Storming Heaven

The White House Cabinet Room The Next Morning

“W’ve got only one thing to say to you, Admiral Hardcas- I tie,” Deputy Attorney General Elizabeth Lowe said an- Mgrily, dramatically waving a bound report in her hand, then tossing it on the Cabinet Room table in disgust just as. the door leading to the Oval Office opened and everyone got to their feet. “You must be totally insane, or at the very least so ill-informed as to defy reason and logic.” She saw the President of the United States stride in, then said to him, “Mr. President, I can’t believe you even allowed that crackpot in this room at a time like this.”

“Allow me to respond to the Deputy Attorney General’s statement, Mr. President — on the record,” Ian Hardcastle said, a slight, challenging smile on his face.

“This meeting will come to order,” the President’s chief of staff said. Lowe quietly took her seat with the others after the President was seated, glaring angrily at Ian Hardcastle. What he did not know was that Elizabeth Lowe, one of the President’s most capable political insiders, had met personally with the President just before the meeting and had already been instructed as to how this meeting was going to proceed — her tirade against Hardcastle was part of a hastily but carefully rehearsed trap for Hardcastle and his cohorts.

The members of the Executive Committee on Terrorism, the group responsible to the National Security Council and the President for all antiterrorist matters, had assembled in the White House Cabinet Room to receive the latest briefing on the hunt for Henri Cazaux. The ECT was composed of senior officials from the Departments of Treasury, Justice, State, Defense, Transportation, and Energy, along with representatives from the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Council staff. Because the President had convened this meeting at the White House, most of the Cabinet itself was present along with their ECT representatives, so it was a tight fit in the Cabinet Room.

This was just the latest crisis in what seemed like an Administration plagued by problems from the very beginning, starting with a furor over the President’s attempt to drop the ban on gays in the military, to his health care package, to problems within his own White House.

His wife, for instance, known around town as the Steel Magnolia, was conspicuously absent from this and other meetings as of late. A formidable woman who was highly intelligent and, for a while, almost inseparable from her husband, the Steel Magnolia had recently been devoting all her time to extricating herself from a shady real-estate deal that was now threatening to turn into a Watergate-sized problem for the Administration. Things weren’t helped when her own counsel killed himself.

But even now, in the midst of a major domestic crisis, the President hardly had time to worry about his wife. There were far bigger problems at hand for this poor boy from what many had laughingly called a hillbilly southern state. This current crisis might be the final straw for his Administration. Depending, of course, on how he handled it.

Joining the President, the ECT members, and Hardcastle were Colonel A1 Vincenti; Colonel Marc Sheehan, Hard- castle’s aide; and Deborah Harley, who was cleared to come to this meeting as an assistant to Hardcastle but who was in reality an executive assistant to Kevin Martindale— the former Vice President was not invited to attend this meeting, but he made sure he had his spy in place. If the President or his staff knew about Harley, they did not seem to care.

Vincenti’s face looked grim as Lani Wilkes, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, began the briefing with a rundown of the attack on Memphis International Airport last evening. He could all-too-easily envision the two airliners barreling in toward the airport, then raining devastation on hundreds of innocent people below. Thankfully, the death toll was not as high as in San Francisco— over two hundred dead and over five hundred injured, mostly at the Universal Express super hub facility — but Vincenti felt responsible for each and every one of their deaths. When he looked up, he saw a few of the ECT members looking back at him, and he felt that they were silently accusing him of not stopping Cazaux when he had the chance.

Hardcastle looked at the oval cherry table, his hands folded in front of him, with a stony, neutral expression; Sheehan was watching the southern President (who was popping M&Ms into his mouth from ajar on the table) and Hardcastle, waiting for the sparks to fly. “We’re assisting the local authorities in hunting down the aircraft,” Judge Lani Wilkes was saying, “but the attack on the airport knocked out all the radar control centers in the entire region — both Approach and Center radar control centers are located at Memphis International — and we couldn’t track any of the aircraft.

“Our best lead right now circles on aircraft dealers in the south and southeast, particularly ones handling civil and military-surplus cargo aircraft. But there are two hundred and thirty such dealers and brokers in the region; plus, getting a plane from Central or South America flown into the southern U.S. is too easy. Getting warrants to search each establishment will take time. We—”

Hardcastle let out an exasperated sigh at the mention of warrants. A few eyes darted in his direction, but Hardcastle did not speak and no one else said a word. Wilkes, pretending she did not notice, continued, “Sir, I’ve said this before: we can’t let our concern over Cazaux’s attacks force us to degenerate into simply lashing out at every hint of criminal or suspected terrorist activities — it’s stretching my manpower too thin, and it’s creating more panic. We’ve got every available federal agent involved in this manhunt. I’ve got agents in Mexico and Canada. I’ve diverted extra agents to four different locations following up investigations on suspicious explosions, and each one has come up with nothing. The Bureau has investigated over one hundred bombings in the United States just last month, and none of them were tied in to Cazaux.”

“But now Cazaux’s finally gone over the edge, and I believe we’ve got to investigate each incident,” said Transportation Secretary Ralph Mersky. He turned to the President and said, “Mr. President, under the Federal Aviation Regulations, I’ve had the FAA close Tucson International Airport because a suspected terrorist incident is under investigation — we think Cazaux was flying on a commercial airliner, and he was afraid of getting caught and killed some airline service workers to make his escape. By. the law, I should close every other major airport near any of these other suspected terrorist incidents as well— whether or not Judge Wilkes believes they have anything to do with Cazaux. But I’ve had meetings with every major air carrier in the country, and to a man they’ve pleaded with me not to shut down the airports.”

“What in hell would you expect them to say?” Deputy Attorney General Lowe interjected. Under the National Security Act of 1949, the Deputy Attorney General of the United States was the most senior manager of any domestic terrorism crisis. Elizabeth Lowe was a hard-nosed Army veteran, attorney, and Washington lobbyist — perfectly suited for the job of dealing with the exclusive men’s domains of defense and antiterrorist strategy and response. “They need to keep making money, and they’re willing to bet other people’s lives on the long odds that Cazaux will strike anywhere else but their location or their planes.”

“I know that, Liz,” Mersky shot back, “but I need the White House’s direction on this one.” To the President, he continued: “We’ve already enacted Level Three security, which deals primarily with terrorist threats such as bombs in baggage, sabotaging planes at the gate, car bombs near terminals, that sort of thing. The law says I must enact Level Two security measures at all airports that carry more than eighteen passengers per plane if terrorist activity is suspected in the vicinity or on a national level, Mr. President.”

The President of the United States, sitting half-slouched at his big desk in the Cabinet Room, looked as if sleep and he were complete strangers. He was tall, young compared to recent Chief Executives, well-built and handsome, with prematurely gray hair that was thick and bushy. But the dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and the wrinkles around the eyes caused by stress and squinting at reports and televisions without using his glasses, made him look considerably older. He wrapped his big hands around a coffee cup and took a sip — cold again. He let the cup rattle back onto its saucer, popped some more M&Ms into his mouth (his affection for junk food was legendary), then drawled, “Ralph, it doesn’t sound like this Level Three protects anyone if Cazaux drops a damned bomb on their heads. Why hasn’t stricter security been set up already?”

“Sir, the reason is that we have no procedures for dealing with air raids against major airports inside the United States except for closing them down,” Mersky said. “We have Civil Defense procedures drawn up thirty years ago for use in case of Soviet air raids, and even then they mostly deal with evacuation, medical care, restricting access to navigation facilities—”

“So the only option we have right now is to close the airports until we track this Cazaux down?” the President asked incredulously. God, how he hated these meetings without his wife present. That fucking real-estate deal was consuming all of her time, time that she could have been spending helping him. Damn her. They should have never invested in that fucking land in the first place. Oh, well. They’d just have to live with it. And he, unfortunately, was having to live without her at a time when he needed her most — like now. “Hey, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to understand what a disaster that would be. Remember how disrupted everything was when American Airlines’ flight attendants went on strike. Remember the panic? Jesus. I want to hear more options.” He turned to Hardcastle, Vincenti, and his Secretary of Defense, Dr. Donald Scheer, and said, “Admiral Hardcastle, I asked you to come down here because I’ve heard of your”—he took a moment to consider his next words, then decided to just say it—“genius, concerning this disaster.

“I don’t agree with it, and I frankly suspect that much of it stems from your political agenda with the Project 2000 Task Force and Vice President Martindale’s campaign,” he continued. “We don’t need partisan politics interfering with this investigation. I think the little stunt you orchestrated in the Senate to step into the middle of the FBI’s investigation of the San Francisco attack was a cheap, dirty trick to take advantage of the situation to promote your own agenda.”

“Except Cazaux did strike again,” Hardcastle pointed out bluntly.

The President spread his hands and nodded. “Yes, he did,” he drawled. “I thought he’d be long gone, but he’s not, and he’s got to be dealt with. And you offered your technical assistance, which I deeply appreciate.” He picked up Hardcastle’s point paper on the air defense emergency and added angrily, “But showing this report to the press at the same time as handing it to me stinks. The American people see you on TV promoting this plan, and they cling to it because it’s a ‘do-something, do-anything’ move. It makes me question your motivation here, Admiral: do you really want to help me solve this crisis or are you just pushing a political agenda?”

“I’m trying to stop Cazaux, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said evenly. “It’s that simple. With all due respect, sir, how you respond to this crisis affects your own political agenda more than how I respond.”

“When I need your advice on politics, Admiral, I’ll ask,” the President snapped. “With all due respect, Admiral, dealing with you is worse than Cazaux — at least that maniac is not on TV every two hours. But let’s get back to what we should do about Cazaux. Dr. Scheer’s staff has outlined your suggestions for me, and although I consider your response dangerous, it could be the only one available to us.”

“I believe it is your only response, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said, “and I’ve encouraged your advisers to just come out and say so. FAA Level One security is the only set of procedures on the civilian side for dealing with this emergency, and it won’t help stop or find Cazaux. Civil and strategic defense is virtually nonexistent in this country. The FAA’s SCATANA procedures basically entail shutting down all but a few major airports and most navigation radio facilities, and we’re still faced with finding and stopping Cazaux.”

“So your solution is to turn security for this crisis over to the military?” Lani Wilkes asked incredulously. She motioned to Hardcastle’s report. “You want to use the military inside the United States for law enforcement?”

“This is no longer a law enforcement question, Judge Wilkes, this is a national defense crisis.”

“You’re wrong, Hardcastle. This is a criminal investigation, and it should be handled like one. Mr. President, there is no doubt whatsoever that this is a serious crisis, but imposing martial law is not the answer.”

“I do not want to impose martial law,” the President said immediately, running his hand through his hair. “Let’s make that real clear right from the get-go.”

“Mr. President, I’ve read Admiral Hardcastle’s proposed plan,” Wilkes said, “and it’s nothing but a reactionary, grandstanding power grab.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Deputy Attorney General Lowe said. “We don’t need the military to secure the skies and hunt down Henri Cazaux. Mr. President, the Executive Committee on Terrorism is in charge and in control of this situation.”

“Judge Wilkes, Liz, hold on a minute,” the President said evenly. “I brought Hardcastle and the Colonel in here to get their thoughts.” He turned to Hardcastle again. “I was briefed on your proposal, Admiral. It’s pretty severe. Tell me why this isn’t martial law.”

“Mr. President, critics can label this plan whatever they like,” Hardcastle responded. “My objective is simply to defend our major international airports from aerial attack.” “Mr. President, I think the FBI can handle this crisis without having to resort to this extreme military option,” Lowe said, holding up her copy of the plan Hardcastle had proposed to the Secretary of Defense. “You’re talking about surface-to-air missiles, fighters escorting commercial airliners, free-fire zones around major cities and airports…?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Ludicrous. This is not some damned Dale Brown novel, this is real- life.”

“It has to be set up and executed as if this was an overseas American military installation under attack by a foreign hostile military force,” Hardcastle explained. “Sir, the plan presupposes that we want air traffic in this country to continue at the highest possible level of efficiency.”

“That goes without saying, Admiral.”

“Then, sir, it will be easier than taking candy from a baby for Henri Cazaux to attack any airport at will, unless we have a layered, iron-clad defense network around every major U.S. airport. It is absolutely essential that we act to screen air traffic moving in and out of our major airports in case Cazaux slips past our dragnets and tries to attack.”

“I don’t like the sound of this one bit,” the President remarked, wishing like hell that it wasn’t his Administration that had to deal with this shit. Why couldn’t they have just elected his wife? Let her handle it, that’s what he wanted. “But I invited you here because enough people think your plan might have merit during this emergency. What is it you propose, Admiral?”

“Sir, my plan has two major elements,” Hardcastle explained. “First, we control and monitor the movement of every aircraft in the United States, using civilian and military radar systems. Second, we use airborne and ground- based air defense systems to track, identify, and, if necessary, engage any aircraft that is not properly identified or deviates from its proper course.”

