ground, shredding the western half of the building — Universal Express’s executive offices, communications center, and computer complex — as it tumbled. The heat of the explosion, nearly a half-mile away, could be felt right through the slanted tower windows, and Gayze was thrown to the floor when the shock wave hit and shattered those windows, the blastfurnace heat rolling across the tower like a fiery tidal wave…

But it was not the north windows that blew out — it was the southern windows, behind Gayze. He leaped to his feet as soon as he could shake the shock and noise from his head. A few controllers were rushing for the exit door, but Gayze just stood there, bathing himself in the heat and the noise and the light coming from an explosion — not on the Universal Express cargo facility, but on the main terminal.

Gayze was reaching for the crash phone button again, but the tower supervisor pulled his hand away — the tower was dead. “Get out of here, Bill.”

“What the hell happened? Did 107 hit the terminal?”

‘The tower’s been damaged, Bill. Get going.”

But Gayze couldn’t make his feet move. As horrible as the spectacular crash on the Universal Express facility was, what had happened behind him on the main terminal was even more shocking. The main terminal building, right at the intersection between the east and west concourses, was on fire, severed and flattened in a fiery crater. Two airliners were on fire, and two more were spun sideways from the force of the blast. Gayze could see inside one L-1011 airliner, and the flickering lights in its windows told him that passengers were rushing toward the exits inside. The fire was still several yards away when Gayze saw doors pop open and emergency escape slides deploy on the side of the plane opposite the fire. A few doors opened on the side of the fire, but no passengers used that exit, thank God. The evacuation seemed rapid and orderly…

… but it wasn’t fast enough, because suddenly the L-101 l’s left wing caught fire, then exploded, ripping the fuselage of the big airliner in half. Passengers and baggage spilled from the ruptured halves of the airliner onto the fiery tarmac. Gayze ducked when the force of the explosion hit him up in the open tower cab.

“Bill!” someone shouted. “Get out! Let’s go!”

But Gayze looked through the clouds of smoke and fire at the terminal. It was not just the main terminal that had been hit — now he could see huge fires breaking out on the north side of the terminal, the northwest corner of the parking garage, and the south side of the Sheraton Hotel, just a few hundred yards west of the control tower. He could hear the roar of the fire, smell the burning kerosene — it was like looking at a firestorm.

“Bill! Damn it, let’s go!”

Smoke was rapidly filling the control tower, and Gayze was forced to drop on his knees and crawl to the stairs toward the exit. His eyes were filled with tears, and not all of it was from the smoke.

“Oh… my… God…” Roberts muttered in stunned disbelief as the series of explosions and fires rippled across Memphis International Airport below him. But the sight of the burning terminal and hotel was nothing compared to the horrifying sight of the sea of fire that was once the Universal Express super hub. It looked like a nuclear bomb had simply flattened and vaporized the entire northern half of the airport. The flames still shooting from the impact site seemed to tower far above the Shorts’ altitude, and the ripples of fire made it seem like the bottom of a volcano’s lava pit.

“I said, close the cargo doors, Roberts,” Cazaux ordered over the intercom. Roberts still was too stunned to make his feet or hands move. All that death, all that destruction — and he had witnessed it all, been in on the planning of all of it. It was a terrorist attack on his own people, his own countrymen. It was an attack incomprehensible to the young American, more devastating than anything he had ever heard of since the World Trade Center bombing. They were turning westbound, so he could no longer see the fires at the Sheraton or the main terminal — those attacks were by his own hand…

“I know it is painful, Kenneth,” a voice said. It was Henri Cazaux, standing beside him — obviously the plane was on autopilot. “The destruction, it is horrible, no?”

“God, yes,” Roberts said in a low voice. “All those people down there, all that death.”

“It is time you joined them,” Cazaux said quietly, just before he grasped Roberts by the forehead from behind, drove his infantry knife up through the base of Roberts’ skull into his brain, and wiggled the knife point around inside his skull several times to scramble his brain matter. There was virtually no blood — Roberts’ heart had stopped beating instantly, as if shut off with a switch. Cazaux merely picked him up by the blade of his knife, still embedded deep in his skull, took him to the edge of the open cargo ramp, and dropped him over the side.

The autopilot was weaving the Shorts around the sky unsteadily, and there was a little turbulence from the heat radiating off the hills of western Tennessee and northern Mississippi, but Cazaux did not seem to notice it. He stood on the edge of the Shorts’ cargo ramp, the toes of one foot actually over the edge itself, with no safety line or parachute, looking at the incredibly bright glow of Memphis International Airport on fire.