“This is the Hammerheads all over again,” Lani Wilkes said with an expression of disgust, as if someone had passed gas. “Another assault on the Bill of Rights, eh, Admiral?”

“Until you catch Cazaux, there is no other way to keep air traffic in this country moving safely, Judge Wilkes.” “You make it sound so sterile, Admiral,” Transportation Secretary Mersky interjected. “Putting every aircraft in the United States on an instrument flight plan? That’ll overload our air traffic controllers. All others can’t fly? That’ll ground hundreds of thousands of planes. And your term ‘engage’ is a polite term for ‘shoot down,’ as in ‘shoot down a commercial airliner’ if it strays too far off course or turns the wrong way on a missed approach in bad weather.” “Admiral Hardcastle, I simply don’t think this plan will work — or if it is implemented, it won’t do any good and will cause more panic and confusion than it will help,” the Vice President added stiffly. “Every plane flying into a major airport in the country has to be escorted by an armed fighter? This has got to be a violation of Constitutional rights.”

“The only way to positively identify a suspect aircraft is to intercept it and check it visually, sir,” Vincenti interjected. “And in many cases, the only way to divert a suspect away from a restricted area is by a fighter intercept. The ground-based air defense systems are a last resort only. Obviously, shooting at a terrorist plane only a few miles from a major airport will still cause massive destruction on the airport, although if it doesn’t hit its intended target then the engagement was a success.

“The intercept must be as far from the intended target and as far from major population centers as possible. A Stinger missile has a range of perhaps one to two miles, and the cannon on an Avenger mobile air defense unit has an effective range of half that. But a terrorist hit by an Avenger cannon or a Stinger missile will more than likely still crash on the airport, although the damage and death it causes should be greatly reduced. Patriot has a maximum range of about sixty miles, the Hawk missile perhaps twenty — this is the minimum range a suspected terrorist should be allowed to approach.”

“This is nuts… ” someone muttered.

There were murmurs of concurrence around the room. “The main means of identification, control, and engagement must be by armed fighter interceptors, which are vectored into the intercept by AWACS radar planes. Then, intercept the suspect as far from the target as possible— preferably hundreds of miles away,” Vincenti went on. “All suspected terrorist aircraft must be kept away from major airports, and the best way to divert an airliner to another airport where it can be inspected is with an interceptor.” “This is insane!” Deputy Attorney General Lowe said. “Can you imagine an American Airlines flight with two hundred people on board looking out and seeing a fighter on its wing? Jesus, what if there’s an accident? An accidental shoot-down will cause mass hysteria.”

“General Lowe, I think we’ve already got mass confusion bordering on hysteria right now,” Hardcastle said. “My flight from California to Washington was delayed for hours because someone’s flight plan was lost and they wouldn’t allow the aircraft into their airspace. I heard air traffic controllers panicking on the radio every time a plane strayed a couple miles off course — it didn’t matter that the plane was a little corporate job a hundred miles away from any major airport. Sir, we’ve got to take control of this situation or the public will panic.”

“Mr. President, with all due respect to Colonel Vincenti, we should ask Admiral Hardcastle and his staff to pack up their Patriot missiles and F-16 fighter planes and go back to the TV talk shows,” Lowe said bitterly. “We don’t need his brand of frontier justice to keep control of this situation.”

“I agree, Mr. President,” FBI Director Lani Wilkes chimed in. “Sir, Cazaux is going to make a mistake. If that was his handiwork in Memphis, the net will only pull tighter.”

“Okay, Liz,” the President said, holding up his hands. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind for restoring confidence in air travelers?”

While Lowe spoke, Deborah Harley, Martindale’s special assistant assigned to Hardcastle for this meeting, leaned forward in her seat behind Hardcastle and slipped him a note. He turned to her. Harley was in her late forties, a pretty blonde with bright green eyes and a thin but persistent smile. “What’s this, Miss Harley?” he asked.

“An observation, Admiral,” she whispered. Her smile seemed pleasant enough, but her eyes were hard and insistent.

Hardcastle frowned. He did not know Harley, but had seen her on numerous occasions with Martindale in a variety of functions — sometimes she acted as a secretary, a chauffeur, a bodyguard, or even as a wife. Martindale, divorced after being voted out of office in the last election, had a variety of beautiful women drifting in and out of his life — the tabloids kept constant tabs on Martindale’s frequent flings — but only Deborah Harley returned. She was beautiful and mysterious and could even be considered alluring — perfect “tabloid bait”—but the tabloids never pursued her. Hardcastle had never spoken more than a few pleasantries to her. She was all business.

He had trouble reading her unfamiliar handwriting — the message looked like, “It’s a SITREP.” He was about to ask her what she meant when the President addressed him: “How does that sound to you, Admiral?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hardcastle responded, folding the note and shoving it into a pocket, unread. “Say again?”

“Jesus, Admiral, we’re having a meeting over here, ” Lowe muttered irritably. “I suggested to the President that one way to monitor air traffic is to restrict all flights from and to towered fields on IFR flight plans only, where tower personnel can visually identify all departing aircraft and we can use the ATC computers to help monitor all traffic. In that way, we can keep a good portion of general aviation traffic moving, eliminate the pop-up radar targets, and we don’t endanger civil air traffic with missiles and guns.”

“If you’ll notice, that’s all part of my plan, General Lowe,” Hardcastle said. “I think it’s essential for authorities to know precisely what the origin of each and every flight is. As the system works now, a flight under visual flight rules can enter the air traffic control system anywhere. This is called a ‘pop-up’ flight plan, and we need to eliminate them. Cazaux can load up a cargo plane with explosives from some isolated desert base, take off, then simply call up ATC and get a flight plan to a major airport. He’ll get first-class ATC service — right to his bomb-release point. By restricting flights from only towered airports, federal authorities can directly determine who’s in the system. If a personal inspection is warranted, we have a chance to do it—”

“A visual inspection?” Lowe interjected. “You mean visually inspect every plane that looks suspicious? Hardcastle, do you have any idea how many planes that is?”

“On average, one plane over seventy-five thousand pounds gross weight takes off every five seconds from the thirty largest American airports,” Hardcastle replied. “That’s over seventeen thousand flights per day. But three- quarters of those are scheduled passenger flights, which leaves about four thousand flights per day that are cargo flights or flights of unknown purpose or cargo — business, private, small commercial, expedited freight, all that. That’s about one hundred and thirty flights per day from each of the nation’s thirty largest airports, or about five per hour. I believe those flights can be inspected. If we organize local, state, and federal authorities, including reserve law enforcement personnel and the military, we can inspect each and every flight.

“But I don’t have any illusions that this system will be airtight,” Hardcastle went on. “The Border Security Force had a tight, overlapping, redundant air surveillance network, and smugglers still found ways around it. Cazaux is clever as well as dangerous — I work under the assumption that he’ll figure out a way to beat the system. But we must have a way to stop Cazaux before he gets over the airport terminal, and that means an integrated air defense network. We must have the ability to monitor, precisely track, and, if necessary, attack any hostile aircraft anywhere in the airspace system, primarily around the thirty-three major airports under Class B airspace in the United States.”

“I’m strongly opposed to this idea, Mr. President,” Lowe insisted. “I think it’ll result in accidents and needless civilian deaths. It’s like letting Dirty Harry loose on the airports.”

“I’m afraid I’m opposed to the idea as well, Mr. President,” Transportation Secretary Mersky interjected. “There will be problems integrating civil air traffic control functions with military requirements.”

“But it can be done, Secretary Mersky,” Hardcastle said. “I proved that with the Hammerheads. I’ve had plenty of success with this type of emergency, Mr. President. We.can implement this program in just a few days. I think it’s vital, sir.”

The President fell silent, apparently thinking it over; then he turned to Hardcastle and said, “All right, Ian. I don’t like the idea, but we gotta move on this thing.” The President withdrew a card from his jacket pocket, glanced at it, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Deputy Attorney General Lowe, I’m going to announce to Congress that under 10 U.S.C. 332 and 333, I’m directing a military response to this crisis situation. Deputy Lowe, under the law I’m appointing a military representative as your deputy director of the Executive Committee on Terrorism. He’ll interface with Justice and various branches of the military and coordinate an effective response. I want to emphasize that the military’s involvement is limited to protection of major airports around the country, not in law enforcement matters.”

The President then turned toward Hardcastle and continued, “It’s time to put your money where your mouth is, Admiral, so I’ll just come right out and say it: I want you to head the program, Admiral. You are going to be the military liaison to the Executive Committee on Terrorism.”

Hardcastle could have fallen out of his chair in surprise. He gasped, “Excuse me, sir…?”

“I’ve got no other choice,” the President drawled simply, sounding a bit defeated. “Cazaux’s out there. Judge Wilkes is closing in on him, but until she nails him, we’ve got to act decisively. My own Cabinet is divided on the subject. I need the best in the business to head this thing, and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re the best candidate. What’d you say, Admiral? You want in?” Hardcastle glanced quickly at Scheer, Mersky, Lowe, and Wilkes: all but Wilkes stared straight ahead, emotionless. Only Wilkes seemed angry enough to spit bullets. “I need your answer, Ian. This can’t wait any longer. I need you to get together with Dr. Scheer and get the hardware moving into place.”

“Then I’m your man, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll start immediately.”

“Good answer,” the President said, relieved, hoping he could get the hell out of there. “I’ll announce it at this afternoon’s press conference. You’ll be under Mike Lifter, title of Special Assistant to the President for National Security. However, I’d still like all of you to report to Deputy Attorney General Lowe on all antiterrorist stuff — let her talk to me about our responses. You’ll get commensurate three- star pay, standard nondisclosure agreement, you know the drill. Happy to have you aboard, Admiral. I’ll let you, Mike, and Don Scheer get at it. Good luck.”

With that, Hardcastle had been dismissed. He rose, led his staff out with him, and was joined outside the Oval Office by National Security Advisor Michael Lifter and a military aide.

“We’ve set up a staff meeting at the Pentagon,” Lifter said. He was a tall, thin, severe-looking man with small, dark, nervous eyes and a high forehead that made him look sinister and secretive. “Secretary Scheer will meet us there' along with the Chairman. I’m sure they’ll have a videoconference set up with General Lawson of A-COM.” The Chairman, Hardcastle knew, was the popular (at least with the media, the military, and the public — less so with the President and the Cabinet) and powerful Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Philip T. Freeman. Army General Thomas Lawson was CINCACOM, Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Command, the major military command charged with the defense of the “lower forty-eight” states. Hardcastle did not know Lawson; he would have chosen Air Force General Charles Skye instead — perfect name for an Air Force four-star general and former Thunderbirds demonstration-team solo pilot — who was commander of U.S. Space Command and automatically “triple-hatted” as commander of the U.S. Aerospace Defense Command and the joint U.S.-Canadian North American Air Defense Command. But it was the President’s call. “We can take my car…”

“Sir, if you don’t mind, we’ll follow you over,” Deborah Harley suddenly interjected.

Lifter looked a bit puzzled. He glanced at Harley, dismissed her with an impassive blink of his snakelike eyes, then back at Hardcastle: “I have some important matters to go over with you, Admiral.”

“Well meet you over there in the Chairman’s office, Mr. Lifter,” Harley said.

There was no ignoring her this time. Lifter nodded, swallowed, muttered a curt “Very well. One hour. The secretary has your toll passes and plates.”

As they collected their government plates and toll plaza passes from the White House Operations secretary and exited the White House, Hardcastle said, “Miss Harley, what in the hell was that about? And what in blazes did that note say?”

“It said, Admiral, that you were being set up, and they executed it perfectly,” Harley said. “You didn’t see it coming?”

“See what coming?” Sheehan asked.

“How about you, Colonel Vincenti?” Harley asked. “What did you see?”

“I saw ‘good cop, bad cop,’ ” Vincenti said. “Hate to say it, Admiral, but they played you like a fiddle.”

“Did you really think it was a good idea to head this air defense task force, Admiral?” Harley asked. “May I ask why you agreed to do it?”

“Because I can help with this situation,” Hardcastle replied. His mind’s eye was furiously replaying the sequence of events in his head, and the more he recalled, the worse he realized he looked. “Damn it, I can help with this situation. I can directly implement my plan.”