He dared God, dared the Devil, dared any man or being to take him. It was easy — just a slight buffet, a sudden ripple of air, a short interruption of thousands of circuits running through the Shorts’ autopilot system — and he would be thrown into space, just as dead as Ken Roberts.

No, it was not his time to die, not yet. Jo Ann Vega was right: the dark master had given him the gift of invincibility.

He wanted the death to continue…

Beale Air Force Base, Yuba City, California Several Minutes Later

Despite being a retired two-star Coast Guard admiral, Ian Hardcastle preferred the Non-Commissioned Officers lounge on Beale Air Force Base; he and his small staff had virtually taken over the billiard room again with an impromptu drinks-and-dinner meeting.

Colonel Al Vincenti, who, with the help and support of Hardcastle, Martindale, and the Senate subcommittee, had been cleared of all charges (but had not yet been returned to flight status), was haphazardly banging billiard balls around on the well-worn felt with Hardcastle.

Hardcastle’s chief of staff, retired Air Force colonel, military analyst, and political consultant Marc Sheehan, his fourth cup of coffee of the night in one hand, was reading from a sheaf of notes: “Admiral, I think we’re ready to make this presentation to the Project 2000 Task Force executive committee,” he said. “I think this is a masterful piece of work.” “I’d rather take a bit of time to get more data,” Hardcastle said, missing a complicated two-rail bank shot. Vincenti cast a questioning eye at Hardcastle’s showy but hopeless shot and easily sunk his own. “There’s a lot of stuff this report is missing. And I wish I had more time with Martindale. He’s spent more time at fund-raisers and tours than on the business at hand here.”

“Can I speak frankly, sir?” Sheehan asked.

“That’s why I hired you, Marc. Out with it.”

“Sir, in my opinion, you suffer from the H. Ross Perot syndrome,” Sheehan said. “Everybody loves Perot. He’s a straight shooter, he’s knowledgeable — or at least he’s got a great staff — he’s articulate and polished, and he’s not afraid to take on the big boys on their own turf. He also gets no respect, for those very same reasons. He hits people between the eyes with clear-minded logic built on years of experience—”

“And people don’t like it.”

“And people don’t like it,” Sheehan echoed. “And government doesn’t like it either. Folks tend to shut you off simply because you come on strong — they think you have a hidden agenda, a secret plan. Right or wrong doesn’t matter.”

“Marc, I can’t accept that,” Hardcastle said, lining up another shot after Vincenti intentionally missed an easy shot just so he wouldn’t clear the table on Hardcastle again. It seemed Vincenti was scowling at everyone — at Hardcastle, at Sheehan, at the world. He had not said ten words all evening unless asked a specific question, and nothing that anyone had said all evening seemed to please him. “What I’m writing about here is not fiction — it’s real,” Hardcastle went on. “My goals and methods are real and workable.”

“Sir, what you’re describing is America under siege, America on the defensive,” Sheehan said. “Nobody likes to hear that we’re so vulnerable. They would rather believe that you’re a flake rather than we’re facing a major terrorist crisis in this country.”

Hardcastle flubbed another shot by trying a long, difficult shot, scratching in the process. Vincenti put Hardcastle out of his billiards misery by clearing the table again. Hardcastle didn’t seem to notice, but asked Vincenti, “Set ’em up again, Al, double or nothing.”

“I can swim in the beer you owe me already, Admiral,” Vincenti pointed out.

“You don’t drink, remember? You thought betting dou- ble-or-nothing beers with you was a sucker bet? I’ll never pay off. Set ’em up,” Hardcastle repeated with a smile. “Marc, I’m ready to go to the Task Force in the morning.”

“The press conference is set for next week,” Sheehan reminded him. “Why not wait a few days, get some more feedback from the congressional leadership? Our little clambake in Virginia Beach is set for this weekend, and so far attendance looks good.”

“Clambake?” Vincenti asked as he retrieved the billiard balls.

“Good way to feel out the heavy hitters in Congress,” Hardcastle explained. “Project 2000 is throwing a party out on Virginia Beach for the leadership and their families— private transportation, plenty of chow and booze, private beach, even parasailing and Jet Skis. We gotta lure the big cheeses to at least listen to what we have to say. Even thirty minutes with them, talking about our programs, would be worth the money.”