“Admiral, your plan has merit,” Harley said, “but you’re not part of this Administration. You won’t be allowed to implement your program the way you want — you’re an assistant to the National Security Advisor, and Lifter’s only an adviser, not in the military chain of command. Furthermore, you won’t be permitted to speak to the press or the public, including the Project 2000 Task Force. Under the terms of the White House Non-Disclosure Agreement, the Chief of Staff,through the director of White House communications, tells you to whom you can and cannot give statements. If you bust their guidelines— and I guarantee, if they want you to bust the rules, you will—they can throw you in prison. They’ve done it many times in the past. While you’re stuffing some congressman’s newsletters in minimum security, they’ll roast your reputation so badly you’ll be lucky to be allowed to lead a Cub Scout pack anywhere near Washington. Minority Leader Wescott, Senator Heyerdahl, even former Vice President Martindale can’t help you then. You’ve been very effectively squelched, Admiral Hardcastle, and you did it to yourself. Looks like you just canceled all your TV appearances for a while.” Harley shrugged, giving him a cheerful but tired smile. “Don’t feel bad, Admiral. The President is very good at flimflamming someone — so good, he does it to himself and his wife all the time.”

Hardcastle was tight-lipped and scowling as he emerged. from the White House, but just as their car was driven over to them at the entrance to the West Wing, he turned to Harley and said, “I may have been porked by the President, Miss Harley, but they still appointed me Special Assistant to the National Security Advisor. I want to test the boundaries of that office, and you’re going to help me do it.”

Deborah Harley’s shoulders quivered and her eyes brightened in anticipation for a moment, but then her expression turned downcast. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I’ve got a job—”

“I don’t know exactly in what capacity you serve Kevin Martindale, Miss Harley, but one thing’s for sure — I’ve got a toe in the White House right now. I think you would serve the Vice President and the Project 2000 Task Force better if you were with me instead of spying on Martindale’s political enemies — isn’t that what you do, Miss Harley?”

Harley blushed — something Hardcastle never thought he’d see her do. “I don’t think it’s relevant to discuss—” “What’s wrong, Miss Harley? Don’t you think you can pass the White House security check?”

“Admiral, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Harley said. “I know precisely what my White House security file says — I designed it. In fact, I’ve seen the White House’s security report on you. I’ll even show it to you later on.” Hardcastle nodded — he could tell by her confident halfsmile and steady gaze that she was telling the truth. This woman was much more than a simple executive assistant— she was obviously Martindale’s chief troubleshooter, an invisible insider able to pass through the inner sanctums of the current Administration with apparent ease — definitely not someone to piss off. “Find anything interesting to you, Miss Harley?”

She laughed, pointed a finger accusingly at Hardcastle, and replied, “All I can say is, Admiral, that if you plan on doing only half the things to Henri Cazaux that you did to the Haitian, Bahamian, and Colombian governments while you were with the Hammerheads, Cazaux is in big, big trouble.”

Fallon Naval Air Station, Nevada Three Days Later

Before any aircraft carrier air wing begins a cruise, its crews must certify to the carrier air group commander that they are fully qualified and ready to perform their assigned duties. For Navy and Marine Corps strike units in the western half of the United States, that means a trip to Navy Fallon in northern Nevada for a very intensive two-month training and evaluation course on aerial gunnery, bombardment, and missile tactics. With thousands of square miles of ranges spread out over three counties, mostly desolate hills and dry lake beds, hundreds of men (and now women) per year streak over the high desert and mountains, line up on plywood tanks or airfields scratched into the hard-baked earth by bulldozers, and drop thousands of tons of live bombs, rockets, missiles, and cannon rounds. The ranges are also used for operational evaluations of new weapons about to be deployed for the first time. Because of its very isolated location, Navy Fallon is also one of the country’s largest ordnance depots, from which thousands of tons of weapons and explosives are stored, distributed, repaired, refurbished, dismantled, and disposed.

For aircrew members, the eight-week TDY to Navy Fallon is a mixed blessing. Although the base facilities are first-rate, the surrounding town is so isolated and small that, apart from the temptation to visit one of the many legal brothels nearby, there was little to do in Fallon for relaxation or enjoyment. But it was a good opportunity to prepare oneself for a long deployment at sea, where the facilities and chances for rest and relaxation were even less available, and it was definitely some of the best flying around. Crew members actually looked forward to Fallon’s open skies, big ranges, plenty of live ordnance, and the chance to show the brass what you can do with the Navy’s most modem warplanes..

It was also a weapons smorgasbord for arms dealers and smugglers, if you had the money and the right connections.

After a flight into Fallon Municipal Airport, five miles northwest of the Naval Air Station, Gregory Townsend, Henri Cazaux’s third-in-command and chief of plans and operations, signed a lease for a large hangar, the flight crew fueled and prepared their aged de Havilland C-8 Buffalo cargo plane for departure, and Ysidro and his crew made preparations for their meeting.

Just after midnight, they heard the sounds of heavy truck engines approaching outside the hangar. After an hour-long wait, undoubtedly so their counterparts could move toward them and surround the hangar, Ysidro and Townsend were met by several men in a Navy Humvee. Six men emerged from the big vehicle, all armed to the teeth with M-16 rifles and military-issue Beretta automatic pistols. Two men wore Navy utility uniforms; three others were in civilian clothes but had military haircuts; and one, who stepped out of the front passenger side of the Humvee and looked like the leader, looked like a civilian all the way. While two men stood before Ysidro and Townsend, armed with M-16 rifles, two of the gunsels herded the smuggler’s crewmen inside the de Havilland to watch them, and two others stationed themselves at the front and rear hangar doors.

Both Townsend and Ysidro were frisked, and their weapons taken from them. Ysidro was heavily armed with an automatic submachine gun, two pistols, and two knives — those were taken from him — but he was allowed to keep the aluminum briefcase he carried, after a careful inspection. Inside the suitcase was U.S. cash in twenties, fifties, and one hundreds, along with Swiss and German bearer bonds. “They brought the cash,” the soldier reported to the civilian after checking the case for hidden weapons.

“We’ve been doing business a long time,” Townsend said to the leader. “We want it to stay that way. We’ll play fair with you in return for good service. Cash for quality goods.”

But even then, reassuring words did not tone down the rough search he had to undergo. Townsend carried only one gun, a Colt .45 auto pistol, along with a Tekna three-cell flashlight — which was carefully inspected, even to the point of unscrewing the butt cap and sliding out the batteries — and, to the gunsel’s surprise, a sixteen-inch Bowie knife in a sheath strapped to his back, handle down so he could draw it easily. After showing the huge knife to the others, the gunsel rasped, “Like fuckin’ Crocodile Dundee. What’s this for, bobbie?”

“Skinning snakes,” Townsend spat back. “Be careful with it. It has special sentimental value.”

“From your mother, I suppose.”

“My father beat up and killed my mother when I was a child,” Townsend said in a conversational, matter-of-fact tone. “I took that knife from Mohammar Kaddafi’s bedroom during a botched SAS assassination mission. Three of my best soldiers were killed on that raid, and the bastard wasn’t even home.” He leaned forward, and in a low, ghostly tone of voice, said, “I was so upset I resigned from the SAS, returned home, got drunk, and sliced off my father’s head with that knife.”

The soldier didn’t know if Townsend was telling the truth, but one look at his crocodile’s smile and he decided not to make any more smart comments. He placed all the weapons and gear inside the front seat of the Humvee and backed away without further comment.

Relieved of his weapons and gear, Townsend took a moment to carefully study the men around him. They all looked like professional soldiers, although he noticed how quickly and easily they relaxed when Ysidro’s and his own weapons were confiscated. If the gunsels knew anything about unarmed combat, they would know that a professional soldier never relaxed, even with ten-versus-two odds. Two of the Navy men in uniform were known to Ysidro and Townsend, but the rest were strangers, which Townsend didn’t like. “Who the hell are these blokes? We agreed only us four at the setup.”

“That was before you asked for the heavy stuff, Townsend.” Crenshaw laughed. “Our first deal was easy — six thousand pounds of waste ammonium nitrate and perchlorate. Hell, the Navy dumps at least six thousand pounds a day of waste chemicals and explosives into open pits out here — drink the well water around here for a couple years and if you fart you blow your ass off.”

“All right, let’s get on with it,” Townsend said impatiently. “Perchlorate and hydrazine we can get anywhere — the state of Nevada practically gives the shit away. You got the rest of it?”

“What I’m telling you, bobbie, is that the prize is gonna be worth the price.” Crenshaw turned to the guard at the front hangar door, who made a signal with a flashlight. Soon two five-ton utility trucks, painted Navy gray with desert-camouflaged canvas tops over the cargo beds, rumbled toward them. When the trucks pulled up to the group and the hangar doors were closed, Crenshaw stepped behind the first truck and flipped open the canvas cover on the back, and Townsend jumped up on the back of the truck to examine the contents. There were eight 55-gallon drums marked HIGH EXPLOSIVE, and four drums marked FLAMMABLE. He found an opener tool in the bed of the truck and opened each screw opening of the first eight drums, and the unmistakable acidic-aluminum-blood smell of aluminum perchlorate filtered out. He inspected the last four drums, this time mixing two ounces of the liquid in the second barrel with a pinch of the powder in the first set of barrels in a small plastic tube. After swirling the mixture in the tube, he carefully held a lighter to the opening of the tube, and a long cylinder of blue fire shot out with a loud pop.

He repeated the test with all four barrels, satisfied that he had the good stuff. Hydrazine and aluminum perchlorate were two highly explosive compounds all by themselves, but mixed together they formed a thick, unstable vapor that, mixed with oxygen and ignited with a spark, created a huge, violent explosion hundreds of times more powerful than gasoline or TNT. “Drove all this way across the desert at night with simple nylon ropes securing these barrels, did you?” Townsend asked as he stepped out of the truck. He knew that there was enough aluminum perchlorate and hydrazine in that truck to once and for all bring down one of the World Trade Center towers. “You’re either braver or stupider than I suspected.”

“Not as stupid as you two are, Townsend,” Crenshaw said, motioning with glee at the twin-engined de Havilland cargo plane. “We got here in one piece. Let’s see how brave you two are when you gotta fly outta here in that piece-of-shit cargo plane. You opened the drums. One wisp of hydrazine lingering in the air or near those engines when you start them up—poof. You blow the hydrazine, scatter the perchlorate, make an even bigger boom.” Townsend had to nod at that last remark — yes, it was going to be tricky going.

“These are the real prizes, gents.” Crenshaw stepped over to the second truck and opened a canvas flap, revealing several different oddly shaped weapons. There were eight devices in all, all about four to five feet long. “Took some time collecting these bad boys,” he said proudly. “All Gulf War veterans, all fully operational. Three Mark-77 napalm canisters, three CBU-55 fuel-air explosives units, and six CBU-59 cluster bombs units. Best stuff in the arsenal.”

“Very good,” Townsend said. It was indeed an impressive haul — perhaps too impressive. The Navy didn’t let ordnance like this just lie around. Crenshaw was a top munitions maintenance man, but even he had to carefully account for stuff like this. “My flashlight, if you please?”

“Suit yourself,” Crenshaw said, motioning to one of his men, who handed Townsend his flashlight. Townsend jumped up onto the truck, placed the flashlight in his teeth, and carefully examined each weapon.

The Mark-77 was little more than a large blunt-ended gas tank filled with chemical beads, which Townsend checked. Once filled with gasoline, the beads dissolved to form napalm, which could blanket nearly an entire city block with a sheet of fire. The CBU-59, with the words CONTENTS: LIVE LOADED BLU-77/B stenciled on the sides, were metal containers that, when released and opened by a barometric nose fuze, scattered seven hundred APAM (anti-personnel, antimaterial) bomblets across a four-hundred-foot oval swath. The one-pound baseball-sized bomblets were filled with steel dartlike projectiles that could mutilate anything — or anyone — in their path. Some of the bomblets exploded on contact, while others had timer fuzes which would detonate them minutes or even hours later.

The real prize was the fuel-air explosives bombs. The CBU-55 canisters were simply very large fuel tanks that would be filled with the hydrazine and aluminum perchlorate, the stuff in the other truck. Behind the endplate of each canister was a dispenser holding three BLU-73 bomblets. When released, the two compounds would mix, the canister would automatically spray the target area with a large cloud of explosive gas, and then the parachute-retarded bomblets would ignite the gas — the resulting explosion would be equivalent to ten 2,000-pound bombs going off at once. Pound for pound, the CBU-55 was the most powerful non-nuclear bomb in the American military arsenal. In limited service in the Vietnam War because the dense foliage dissipated its explosive effects, it was the weapon of choice in the wide-open deserts of Iraq. Officially it was used only to “clear minefields,” but it was used with terrible effect on large masses of Iraqi troops, squashing and incinerating anything within five hundred yards of ground zero. Its devastating killing power was considered — unethical, almost on a par with chemical, biological, or nuclear weapons.

“Very impressive, Crenshaw,” Townsend said, swinging the flashlight beam into Crenshaw’s face, then snapping it off. Acquiring the fuel-air explosive weapons would make Cazaux very happy indeed. “I hope bearer bonds are acceptable. They have been in the past.”

“As long as you got my share in U.S. greenbacks in there, I don’t care about that shit,” Crenshaw said. “The officers want the fuckin’ Kraut bonds, not me. Now get the fuck down and—”

Distracted by the flashlight beam, Crenshaw didn’t see what Townsend was doing until he had nearly finished doing it — he had unscrewed the butt cap off the three-cell flashlight, removed the two rear D-cell batteries, screwed them together, and aimed it at him. Before Crenshaw could raise his submachine gun, Townsend pressed a button, and with a barely audible pufff, a two-inch razor-edged arrow pierced his chest, sliced through his heart, deflected off a rib, and ricocheted around inside his body like a pinball, slicing up blood vessels and lungs in the blink of an eye. He turned and shot darts into the first truck driver and two more gunsels standing nearby, then leaped off the truck. Everything had happened so fast that the driver of the first truck was still idly sitting behind his wheel when Townsend ran over to his door, put the weapon to his left temple, and fired a bolt into his brain.

Ysidro disdained the use of any sort of fancy James Bond-type weapons. As soon as he saw Crenshaw go down, Ysidro was on the move. He bashed the heavy metal briefcase into the soldier nearest him, grabbed his gun as he went down, and started pumping bullets at anything that moved, remembering not to shoot toward the explosives- laden trucks and counting on Townsend to kill anyone near him. The massacre of the three soldiers near him was complete in a matter of seconds. The guard at the rear of the hangar took off running as soon as he saw Ysidro sprinting after him, but luckily the back door to the hangar was locked. Ysidro dropped him with a bullet in his chest from fifty feet, then stepped up to him and put a second bullet in his brain.

“Jesus Christ, Ysidro, one bullet ricocheting in the wrong direction could’ve cooked us all,” Townsend said.

“Hey, we’re already fuckin’ stupid for accepting this assignment in the first place — this is a job for the grunts,” Ysidro said. “I’m a guerrilla, not a trash-hauler, and if we blow, we blow. Let’s just get the hell out of here. Linnares, get your ass out here and load these explosives now!” Johann Linnares, the leader of the flight crew, stepped out of the de Havilland along with his crew — they had killed the two guards who tried to lock them up in the plane as soon as they were alone.

“I still don’t fucking understand why we had to kill these guys this time around,” Ysidro said as the crews began to load the explosives and weapons aboard the cargo plane. “These guys were swaggering assholes, but they were generally straight with us, and we been trading with them for a long time. What gives?”

“Things are going to get too hot around the clubhouse once we begin the next series of attacks,” Townsend said. “We paid these blokes pretty well, but when the feds see what we’re about to do, the heat gets turned up and the reward money for our heads will undoubtedly be more than assholes like Crenshaw could resist. I think Henri was correct — once these attacks are completed, it’ll be time to open up some new sources of hardware. By then, we’ll be the top dogs in the terror-for-hire game. We’ll have the world’s pick of the litter.”

“I'll we survive,” Ysidro said. “Henri really is fuckin’ possessed, and I think we’re gonna need the Devil’s help to get out of this alive.”

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, Sunrise Two Days Later

If you had to go to war, had to deploy at a moment’s notice, had to hump all night to get your unit set up and operational as fast as humanly possible, there were worse places to do it than Dallas, Texas.

Lieutenant Colonel Valerie Witt, U.S. Army, emerged onto the catwalk with a cup of coffee just as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, putting the skyline of the city of Dallas in stark profile. The dawn was hazy and cool, but she had ditched her field jacket back in her new office downstairs hours ago. She allowed herself the luxury of drinking in the sunrise, letting the brilliant yellow sun charge her batteries. For a moment, she was back in her hometown of Ogunquit, Maine, watching the sunrise from her parents’ home on the coast, or on the beach at Treasure Cay in the Bahamas on her honeymoon. Beautiful. Just beautiful…

But as she scanned the horizon an unusual sight brought her back to reality very quickly — and Avenger FAADS (Forward Area Air Defense System) unit parked a few hundred yards beyond the approach end of runway 35 Right. It was hardly more than a speck out there, but its two box launchers aimed skyward, each containing four Stinger heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles, could be seen. This was not her honeymoon. This was not home. Yes, it was Fort Worth, Texas, but it was also war.

Valerie Witt was the commander of Third Battalion, 43rd Regiment, and was the senior air defense artillery battalion commander deployed to the defense of Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. Her communications headquarters were on the second level of Dallas-Fort Worth’s multistory control tower, where she had a clear view of all her air defense units at DFW; but her weapon command center, the AN/MSQ-16 MICC (Master Information and Coordination Central), a large steel green-painted box crammed full of radar sets, radios, and air conditioners (for the electronics, not the humans who work inside), had been hoisted up onto the roof of terminal 2W of Dallas-Fort Worth. Beside the MICC was the AMG, or Antenna Mast Group, a truck carrying two UHF antennas that linked Witt’s MICC with all the air defense units surrounding Dallas-Fort Worth. Because DFW was one of the busiest and most important airports in the United States, there were a lot of air defense units deployed here to try to stop Henri Cazaux if he tried to attack here.

Eleventh Brigade, from Fort Bliss, El Paso, Texas, had deployed six of Witt’s Third Battalion Patriot missile batteries in the area — two at Carswell Air Force Base, west of Dallas-Fort Worth, two at Naval Air Station Dallas to the south, and two batteries at Fort Worth-Alliance Airport, north of the city of Fort Worth. Each battery had four Patriot missile launchers — half the normal number, because so many airports in the nation had to be covered — and each launcher contained four missiles.

In addition, there were four platoons of Hawk medium- range surface-to-air missiles spread out on the outskirts of Dallas-Fort Worth, twelve launcher units for a total of thirty-six Hawk missiles; and eight Avenger units, stationed at each end of the four runways kept active at DFW, for a total of sixty-four short-range Stinger missiles. Patriot Communications Relay Groups scattered all across Tarrant and Dallas counties ensured tight coordination between the Patriot batteries and Witt’s battalion MICC, which controlled all the Patriot, Hawk, Avenger, and Stinger surface- to-air missile sites surrounding Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. In turn, Witt’s command center was tied directly into the overall Air Defense Force Commander, an Air Force officer she did not know, orbiting over El Dorado, Texas, in an E-3C Sentry AW ACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) radar plane. Although Witt could launch any of the missiles defending Dallas-Fort Worth, primary responsibility of launching missiles at any one of the major airports in the south-central United States — Dallas-Fort Worth, Houston-Intercontinental, Houston-Hobby, Memphis, Tulsa, Nashville, and New Orleans — or directing any fighters on intercepts, was in the Air Force officer’s hands.

Witt finished a walkaround of the catwalk around the control tower, checking the weather, checking the airport, and catching a glimpse of all the HAWK and Avenger units deployed around the huge airport. Far to the south, she could see two F-16 Fighting Falcon fighters leaping into the sky from Naval Air Station Dallas, then peeling away to the east with afterburners roaring. Air defense units, fighters — this was something you’d expect to see in Beirut, or Baghdad, or Tel Aviv — not Texas. What was going on in this world when a single terrorist could hold a nation hostage like this, force it to restrict the rights of its own citizens in order to defend itself?

Witt returned to her little headquarters — consisting of several banks of radios, computers, and radar repeater— just as the secure radio crackled to life: “All Tiger units, all Tiger units, stand by for a poll of the air defense force.”

Witt reached over and picked up a telephone, which was wired directly into her MICC van down below: “Tiger 100, report.”

It looked huge from the outside, but the Master Information and Coordination Central van was barely big enough for three persons inside. The Battalion Engagement Officer, Captain Jim Connor, sat on the left in front of a large twelve-inch digital radarscope, surrounded by switchlights, indicators, and a keyboard; he was responsible for making the decision on whether or not any missile unit in the battalion would fire on a hostile target, and for taking over as Battalion Force Commander if communications between the Air Defense Force Mission Commander on board the AWACS radar plane were lost. The Battalion Fire Unit Technician, Master Sergeant Mike Pierini, sat on the right, with a virtually identical radar setup as the Engagement Officer. Pierini was responsible for identifying all targets on radar and classifying them as friendly, hostile, or unknown (if the crews aboard the AWACS plane had not already done so), assisting the Engagement Officer, and maintaining communications with the battalion’s missile units.

Between them was a dot-matrix printer, and above that the LED readouts and status displays of all the rounds remaining of all the missile units under Witt’s command. Reading off the status display, Connor responded: “Ma’am, Tiger 100 shows all units in the green: Ninety-six Patriot, thirty-six HAWK, and sixty-four Avenger Stingers ready. All units acknowledging HOLD FIRE command.”

“Very well, Tiger 100, out.”

Aboard the E-3C Sentry AWACS Radar Plane Orbiting Over El Dorado, Texas

Army Lieutenant Colonel Valerie Witt might have been incensed to learn that the overall Air Defense Force Mission Commander for the south-central United States was about ten years younger than she, had five years less time in the military, and was only an Air Force major, but that described William “Kid” Kestrel, the Mission Crew Commander (MCC) aboard Tiger Nine-Zero, the E-3C Sentry Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane. Kestrel was short, blue-eyed, fair-haired, and slight, and he looked even younger than age thirty-eight — he looked far younger than anybody else on the twenty-two-person AWACS crew, although he was probably the oldest.

Kestrel was one of eleven Air Defense Force Mission Commanders airborne at that moment aboard E-3C Sentry radar planes, covering the entire continental United States — the others were stationed over Elizabeth City, North Carolina, Allentown, Pennsylvania, and Indianapolis, Indiana, covering the northeast; Gainesville, Florida, covering the southeast; Des Moines, Iowa, covering the Midwest; Cimmaron, New Mexico, and Billings, Montana, covering the Rocky Mountain region; Mormon Mesa, Nevada, and Porterville, California, covering the southwest; and Lakeview, Oregon, covering the northwest. Flying one-hundred-mile racetrack patterns at twenty-nine thousand feet, the E-3C Sentry, with its powerful AN/APY- 2 Overland Downlook Radar mounted on a thirty-foot saucer rotodome atop the converted Boeing 707 aircraft, could detect and track any aircraft in flight for three hundred miles in all directions.

After one aerial refueling three hours ago, Kestrel’s crew had been on station now for eight hours, with four more hours to go before another plane would launch from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City to take their place. Under normal circumstances, this might be boring work. Air traffic had subsided to a fraction of its normal levels after the government ordered that all aircraft flying within the United States had to take off and land at airports with control towers, had to file an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) flight plan, and had to be under positive radar control at all times — and of course, the prospect of having several tons of high explosives dropped on your head inside an airport terminal kept a lot of people from flying as well.

But a lot of civilian and commercial aircraft that stayed on the ground were replaced by other aircraft: military fighters, escorting airliners all over the United States. The best estimate said that over two hundred F-16 ADF and F- 15 fighters of the Air National Guard’s total inventory of three hundred air defense fighters were airborne at any one time, shadowing any aircraft, big or small, that violated any of the new flight rules or did or said something suspicious. Every airport in the United States with a five-thousand-foot concrete runway and jet fuel available probably had a fighter land there at one time or another in the past twelve hours.

On Major Kestrel’s radarscope, it appeared that he had, every one of the military planes in his airspace — and he needed them all, because it also seemed that all the flakeoid pilots, bad radios, garbled transmissions, incorrect assumptions, and lost flight plans were rattling around in his assigned sector. Last night, the first full night of the new emergency flight rules, was the worst — but now it was dawn and the wrong decisions, rule violations, confusion, and just plain dumb-shit moves still showed no signs of letting up.

“All Tiger units, all Tiger units, this is Tiger Control with a poll of the air defense units,” Kestrel began. Satellite communications downlinks allowed him to speak with units many miles away as if he were orbiting right over them. “Tiger 100.”

“Tiger 100, all units in the green, all units acknowledge HOLD FIRE command,” Colonel Witt at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport responded.

“Tiger 200.”

“Tiger 200, all units in the green, all units acknowledge HOLD FIRE,” the battalion commander at Houston-Hobby International reported, which also secured Houston-Intercontinental Airport. The poll continued with all of Kestrel’s assigned units at New Orleans, Memphis, Little Rock, Oklahoma City, Tulsa, Jackson, and Springfield. Not all of these locations had Patriot missiles stationed there, but all had at least two Avenger-Stinger units and one HAWK missile unit, all controlled by Kestrel in the E-3C AWACS.

“Well, everybody’s in place, and it looks like we survived the night all in one piece,” Major Bill Kestrel told Admiral Ian Hardcastle and Lieutenant Colonel A1 Vincenti, as they observed the progress of the emergency operation. Since Dallas-Fort Worth was one of the busiest in the nation, and since Cazaux’s last attack in Memphis was not far away, it was a logical target, and a lot of planning, personnel, and hardware had gone into defending it. It was the perfect place to watch how the system was running— and the perfect place to watch potential problems occur. “But I’m seeing signs of pilots testing the system already.”