“Yeah. Right. Makes sense,” Vincenti muttered. He finished racking the balls, then put his cue stick on the table. “Sir, excuse me, but I’ve got to get going,” Vincenti said.

Hardcastle looked up at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’ll be hitting the road.”

“You got something to say, Al, say it,” Hardcastle said. “Spill it.”

“Sir?”

“You’ve been scowling and shaking your head at me and Marc all night, Vincenti, but you haven’t said a word,” Hardcastle said. “You got some baggage to unload, so do it.”

“I don’t have anything to contribute here.”

“Bullshit. I’ve got you here for a reason,” Hardcastle said. “You read the report.”

“I gave you my comments, sir.”

“Nice, polite, Air Command and Staff College point paper,” Hardcastle said. “Standard responses. Pretty disappointing.”

“I guess I’m just not politically savvy, Admiral.”

“I don’t need your political savvy, Al,” Hardcastle said. “Task Force 2000 and Colonel Sheehan handle that for me.”

“So what do you need, sir?”

“I need you to tell me if I’m right, if I’m close, or if I’m full of shit, Al.”

“I’ve already commented on your plan.”

“So I’m right, then,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti was about to speak, but remained silent. “So I’m not right,” Hardcastle concluded. “So which is it, Al? Am I close or full of shit?” Vincenti stared at Hardcastle, obviously trying to decide what the politically correct answer to that question was. “Goddammit, Vincenti, I was told you weren’t one for holding back, that you spoke your mind. So let’s have it.” “Sir, I’m not really qualified to tell you how to run this.” “It’s about Linda, isn’t it, Al?”

Vincenti’s frown deepened, and darkened. “What are you talking about, Admiral?”

“Linda McKenzie. She’s dead, and you think it’s your fault.”

The rest of Hardcastle’s staff had stopped talking and had turned to watch this exchange. “Sir, ” Vincenti said, looking Hardcastle right in the eyes. “With all due respect, you don’t know shit. ”

“Linda was your wingman.”

“Stop calling her by her first name like yo'u knew her, Admiral. She’s Major McKenzie to you.”

“Whose fault was it that you launched with defective nightvision goggles?” Hardcastle asked. “Whose fault was it that Linda was allowed to close in on Cazaux without her checklist completed? Whose fault was it that she was allowed to approach too close to an armed and dangerous suspect?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Hardcastle.”

“I don’t think she should have even been on alert with you, Al,” Hardcastle went on, taking a step towards Vincenti, who was now, Sheehan noticed with some alarm, within arm’s reach. “I think you’re a piss-poor flight leader, Al. How in hell could you let Linda fly with you after you’d been screwing her?”

A half-dozen bodies moved in unison at that last comment, like runners leaping off the starting block. Vincenti lunged for Hardcastle, Sheehan lunged for Vincenti, and the other staff members dropped notebooks and laptop computers and leaped to their feet in surprise. Vincenti got his hands on Hardcastle’s shirt, but Sheehan looped his arms over Vincenti’s from behind, and the two Air Force officers were evenly matched. Hardcastle simply smiled, allowing Vincenti to shake him and rage: “You pompous arrogant asshole. ” Sheehan dragged Vincenti away from Hardcastle and steered him against the pool table. He was angry at Vincenti for daring to raise a hand toward Hardcastle, but he was even more surprised and angry at Hardcastle for speaking that way to the Air Force pilot. “Knock it off!” Sheehan shouted. His anger turned on Hardcastle, as it should be: “Admiral, you were out of line.”

“Yes, I was, and I apologize,” Hardcastle said calmly to

Vincenti. “But I’m also correct, aren’t I, Al?” No response, only a glare. “Talk to me, Al. You’re the key to everything I’m trying to do here. Talk to me, damn it.”

“Why the hell should I trust you, Hardcastle?” Vincenti shouted. “What are you trying to do here? What’s your game? Who gave you the right to poke your nose in any of this?”

“I’m here because I’ve got a big mouth, Al,” Hardcastle said evenly. “I’ve got a colorful past, and people listen to me because I entertain them with my attitude and my showmanship. But I’m really here because I care.”

“Bullshit, ” Vincenti said. “You’re here because you can get some press for yourself and this Project 2000 crap.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some ideas that I want everybody to hear,” Hardcastle admitted. “I get shut off and shut down because no one wants to hear my side — they’d rather hear the watered- down, everything-is-beautiful rap coming from the White House. Yeah, I want press for the Project 2000 Task Force because they believe in what I believe in and they have the financial resources I don’t. But I’ve got an agenda, Vincenti, and that is a strong national defense, pure and simple. I’m here because this incident is just another example of government inaction, another consequence of a weakened military.”