“What do you mean, Kid?” Hardcastle asked.

“It’s a pilot thing, I believe,” Kestrel replied, giving veteran F-16 pilot Vincenti a mischievous smile. “Airline pilots need to be on time — their jobs depend on it — so they stretch the rules, probe the boundaries of the new authority. See* here’s a good example.” Kestrel reduced the range on his scope to show better detail. “This USAir flight from Little Rock is a 757 and he thinks he owns the sky. He’s an hour late, but so what? — everybody in the system is at least an hour late. But he’s real cranky. First, he won’t stay on the Blue Ridge Four Arrival — he wants vectors to runway 35 Left final. We closed 36 Right and 35 Left, the runways closest to the terminal, so naturally that’s what this bozo asks for. ATC says no, we want him out to GACHO intersection, fifteen miles out, and we want him on the ILS glideslope.

“Now he’s really pissed, and he’s making mistakes. He’s screaming onto the localizer, going like a bat out of hell. He’s cutting the corner, see? — he’s never going to reach GACHO intersection. He’s still going 250 knots, which is legal but not very smart since he’s got about a ninety-degree turn coming up in a few seconds. Ninety-nine-percent chance he’s a good guy, but he’s doing bad-guy stuff. I got no choice.” He hit the intercom button to his Senior Director — although the Senior Director was sitting right beside him, the intercom call alerted the entire crew to what he was doing — and said, “Active scramble on target ID uniform-seven-one-one-three, two F-16s. Continue the hold- fire on all batteries but tell Tiger 124, 125, 146, and 148 that ID number U7113 is a possible hostile. Tell Tiger 112 that a 757 will be flying real close from the east. I want all units to hold fire — don’t get excited to see that idiot barreling in.”

Kestrel pointed to his scope. “See that? He’s blown through the localizer inbound course, still going like a bat out of hell — good thing he’s not running up someone’s ass. Now watch.” Kestrel pointed to a spot at the top of his scope, and sure enough, a white rectangle with the words EMER appeared and began blinking. “They all do that — they argue, get excited, make a mistake, then realize what they’ve done and squawk emergency. Look, he’s practically into Naval Air Station Dallas’ airspace, overflying the Patriot missile site. Jesus…”

“So what can you do?” Hardcastle asked.

“I’ve got no choice, Admiral,” Kestrel said. “But it ain’t gonna fly. Listen…” He pressed another button on his communications panel: “Dallas East Approach, this is Tiger Control, that USAir Flight, ID U7113, is in violation. I need him kicked out to Scurry VOR until we can get a fighter visual ID… affirmative, U7113… deviated more than two miles off assigned course within twenty miles of Dallas-Fort Worth Airport.” Hardcastle and Vincenti could hear the approach controller, and he did not sound happy at all. “I’ve got two F-16s airborne from NAS Dallas now, and I’ll declare him MARSA with the USAir flight at this time… I know he’s declared an emergency, Approach, but he’s in violation, he still hasn’t gotten back on the localizer… what’s your controller number, ma’am?… fine, my commander will call your supervisor. Request you advise that flight that he is an air defense item of interest and that if he violates the flight parameters again, he will be fired upon without further warning… yes, damn it, I’m serious. Tiger out.”

He clicked over to another channel with an angry stab on the button: “All Tiger units, this is Tiger control, ID U7113 has declared an emergency and is being cleared to land on runway 31 Right at Dallas-Fort Worth. Interceptor units are airborne from NAS Dallas. At DIVVR intersection, repeat, at DIVVR intersection, all Hawk and Avenger batteries are released tight, repeat, at five miles out, all Hawk and Avenger batteries are released tight.” He switched channels again, this time to the VHF GUARD emergency frequency, which was linked to a repeater station near Dallas-Fort Worth Airport: “Attention all aircraft, attention all aircraft, this is the United States Air Force airborne defense controller Tiger, we have an air defense item of interest landing on runway 31 Right, Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, warning, do not violate your flight clearances or you may be fired upon in the interest of national security. Repeat, all aircraft, do not violate your flight clearances or you may be fired upon without warning. Tiger out.”

Kestrel turned to Hardcastle and Vincenti and said, “Okay, gents, I’ve just given the order for the short-range air defense systems to open fire on the inbound 757 if he strays more than a mile off course within five miles from the runway, more than a half-mile within two miles of the extended runway centerline, or more than one thousand feet toward the terminals within one mile. Meanwhile, the F-16s will try to join on him or orbit nearby until he’s turned off the runway. This jet jockey is screwing up by the numbers, and now he — and his passengers, don’t forget — are looking down the barrel of about twenty-four missiles and two F-16 Fighters with missiles and guns of their own. Just plain stupid. He can die at any time between now and about two minutes from now, and you’ll have a major disaster on your hands.”

It was a very tense wait as they watched the final two minutes of the approach. The F-16 fighter joined on the 757 when the airliner was about two miles from touchdown: “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311 flight, target looks clean, no open panels or devices, wheels are down. I see passengers in the windows. Looking good…” There was a short pause as the F-16 pilot configured his own plane for landing. He would fly to the right and above the airliner as long as he could, away from the Hawk and Avenger missile units arrayed between the runway and the east terminals of Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. “Control, — 311 going around.”

“Control, this is Tiger-148, I’ve got a visual on the target,” reported one of the Avenger ground units, stationed at the approach end of the runway and tracking the airliner all the way on a telescopic infrared camera. “He’s looking good, wheels and flaps down… Control, the target has touched down… Control, I see thrust reversers and spoilers, looks like a normal rollout… Control, he’s turned off onto the high-speed taxiway one-north, moving onto taxiway 21… Control, security units are on the scene. Request permission to disengage. Over.”

“Attention all Tiger units, this is Tiger Control, all batteries hold fire, repeat, all batteries hold fire. Target ID U7113 is down. Tiger Control clear.” Kestrel slid off his headset after telling his Senior Director he was going off the air for a few minutes, then motioned to Hardcastle and Vincenti toward the back of the AWACS plane: “I gotta take a break.”

Hardcastle and Vincenti followed Kestrel to the galley, where Kestrel hit the lavatory and stayed in there for what seemed like a long time. When he finally emerged, his face still damp from the water he had splashed on it, he slugged down a couple of antacid tablets with a grimace. “It’s gonna be a long day, I can see that now,” he muttered.

“Very good work over there, Major,” Hardcastle offered.

“That routine happens about twice, maybe three times an hour, gents,” Kestrel said to Hardcastle and Vincenti, as if he hadn’t heard Hardcastle’s compliment. The strain really showed. “The pilots declare an emergency, and all our rules go out the window. All the air traffic controllers want to do is get these guys on the ground, so they clear them for landing before we can check them out. It’s wearing my crews down real fast, and this is only the second day.”

“But aren’t your crews accustomed to this?” Hardcastle asked. “You’ve got some Desert Storm veterans on your crew. In the Middle East you were flying thousands of sorties a day, controlling hundreds of aircraft.”

“In Desert Storm, and in most controller situations, most of the targets on the scope are good guys, and we’re on the lookout for the bad guys,” Kestrel explained. “Here, every target is a potential bad guy, right up until he turns off the runway after landing. Furthermore, all of our ‘bad guys’ are flying right toward the spot that we’re assigned to defend — and we have to let them! That’s pretty unheard-of in the AWACS game. We’re used to playing on a much bigger scale — here, most of the real tense action occurs close to the ground and close to the defended spot, where if something goes wrong we don’t have a lot of time to react—”

“Nothing personal, Major, but I’d rather burn out a few AWACS crews rather than see Cazaux bomb another terminal,” Vincenti said. “Air defense is a shitty game, but we gotta play it.”

“I hear you, Al, and I can’t argue with that — it’s our job and we’re going to do it,” Kestrel said. “I’m getting an ulcer because some flyboy wants to land five minutes earlier than his buddies — fine. But I wonder if that pilot realizes that if he does so much as wag his wings toward the terminal when he’s on final approach, sirs, one of those kids riding in the Avengers is going to pull the trigger and send two Stinger missiles into an airliner full of civilians. It’s something you guys from Washington are going to have to deal with if this thing drags on and a mistake happens. Either we turn up the heat and catch this Cazaux bastard right away, or you’ll have to tighten up the rules a bit more, before we start flaming a lot of innocent Americans.”

“We can’t do much about the tactical situation,” Hardcastle said. “We can nail the pilots busting the rules or declaring an emergency in order to circumvent the rules and get on the ground faster, but for the time being I don’t think Washington is going to want to hear any more plans to restrict air traffic any more than what we’re doing right now. I’d like to see the FBI take off the kid gloves and beat the bushes a little harder for Cazaux, but I believe they’re working as hard as they—”

“Major Kestrel, another target just busted the arrival routing,” one of the surveillance technicians said as he approached the group. “SD wants you back up on headsets.”

“On my way,” Kestrel said, popping one more antacid before leading Hardcastle and Vincenti back to the Weapons Controller section of the AWACS radar plane. He reached his seat, slapped on his headset, and turned to his Senior Director: “What do we have, Todd?”

“A private 727 on the Acton Two Arrival with a lost flight plan,” the Senior Director reported. “Departed San Antonio International about an hour ago — that’s been confirmed by the tower crew.”

“Can’t let him into DFW without a flight plan,” Kestrel said emphatically. “Why the hell didn’t ATC kick him out and tell him to return to San Antonio?” He knew that was a rhetorical question that his Senior Director couldn’t answer, so he flipped his communications panel to his discrete Dallas Approach channel: “Dallas West Approach, Tiger Airborne Control.”

“This is Dallas West Regional, go ahead.”

“Yes, sir, that private 727, radar ID 35T90, doesn’t have a flight plan for Dallas-Fort Worth International. Landing is prohibited without an IFR flight plan coordinated through me. Landing at DFW, Love, or Alliance is not authorized.”

“Stand by one, I’ll give you to my military operations desk.” Kestrel was put on hold for about a minute, and then he had to explain the situation all over again to the Dallas TRACON military operations officer again, who responded, “We’ve been losing lots of flight plans, Tiger. The system is jammed. We’d lose five percent of the flight plans on a normal full-up day — now, with every plane in the sky filing a flight plan, we can’t keep up.”

“I understand your problem, Approach, but let’s deal with this guy first,” Kestrel interjected. “Reroute the guy either to one of the satellite airports or back to San Antonio — he can’t land at DFW, Alliance, or Love.”

“I thought the procedure stated that you military types would visually identify any aircraft that was not on a flight plan or that was not following his clearance.”

“That’s correct,” Kestrel said. “If he tries to fly toward the primary airport in Class B airspace without a flight plan, without a clearance, or if he’s not following his clearance, he will be intercepted.”

“So why not just intercept this guy, visually check him out; then make the decision to let him land?”

“Sir, that’s not the purpose of the procedure,” Kestrel said patiently. “The purpose of an intercept is not to visually identify him, but to shoot him down as far away from the primary airport and from populated areas, if that becomes necessary.”

“Why do you want to shoot him down, for God’s sake?” “I don’t want to shoot him down,” Kestrel said. He looked at Hardcastle, who was listening in on the conversation with an expression of absolute disbelief on his face. Sir, the aircraft does not have a proper flight plan in the system — that’s a violation, and it makes him a suspected terrorist. He’s approaching a high-volume primary airport in Class B airspace, one of the airports designated as a high-value asset by the federal government. He’s supposed to be on the Acton Two arrival, but I have him three miles east of HULEN intersection and one thousand feet low.”

“Is he on a vector?”

I don’t know, sir,” Kestrel said, ready to tear his hair out in utter frustration. He turned to his Senior Director, who nodded his head “yes” at the question. “My senior director says he is on a vector, Approach, but that doesn’t matter. All I know is that he doesn’t have a flight plan, he’s not on a published standard arrival routing, and he’s not on a published approach procedure. I’m asking you to divert him to a satellite airport or back to his departure airport.” There was a slight but maddening pause, then: “Okay, Tiger Control, I… sir, it’s really busy here, and I’m not quite sure what the problem is…”

“I’m trying to explain it to you, if you’d just listen to me.” “I didn’t catch that last, Tiger,” the supervisor said in a detached, bureaucratic way that told everyone listening in that he heard what Kestrel said but was ignoring him. “If you think you’ve got a terrorist situation, perhaps I’d better turn you over to the chief of security operations or the deputy director. Stand by one.”

Hardcastle keyed his headset mike button: “Dallas Approach, this is Admiral Ian Hardcastle speaking. I’m the Special Assistant to the President for Air Defense Operations.” Kestrel was shaking his head at Hardcastle, silently asking him not to get into it, but it was too late now. “I’m in charge of this antiterrorist operation. I’m ordering you to divert this suspect aircraft away from Dallas-Fort Worth Airport until his identity can be verified. Do you understand me?”

“Who is this again?”

“This is Admiral Hardcastle, Special Assistant to the President.”

“President of… the United States? Is that what you’re saying?”

Hardcastle’s back stiffened angrily, his cheek muscles quivering. He grasped his headset mike, pulled it closer to his lips, and shouted, ‘The name’s Hardcastle, sir. I am the man who is going to make your life miserable if you don’t comply with my instructions.”

“Ah… right—Mister Hardcastle.” It was obvious by the controller’s voice that he wasn’t accustomed to being threatened and he was done talking. “I’m turning you over to the deputy facility director — you can make your requests and your threats to him. Stand by, please.” And the line went dead, replaced by soothing mood music.

“Damn it, he cut us off,” Kestrel said. On intercom, he said to his senior director, “Todd, divert Tango X-Ray-311 for an ID intercept on target ID 35T90. Classify that target ID as ‘unknown.’ Transmit an alert to Tiger units 112, 113, 131, and 132, but send a HOLD FIRE and have all units acknowledge.” Kestrel turned to Hardcastle and said bitterly, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Admiral. The shit’s starting to pile up real fast.”

Air Defense Battalion Master Information and Coordination Central, DFW Airport

Lieutenant Colonel Valerie Witt was breathing heavily from the run from the control tower to the access elevator that took her up to the roof of terminal 2W. This was where her Master Information and Coordination Central van was! set up, as she hurried into the van and stood between the battalion engagement officer, Captain Jim Connor, and the battalion fire unit technician, Master Sergeant Mike Pierini, in the front of the cab. “What do we got, Jim?”

“Tiger Control just made this guy an UNKNOWN,” Connor replied, tapping the eraser point of his pencil on his radarscreen. “No flight plan on him. Tiger is scrambling two fighters, and they’ve alerted NAS Dallas and Carswell Patriot batteries and HAWK units 131 and 132. We’ve acknowledged the HOLD FIRE order.”

Witt relaxed and got her breathing under control. It was just another alert, probably the fifteenth one since she set up operations here less than two days ago. As it was during the Persian Gulf War of 1991, the brass aboard the AWACS radar planes flag everybody even marginally suspect as UNKNOWN during the first few days of a conflict. When the friendly forces became more organized, everyone got more comfortable, and procedures became better understood and more routine, the numbers of alerts decreased, even to the point where engaging a SCUD missile was considered routine. This was shaping up to be the same. Witt checked the status readouts — yes, every Patriot, HAWK, and Avenger fire unit was reporting “HOLD FIRE.” The unknown was still over thirty miles out, well within range of Patriot and coming within range of HAWK batteries in a few minutes. The Air Force fighters were airborne, and MICC had a solid track on them. No crisis yet.

Witt studied the battalion engagement officer’s radarscreen as the fighters converged on the suspect airliner. The airspace for fifty miles around Dallas-Fort Worth had been divided up into safe-fly corridors, which corresponded to the FAA’s published STAR, or Standard Terminal Arrival, procedures. The corridors were like gradually narrowing chutes beginning at four radio navigation beacons surrounding DFW, angling down from the higher en route altitudes to lower terminal and approach altitudes. If they were heading toward DFW in a threatening way — a combination of high airspeed, low altitude, not following airways, and no identification beacon meant “threatening” to the Patriot fire control computers — any aircraft straying outside the safe-fly corridors could legally be shot at by Patriot surface-to-air missiles. Inside twenty miles to the airport, the corridors became narrow funnels, and within two miles of the runway, the safe-fly zone was a thin tube only a few hundred feet wide. Although Patriot missiles could hit a hostile plane anywhere along its route of flight, even at very low altitude and close to the terminal buildings, their assigned fire area was from twenty to fifty miles from DFW. The HAWK missiles; would engage between twenty and two miles from the termi- [nal buildings, and the Avenger Stinger missiles and .50- caliber cannons would engage inside two miles.

“I don’t get it — what’s going on here?” Witt murmured. Until a few seconds ago, this new unknown had been a reg-, ular inbound, a private Boeing 727 executive corporate or charter job, squawking all its normal beacon codes and doing generally normal things in a very confusing airspace system. Now, the Air Force AWACS radar crew had made it an “unknown.”

“We got a kill code of 0.75 from Patriot,” Sergeant Pierini called out. The Patriot fire control computer was] programmed with a set of hostile-aircraft flight parame- ters — distance, speed, heading, altitude, flight path, location in or away from the safe-fly zones, general tactical, situation — and every target was assigned a hostile track code, or “kill code.” A score of 1.0 meant that Patriot be- < lieved the hostile was going to strike either the Patriot site or Patriot’s assigned protection zone. Next to the target’s ¹ kill code was Patriot’s estimate of a successful kill if it launched on the hostile track — right now, patriot’s confidence of a kill was 0.95. It was probably an underestimate.

“Hold fire, Sergeant,” Witt said. “The fighters are on him. Let them deal with this sucker.”

“All units acknowledging HOLD FIRE,” Pierini replied.

Aboard the F-16 ADF Fighter Tango X-Ray-311

The vertical and horizontal antenna sweep indexers on the F-16 ADF’s AN/APG-66 radarscope continued to move, but a small white box had appeared at the upper-left portion of his F-16 Fighter Falcon ADF’s radarscreen. Captain Ron Himes, 111th Fighter Squadron “Texans,” Ellington Field, Houston, Texas, clicked a button on his throttle, moving two white lines called the target acquisition symbol onto the white box, then pressing and releasing the button to lock the cursor onto the target. He switched to medium PRF, or pulse-repetition frequency, to get a clearer look at the target. The fire control computer displayed the unknown target’s flight parameters — range thirty miles, speed three hundred knots, altitude five thousand feet and descending. Himes clicked open his radio and reported, “Tango X-Ray-311, judy,” indicating he had the target on radar and needed no further intercept information.

“Roger, 311,” the weapons controller aboard the E-3C AWACS radar plane responded. “Check nose cold, ID only. You’re cleared in the block angels six to eight.”

“311 copies, ID pass only, nose is cold,” Himes responded, letting the controller know — for the third time since takeoff — that all his weapons were safe. He transitioned from the radarscope on his instrument panel to his heads-up display, which also showed the radar target lock, and prepared for the intercept. Unlike the past few years, when all the F-16 Air Defense Fighter birds carried was ammunition for the cannon, Himes’ and his wingman’s birds were fully armed in air defense/intercept configuration. Himes carried six AIM-120A Ram radar-guided missiles on this mission, plus one fuel tank on each inboard wing pylon and two hundred rounds of ammunition for his 20-millimeter cannon; his wingman carried four AIM-9P Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles instead of the newer Ram missiles. The AIM-120A Ram missile was a medium-range “robot” missile, capable of guiding itself to a target at over twice the speed of sound from twenty-five miles away with its own on-board radar, rather than having the launch aircraft illuminate the target for it.

A lot of low-level humidity haze and a few summertime thundercloud buildups in the vicinity of Dallas-Fort Worth Airport were the only obstructions in the sky. Himes encountered a little thermal turbulence at all altitudes, and the cockpit glass acted like a greenhouse, trapping the hot Texas sun inside the cockpit and baking his slate-gray helmet. Himes usually enjoyed flying, even in these conditions, but this assignment was demanding and very frustrating. Only two F-16 fighters from his unit had deployed to DFW Airport, since Texas Air National Guard fighters were being sent as far away as Ohio to fly air defense missions over major airports, and resources were very scarce. That meant Himes and his wingman, Captain Jhani McCallum, one of the first black female combat pilots in the world, took all the scramble calls for this very busy airport.

It was never anticipated that the interceptors would be used so much, and the strain was starting to wear on Himes. On average, an Air National Guard fighter on alert would launch once in a three-day alert shift and spend about two hours in the air. Here at DFW, they were launching every few hours, day or night, good weather or bad. No sooner would they land from one scramble and refuel, and they’d be off on another chase. A sortie lasted only twenty to thirty minutes, but the tension was ten times greater than anything most of them had ever experienced. They were chasing down a deadly terrorist who could kill hundreds of people in one pass if the interceptor pilots didn’t do their job. But so far all they had accomplished was to train live missiles and guns on airliners filled with travelers, not explosives. It was a deadly game.

Himes saw the airliner’s smoke trail first. He wagged his vertical stabilizer, a visual signal to McCallum to extend into combat spread formation left, then gently eased into a left rolling climb. As the airliner slid underneath him, Himes continued his roll until he was above and to the 727’s right side, beside the tail. He made a fast check— good, McCallum was in position above and behind the airliner’s left wingtip. She would stay in that support position until this 727 was either on the ground, no longer classified an unknown — or they destroyed it.

“Tiger Control, 311 in position, nose cold, radar down, wingman on guard,” Himes reported to the AWACS Weapons Controller assigned to him. “Stand by for visual ID.”

“Tiger Control, ready.”

“Tango X-Ray-311 lead has intercepted a Boeing 727 airliner, registration number November 357 Whiskey. Beige in color with royal blue stripe across the windows, no lettering. Large heraldic crest in gold on the blue vertical stabilizer.” Himes slid a few more yards to the left, close enough to see a shadow of his number-one AIM-120 Ram missile on the airliner’s tail. “Reads ‘U-N-I–V-E-R-S- A-L’ on the scroll. I observe several sealed windows on the right side over the wing. The aircraft appears to be in Westfall Air livery, repeat, Westfall Air charter livery. Moving underneath.” Westfall Air, based at Dallas-Fort Worth and owned by the same company in Scotland that owned Universal Express overnight package service in Memphis and Sky Partner International Airlines in New York City, was one of the largest air charter operations in the south, and its planes were well known to most Texas fliers.

Himes gently eased below the fuselage until he could see the entire underside of the jet. It was filthy dirty from years of accumulated tire smoke and perhaps some rough handling, but otherwise normal. “311 is underneath the target aircraft. No open panels, no underslung devices. No unusual antennas. Moving forward in visual range of the target’s crew.”

“Clear,” the weapons controller acknowledged.

Himes carefully slid out, then above the airliner, then eased forward until he was abeam the cockpit windows. Then he slid forward and gently in toward the airliner until he could see the pilots turn their heads toward him — he knew he had their attention now. “Tiger Control, I have positive visual contact on two male individuals in the target’s cockpit, and they do see me as well, repeat, they do see me.” He hit a button on his multifunction display, which activated a video camera that had been mounted on the right wingtip. The video was displayed on the multifunction display. Himes adjusted the steerable camera with a toggle switch on the instrument panel until he could see the cockpit, then zoomed in until he could clearly see the i faces of the men in the airliner cockpit looking back at him. / “Smile for the camera, boys,” he said half-aloud as he zoomed in for a nice tight shot.

“Tango X-Ray-311, this is Tiger Control, you are clear to divert the flight, preferred destination airport from your present position is Fort Worth-Meacham, heading three- five-one at two thousand feet, do not overfly Carswell Air, Force Base or Naval Air Station Dallas. Landing at Alliance Airport or Dallas Love Field not authorized. Weapon status is HOLD FIRE, repeat, HOLD FIRE, acknowledge.”

“Tango X-Ray-311 acknowledges weapon status HOLD FIRE, my nose is cold. Switching.” He punched up FTW on his navigation computer, got a heading to Fort Worth-Meacham Airport, just fifteen miles west of DFW, switched his radio frequency to simultaneous VHF and | UHF GUARD, the international aviation emergency chan- ' nels, and clicked open his mike. “Attention, 727 airliner November 357-Whiskey, this is the United States Air Force ¹ fighter Tango X-Ray-311 abeam your right cockpit. You are in violation of emergency federal air regulations. All I previous ATC clearances are hereby canceled and continued flight toward Dallas-Fort Worth Airport is denied. You are hereby ordered to turn left and fly heading three-five- zero, descend and maintain two thousand feet, and lower your landing gear immediately. Prepare for a VFR approach and landing at Fort Worth-Meacham Airport. Acknowledge these instructions on VHF frequency 121.5 or UHF 243.0 now. Over.”

On the GUARD frequency, Himes heard, “Tango X-Ray-311, this is Westfall Air 357-Whiskey, I acknowledge your transmission.” The accent was typical Texas, smooth but firm, maybe a Houstonian. “Our destination is Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, we’ve got the field in sight, and Approach has cleared us to the field. Is there a problem?” ‘Westfall 357-W, this is Tango X-Ray-311, all previous clearances are canceled. You are ordered to land at Meacham Airport. Do not overfly Carswell Air Force Base. We will be escorting you for landing. Lower your landing gear and turn left heading three-four-five. Over.”