“I’ve heard your big plans already — on TV, in the papers, on the radio, at the speeches,” Vincenti said. “But frankly it’s all garbage, because you don’t know what you’re talking about. You made the same damned mistake with the Hammerheads, Hardcastle. But you were too wrapped up in how important you were, with deploying these big-assed air ops platforms, with putting up all these radar balloons, to understand the basic concepts. You had the authority to launch air defense units for your missions, Hardcastle, but did you ever ask an air defense puke how to set up a proper air sovereignty order of battle? You had your Coast Guard guys and your Customs Service guys out there, but did you ever bring an air defense guy on board as part of your staff? Hell no.”

“I had Air Force representatives on my staff—”

“Sure — for AW ACS and OTH-B, not for the guys who really knew the air sovereignty game, us pilots in the field,” Vincenti said. “You sucked up almost the entire E-3 AWACS fleet on drug-interdiction stuff, and you took over all the long-range over-the-horizon backscatter radar ops, but you never employed the F-4s, F-106s, F-15s, and F-16 air defense fighters for your operations except when that crazy bastard Salazar used military hardware on your platforms. Plus you spent billions on all that fancy hardware, when all the time you had the best pilots and the best planes in the business already in place.”

Marc Sheehan stepped forward toward Vincenti. “I think you’ve said enough, Colonel Vincenti.”

“No, let him finish, Marc.” Hardcastle smiled. “I want to hear this. Go ahead, Al. Continue. You don’t like it. Tell me why.”

“Because you’re doing it half-assed, that’s why,” Vincenti said. “You did it half-assed wrong with the Hammerheads, and you’re doing it half-assed now. You’re still thinking two-dimensionally, still thinking in razzle-dazzle terms instead of strategic, layered, logical, multilayered structures. You had fancy, expensive tilt-rotors and drones and a few helicopters and boats, and almost nothing else. When your aviation units got into trouble, when the politicians believed your air units couldn’t do the job, your whole infrastructure was weakened and your organization collapsed. Hell, your air units were properly doing their job, and one lousy lawsuit, one lousy smuggler, in which just one of your air units was involved, brought down your entire Border Security Force in no time flat. Why? Because your basic organization was built on one foundation — your air units.

“The same thing will happen with your current plan,” Vincenti went on. “Your current plans are based on air units like the F-16 and F-15 fighters. But an expert can easily blow holes in this plan, and I think Cazaux is smart enough to get by even the toughest air patrols. You wouldn’t even survive a comparison between now and your disbanded Hammerheads.” Vincenti glared at Sheehan, then at Hardcastle. “I thought you guys were supposed to be smart. You’re advising future presidents, formulating policy and laws, spending hundreds of millions of dollars, and you can’t even see how fucked up you are.”

“Then help me fix it,” Hardcastle said. “Help me create a system to stop terrorists like Cazaux.”

“You don’t have the guts,” Vincenti said. “All I see is a bunch of bureaucrats jockeying for position. You throw your beach parties and press conferences and fund-raisers, but when it comes time to actually put the hardware on the line, you back off. I’m not going to waste my breath on a bunch of politicos whose only goal is to rack up percentage points in the polls or electoral votes.”

Sheehan, who had stepped away for a few minutes, came back and said, “Sir, we got a call from Vice President Martindale. He’s on his way back from San Francisco now. Cazaux hit another airport. Memphis International. Just a few minutes ago. They’re saying the death toll could be in the thousands this time.”

“Oh, my God…” gasped Hardcastle.

“He got a call from the President, Admiral,” Sheehan went on. “He wants you and your staff to report to the White House immediately. They want a complete briefing on your plans to set up an air defense network in the United States.” “Jesus… Marc, phone the flight crew, get the Gulf- stream ready to go, drop me off at base ops, and get the investigation team together right away,” Hardcastle said. He turned to Vincenti: “Al, you’re with me.”

“I’m not cleared to leave the base, Admiral.”

“I just cleared you,” Hardcastle said. “You’re a member of my staff, effective yesterday, and the President has just ordered you to Washington. We’ve got about five hours for you to tell me precisely what I need to do to make my air defense plan airtight. Let’s go.”