“Roger…” Himes was afraid he might argue some more, but just then the airliner banked left and settled on a three-four-zero heading, lining up almost perfectly with Meacham Airport. The landing gear then came down, and Himes had to lower flaps to stay in formation as the airliner decelerated. “Tiger, Westfall-357-W is slant-Romeo direct Meacham at this time, over.”

“Tango X-Ray-311 copies, descend and maintain two thousand, airport is twelve o’clock, twenty-one miles, contact Meacham Tower on 118.3. Acknowledge.”

“Switching to Meacham tower, Westfall… stand by one, Tango…” Oh shit, Himes thought. Here it comes. Obviously, when the landing gear came down, the charter client woke up — those VIP 727s had a bedroom that rivaled anything on the ground — and now he was undoubtedly being heard from. “Ah, Tango X-Ray-311, my client wants to know why we can’t land at DFW. We had a valid clearance from San Antonio. Over.”

“Westfall 357-W, I don’t have that information, sir, but you must comply with my instructions. All previous clearances have been canceled. You cannot land at Dallas-Fort Worth. Over.”

“Okay, Tango X-Ray, but I really need to know…” There was a momentary rustle on the frequency, like paper being crumpled. Himes looked over to the airliner’s cockpit and saw the copilot rising out of his seat and another man, in a white shirt, tie, and dark beard, drop into his vacated seat. Then, a definitely Middle Eastern voice came on the frequency: “Listen to me, Air Force fighter plane, we land at big Dallas airport. Right now. Right now. You understand…?” And at that, Himes saw the bastard grab the 727’s control wheel and turn it hard to the right — directly in the F-16’s flight path.

“Holy mother of God!” Himes pulled on his control stick and shoved in full military power. He caught a glimpse of the airliner’s nose rolling toward him, and then a hard slap! under his seat as the airflow buffet from the big airliner hit the F-16. They had missed by just a few feet. Himes continued his climb, raised his flaps, and fought to roll wings- level. When he finally got himself stabilized, he had climbed over five thousand feet above the airliner — it was no longer in sight. “Tiger flight, this is lead, check.”

“Two’s in,” McCallum reported. “I’ve got you in sight, Ron. I’m at your seven o’clock low.”

“Stay on the airliner, Jhani.”

“Thought you needed help, came to see if you needed help.”

“No, damn it, stay on the target.” Too late now, Himes thought angrily. He switched back to Tiger Control: “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311 flight, we had to break away from the target, he made a sudden turn across our flight path. Over.”

Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger Control

Without the fighters tailing the airliner, Kestrel and his weapons controllers had lost their “eyes” on the scene, and without visual contact they had only a two-dimensional radar image to use. “Lost visual contact on the ‘unknown,’ ” the weapons controller shouted to everyone in the weapons section of the radar plane.

Kestrel leaned closer to his screen. The airliner was fifteen miles out, over Lake Arlington, well outside the safe- fly corridor, five hundred feet below the programmed approach altitude, a little faster than normal, and still heading for Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. According to the rules of engagement, that bastard was dead right now. “Comm, broadcast warning message on GUARD, on all DFW tower freqs, and all DFW regional approach control freqs, try to get that unknown turned westbound.”

The assigned weapons controller was already back on his radio. “Tango X-Ray-311, this is Tiger Control, your bogey is at two o’clock, three miles, fly heading zero-six-five, descend and maintain angels two.”

“Tallyho, Tiger,” the lead F-16 pilot reported. “Descending.”

But it wasn’t going to happen fast enough, and Kestrel knew it. The sonofabitch was heading right for the west terminals of Dallas-Fort Worth. He looked up and saw Hardcastle and Vincenti carefully studying him. “All right, Admiral, Colonel,” he said. “I could use a little advice here.”

“You still got time to reacquire the intercept,” Vincenti said immediately. “He’s still five minutes from landing. Get on his ass and try to turn him away. If he doesn’t turn by five miles—”

“—nail him.”

“Admiral?”

Hardcastle hesitated. It was he who headed the Pentagon staff that designed the air defense parameters, not more than three days ago. A staff of over one hundred had pored over charts and diagrams of the thirty-three largest airports in the United States, deciding the safest and simplest way an airliner could approach the airport in a hostile situation. In the short space of time they had to work the problem, the staff had designed a plan that, even if a pilot screwed up every possible rule in the book and did everything wrong, there was still a margin of safety that would save a nonterrorist but still destroy a terrorist before he got close enough to bomb a terminal.

Well, that was theory, done on charts and diagrams and computers. This guy had busted every rule, exceeded every parameter. He could not look more hostile unless he was launching cruise missiles. He should have been dead sixty seconds ago, the minute he turned into the F-16…

But Hardcastle heard himself say, “Continue the intercept,” and all the planning and all the theory went right out the window — as it usually does in situations like this. “Get Approach Control and DFW Tower to divert all other flights. No one approaches DFW until this is sorted out.” Kestrel breathed a sigh of relief that could be heard over the roar of the engines in the AWACS’ cabin, and he had every free technician on board AWACS calling the airliner.

Aboard an Airtech CN-235 Twin- Turboprop Transport Northwest of DFW Airport

“Attention all aircraft, air defense emergency in progress over Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, stand by for divert instructions. Hazardous flight precaution, all aircraft, do not approach closer than ten miles of the Dallas-Fort Worth VOR or you may be fired upon without warning.” The message, broadcast on the tower frequency, was repeated several times; then: “Airtech-75-Delta, turn right heading two-four- zero, vectors clear of emergency airspace, sorry for the delay.”

“Right to two-four-zero, Airtech-75-Delta,” the copilot of the Canadian-built Airtech CN-235 turboprop transport plane replied. He switched frequencies and shook his head, then laughed out loud. “Jesus, what a stupid motherfucker,” he said to his pilot. “That guy’s going to get his ass shot off if he’s not careful.”

The pilot finished a long drag on his marijuana joint, keeping the pungent smoke in his lungs for a full fifteen seconds before letting it slowly trickle out. “Sounded like a raghead to me,” the pilot said. “Serves him right.”

“So what are we gonna do?” the copilot asked.

“What the hell can we do? We bust that ten-mile ring, they’re liable to put a Hawk missile in our face. Better make the turn.” The big transport plane turned right and headed southwest.

“The boss will be pissed if we don’t make this delivery,” the copilot fretted. “We’re already late as it is.”

The answer to that one came a few moments later: “Airtech-75-Delta, Dallas Airport has just closed temporarily due to the air defense emergency,” the approach controller told him. “I can give you vectors to Redbird or Meacham. Say intentions.”

“Stand by one,” the copilot radioed. Cross-cockpit, he said, “Oh shit, the boss is going to skewer us. Now what?” The pilot was too stoned to care what happened to him. He lazily shrugged his shoulders, enjoying the view. “Hell, we got the gas — let’s head over to Meacham.”

But as he glanced out the windows to his left, he saw an airport — and, to the west of the airport, something that he had never seen before but had no trouble at all recognizing. “I got an idea,” the pilot said, banking hard left toward the airport and beginning a steep descent. “If we can’t make the delivery, we might as well make a splash.”

Air Defense Battalion MICC Dallas-Fort Worth Airport

“Range eight milds and closing,” Sergeant Pierini said aloud. “Tiger 111 Patriot battery reports confidence down to 0.89. Tiger 112 Patriot battery confidence at 0.92, and Tiger 113 is 0.93. Recommend degrading Patriot and committing HAWK batteries 131 and 132 to engage.”

“Agree,” Captain Connor said. “Uplink the engagement change to Tiger Control. Engagement status remains HOLD FIRE.” The Patriot missiles at Carswell Air Force Base, Alliance Airport, and Naval Air Station Dallas were still capable of destroying the airliner, but the farther away and lower it flew, the less capable Patriot would be. Patriot would still track the airliner, but now only the HAWK and Avenger missiles would open fire if the order came.

That order could come any second, Colonel Witt thought as the airliner continued to drive toward DFW. “Even if the pilot of that thing isn’t a terrorist,” she said half-aloud, “he should die in a huge fireball, because he’s so stupid he shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

“Six miles… still have a HOLD FIRE command,” Connor reported. “Five-point-five miles.

“Stand by batteries 131 and 132,” Witt said. She had reached up over Connor’s head and was repeatedly mashing the battalion klaxon button, warning anyone within earshot to get away from the launchers before a missile motor ignited in their face. “Sarge, notify DFW security, tell them we may be launching.”

“Target turning!” Connor suddenly shouted. “Unknown eighteen-track heading now two-niner-zero, continuing turn to heading two-seven-zero, climbing through three thousand feet.”

“Jesus, that sonofabitch was lucky,” Witt exclaimed, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath, the first in what seemed like several minutes. “I hope the feds bust that asshole just for taking five years off my life. Get a poll of the battalion, Jim, and check—” Suddenly, one of the aircraft data blocks on Connor’s radarscope began to blink. “Mike — what is that…?” Pierini caught it at the same moment: “Track ID 4Q121 made a sudden turn toward Alliance Airport,” he reported. “He was on a vector heading from Dallas Tower during the emergency… Tiger Control still showing him as a valid track… now Tiger is making him an ‘UNKNOWN,’ sir, we’ve got an unknown, number 19, three miles east of Alliance Airport, altitude rapidly decreasing, now less than two thousand feet, airspeed two hundred knots… range two miles, still closing, altitude one point five, still decreasing…

“Jesus. Witt hurriedly changed to Tiger Control’s frequency and pulled her headset microphone closer to her lips as she watched the radarscope: “Tiger Control, this is 100,1 need an engagement command on unknown 19 blowing into Alliance,” Witt radioed immediately to the AWACS radar plane. “He’s diving on Alliance Airport, range less than two miles.”

“Lost contact with Tiger-113,” Pierini shouted. “Datalink is down, switching to landlines… hard lines down. No connectivity with Tiger-113.”

“What the hell happened?” Witt cried. She turned to the VHF radio and tried that — no response. “Shit, we lost everything. Check your systems and do a BIT test.” She clicked on the UHF radio to the Air Force AWACS plane: “Tiger Control, this is 100, check connectivity with Tiger 113, datalink and connectivity lost at Battalion MICC. Over.”

Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger-90

“I see it, I see it,” Kestrel said, studying his radar display. The surveillance technicians had assigned an unknown code 19 to the newcomer that had just blown past his approach clearance into Dallas-Fort Worth, and now they had put a giant flashing arrow on the radarscreen, pointing at UNK 19, to get his attention. He was silently kicking himself for not seeing the guy turn toward Alliance Airport earlier, but he was trying to watch a half-dozen major airports at once, and he had turned his attention away from DFW once the Westfall plane had turned away. The tiny blue square that marked the locations of the two Patriot missile batteries at Alliance Airport was gone — not flashing, which would have indicated that the datalink was down but the site was operational, but completely gone, as if it never had been set up. “The Patriot site at Alliance went down. Todd, get one of the fighters over there and have him take a look.”

As if the fighter pilot had heard him, Kestrel heard, “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311, I’m about fifteen miles southeast of Alliance Airport, following the 727 airliner. I can see a lot of smoke and fire coming from Alliance Airport. I see… Tiger, I think I see secondary explosions— yes, definitely secondary explosions. I think one of the Patriot batteries went up.”

Kestrel swore under his breath, then said, “Where are our unknowns, Senior Director?”

“One unknown, target ID 18, ten miles east of Meacham Airport,” the Senior Director responded. “One unknown, target ID 19, now two miles northwest of Alliance Airport.”

“MC, call from Meacham Tower, unknown 18 has requested clearance through the class D airspace westbound, destination Will Rogers Airport.”

“Denied,” Kestrel said. “I want Tango X-Ray-311’s wingman to intercept unknown 18, and Tango X-Ray-31 l’s leader to intercept unknown 19. Comm, this is MC, I want—”

“MC, target 19 turning right and descending… now heading zero-niner-zero, altitude one thousand…”

There was no time to warn this guy, no time for an intercept or visual identification. Kestrel wet his lips, prayed for a cigarette — but there was no time for praying for anything. “MC, unknown 19 passing through heading one-two- zero…”

Kestrel reached up and hit a button on his upper-left communications panel, marked simply “B,” and said, “Tiger 100, Tiger, unknown target ID 19, batteries released tight, I repeat, batteries released tight.”

Air Defense Battalion MICC, Dallas-Fort Worth Airport

The Patriot fire control computer had already placed a blinking diamond symbol around the red caret on the radarscreen marked UNK 19, signifying that it was ready to attack the aircraft. Captain Connor reached up to his upper instrument panel and hit a button, activating a loud klaxon in the area of the Patriot missile launchers stationed at Carswell Air Force Base and NAS Dallas. He checked and there was only one blinking diamond on the screen — the Westfall airliner still had a diamond around it, meaning the computer was tracking it as a hostile but was not yet prepared to launch on it. He then pressed a switch on the lower-right corner of his instrument panel marked LAUNCH.

The MICC computer had a choice — the target was within range of Tiger 111, the Patriot site at Carswell AFB, and Tiger 136, a HAWK site at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport— and it selected the northernmost Patriot battery at Carswell, launcher number one. It took only five seconds for the order to be relayed via microwave to the Engagement Control Center van at Carswell, which selected the proper launcher, activated the first two missiles, dumped the initial targeting information to the missiles’ guidance units, released the safeties, and fired the solid rocket motor on missile number one. The first missile’s motor blew out a protective fiberglass rear cover and shot a column of fire and smoke out the back end of the boxlike launcher, and the missile’s quartz dielectric nose cap pierced another fiberglass cover on the front of the missile canister as the missile shot out of the launcher. The launch computer waited three seconds for the first missile to clear the launcher and for the launcher to stop shaking from the exhaust blast of the first missile before commanding the second missile launch.

Patriot engagements were always done in pairs for maximum effectiveness…

Aboard Airtech 75-D

“Man oh man, did you see that?” the copilot of Cazaux’s plane shouted gleefully. The pallet of four cluster bomb units they had just dropped on the Patriot missile site at Alliance Airport was doing an unbelievable job. The exploding cluster bombs made the sun-dried brown earth west of the runway look as if it were boiling, with tiny flashes of yellow fire erupting in a large area the size of two full city blocks. Then, one of those tiny explosions would hit next to one of the upraised Patriot launchers, and the whole unit would disappear in a huge explosion that would rock their little transport plane. After one such explosion, one Patriot missile cooked off, and the two terrorists could see it spinning along the ground in wide arcs until it skipped across the runway and plowed into a group of buildings in the northern part of the airport, causing another huge explosion and fire. “Hey, go around once more. I gotta see this again.”

“No sweat, man,” the totally relaxed pilot murmured, starting a right turn back toward the airport so he could give the copilot a better look out the right cockpit windows. “Hey, that was fun.” He rolled out momentarily, checking outside, then looked over to his copilot and said lazily, “It was nice flyin’ with ya, bud.”

“Say what?” The pilot pointed out the left cockpit window with his thumb. On the horizon, they could see a white line suddenly appear from the ground, speeding skyward out of sight. He squinted, trying to look up at its origin, but it was too high up and moving too fast to see. “What in the hell’s th—”

Launcher number one was set at a fixed 60-degree up angle, and it was pointed far to the northwest, well away from the eastbound aircraft, but Patriot didn’t need to be pointed directly at its quarry at launch. The missile quickly adjusted course, sending a white streak of smoke across the early-morning Texas sky. It climbed to fifteen thousand feet in less than three seconds before starting its terminal dive. Traveling at over twice the speed of sound, it took only six seconds for the first missile to find its target. After the hit, the Patriot engagement radar locked on to the biggest piece of the stricken aircraft, the aft half of the fuselage, and that’s what it steered the second missile into — but one missile was all that was needed.

“Splash unknown 19,” Connor reported in a monotone, detached voice. The plane — he wasn’t even sure what kind of plane it was or how many persons were aboard — was destroyed, clean, simple, and quick. Radar return one moment, the next moment nothing. Connor felt horribly tense, almost nauseated. All their actions were precisely like the simulator sessions they constantly ran — the little Patriot missile “football” symbols racing across the screen, the dotted lines showing the missile’s track intersecting with the target’s track, the “coffin” symbol around the target as the computed time of intercept ran out and as the radar tried to determine if the target was still flying. But, of course, this was no simulation. “Set HOLD FIRE all units,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the whir of the van’s air conditioning units, “and let’s get a status report.”

Aboard Tiger 90

It was an eerie feeling on the AWACS radar plane at that moment. In the Weapons and Surveillance sections, most of the controllers were busy with their own sectors and were not aware that a Patriot missile had just destroyed an aircraft near Fort Worth, Texas. But the Senior Director and Major Kestrel, the Mission Crew Commander, simply wore blank expressions as they stared straight ahead at their scopes. The other controllers and technicians that had participated in the shootdown were on their feet, silently looking over toward Kestrel. Most of them had helped kill things before for real — but they had been SCUD missiles over Saudi Arabia or Israel, or drones over the Gulf of Mexico or Pacific Ocean during live-fire exercises, never a manned aircraft flying over America.

“Get me a status on all Tiger units,” Kestrel said, forcing as much steel into his voice as he could. “Verify all units acknowledging HOLD FIRE.” He could see the status of all his assigned air and ground air defense systems himself, but he wanted to hear it for himself, direct from the unit operators and commanders, to reassure him that he was back in control and that no one else would die unless he gave the command.

“MCC, unknown 18 is still looking for clearance to Oklahoma City…”

“I want that bastard on the ground at Meacham,” Kestrel ordered. “I want both Tango X-Ray-311 units to intercept unknown 18, and if they have to blow out his windscreen or shoot off an engine, I want that sonofabitch on the ground immediately. I want federal agents to arrest the crew.”

“It’s being done, Will,” Ian Hardcastle replied. “Marshals Service agents and the FBI are on the way.” He had been speaking on a headset to Marshals Service agents on the ground at Dallas-Fort Worth as the incident was occurring.

“Major… there was nothing you could do,” Hardcastle said. Hardcastle could see the pain and the anger in Kestrel’s face. These men were professional soldiers, trained to defend their country, yet killing was not part of their nature. It was even more difficult because it was so easy, so detached, so remote — say a word, and seconds later, men die and a very large air machine is destroyed.

“You did everything right, and you exercised proper judgment.”

“Then why in hell did we lose a Patriot site, Admiral?” Kestrel said. “There were a hundred soldiers at that site out there at Alliance.”

“You got the guy who attacked them, Will. There was no way we could know unknown 19 was a terrorist. He had a proper flight plan, followed the proper procedures.”

“Then what are we doing here, Admiral?” Kestrel shouted, whipping off his headset and shooting to his feet before Hardcastle. “We can’t stop anyone who wants to come in. That Westfall flight is doing everything completely wrong!” He pointed to his radarscreen, his eyes bulging in anger. “He’s still doing everything wrong, and he’s getting away scot-free.”

“We gotta deal with that, Will.”

“Are you saying I should blow away that Westfall flight?”

“I’m not saying that, either,” Hardcastle replied. “Your job is to protect your assigned airports from aerial assault.”

“Well, I obviously failed at that.”

“If one plane screws up and gets away, and a terrorist is allowed to attack, then it’s the system that’s failed, not you,” A1 Vincenti interjected. “You’re doing everything you can.”

“Sir, I need you on headsets,” the senior director interjected. Hardcastle could see real, serious stress etched on that man’s face — the pressure was on early in the game, and it showed no signs of letting up at all. “We’ve got another unknown, over Houston-Hobby, declaring an emergency.”

“Shit!” Kestrel exclaimed, slipping wearily into his seat and donning his headset once again. “Admiral, I don’t know what the answer is. But this is not going to work. It is just not going to fucking work.”

Near Bedminster, New Jersey That Evening

The television was on, and CNN was giving its hourly wrap-up of the hunt for Henri Cazaux. Jo Ann Vega shivered with excitement as she saw pictures of the aftermath of the latest attack, a cargo plane shot down north of Fort Worth, Texas, after it had dropped several cluster bombs on an Army Patriot missile site. Military commentators were now talking about the capabilities of the Patriot missile, assuring everyone that the advanced surface-to-air missile could easily defend its assigned airports.

She rose from her leather sofa and walked toward the windows, which looked out through the front of the house past the four-acre, tree-lined front lawn, and shook her head while she thought of the commentator’s words. No one, she thought, was safe from Henri Cazaux. Even a Patriot missile could not stop him. Only Henri Cazaux himself could stop the killing.

Looking out the third-story window through the driving rain, Jo Ann Vega could see the guards in the front of the mansion, who had been sullenly pacing back and forth around the grounds through the warm summer rain, suddenly snap to attention. Cigarette butts went flying and submachine guns appeared from under long coats back up to carry-arms position. A few minutes later, a big one-ton dually six-passenger extended cab pickup truck zoomed around through the trees at the edge of the grassy front lawn and down the gravel driveway toward the mansion, stopping about fifty yards from the front door. While one guard covered the driver and another covered the passenger cab, a third guard shined a flashlight inside the front passenger side, checking IDs.

The truck was allowed to pass, parking just underneath the breezeway that covered the front entryway. A man she had never seen before emerged from the back of the truck, stood out on the lawn as he finished his cigarette. As he tossed it away, he looked up and saw Vega standing in the window, watching him. Their eyes locked for several moments before he pulled up his raincoat collar and headed inside.

Vega began to quiver, and she reached for a pack of cigarettes. Empty. She shivered again, and she felt as cold and as sweaty as if she was out there in the humidity and rain with the guards.

Henri was home. Good…

She had evacuated her home in Newburgh, New York, several days ago, right after the attack on Memphis. As they had expected, Newburgh and Stewart International had become a major supply depot for the effort to stop Henri Cazaux, with dozens of flights of C-5 Galaxy, C-141 Star- lifter, and C-17 Globemaster transports bringing soldiers and air defense missile batteries into Stewart and trucking them to New York City and airports in Connecticut. Stewart International was also the southeastern New York headquarters of the New York State Police, with the FBI and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms setting up shop at the Army barracks at Stewart as well, so clearly it was no longer practical for Cazaux to visit her there.

Vega now occupied the entire third floor of the spacious mansion, with luxurious furniture, a little galley, a fully equipped entertainment center, and plenty of windows to watch the deer and other animals scamper across the property. Her new bedroom was almost as large as her entire storefront apartment in Newburgh had been. It was a lovely, peaceful, tranquil… prison. She had no company and was not allowed any guests. Her meals were brought to her by guards, who patrolled the hallways and who would periodically enter her room, even her bathroom, unannounced, to check on her. The guards never spoke to her, hardly ever looked at her, even when they would burst in on her in the shower or dressing in front of the mirror. Of course, she had no phone. She had no one she desired to call, but it effectively sealed her isolation.

She was allowed to have all her astrological books, charts, cards, runes, and even had a new computer with her charting software installed on it, so she spent a lot of time doing Henri’s charts and readings, mapping out the progress of his campaign of terror, and writing what amounted to a script, a Book of Revelations, about how his private war would turn out. There was no doubt that his strength was growing each and every day. Every life, every existence could of course take a number of different paths, and Jo Ann tried to search each of the strongest and best- defined paths that her Henri would most likely take each day. They all went in the same direction — horrible death. Henri’s death was clear, but his was not the only soul that she saw feel the pain of vengeful, wicked, bloodthirsty death. She saw thousands of tortured souls crying into the mists of the future, thousands of souls painfully ripped from this life and thrust into the next like hair being pulled from the skin by the roots.

But even more horrible than that was of a nation torn apart by a desperate, cold-blooded act of hatred by Henri Cazaux, an incredible act of destruction that would change millions of lives…

“Hello, Jo Ann.”

Vega whirled around and saw him. Jesus, he was as silent as a snake. His hair, brown and curly with a hint of gray around the temples, was growing back with astounding speed, so fast that he appeared a completely different person. He seemed thinner, but that only helped to accentuate his wiry, muscular frame and lean, cheetah-like profile. He wore a sports coat over a black T-shirt, which he removed as soon as he entered her room.

“Henri,” she greeted him, suddenly short of breath both by being startled by him and by the excitement of seeing him again. “It’s good to see you.”

“You look good, Jo Ann,” Cazaux said casually. His words made her heart flutter. They were the most caring words he had ever said to her. He stepped toward her, his eyes roaming her body momentarily, and then he said in French, “pi va, Jo Ann. How have you been?”

“pi va bien, merci, Henri,” she replied. “I’m lonely without you, Henri. I wish you would stay with me, but—” “You have already seen otherwise,” Cazaux finished for her. “You know the forces that drive me, Jo Ann. You know that the power that is the instrument of my revenge is stronger than both of us. I have come so that you can tell me more about my future.”

“I don’t know that the forces that propel you are too strong to be overcome, Henri,” Vega interrupted. “I’ve seen many of your futures. You are vulnerable now.” “Vulnerable? How?”

“The forces of good are organizing against you,” Vega said. “There is weakness among your troops. Their resolve is not as strong as yours. You must use your power to keep all those around you in line.”

“I have seen to that,” Cazaux said with a smile. “You shall see.”

“Good,” Vega said. She averted her eyes slightly, as if embarrassed to tell all. Cazaux reached out and grasped her arm, wordlessly ordering her to continue: “The master, he is concerned about your targets,” the woman said. “These small airports, this emphasis on these little companies.”

“I don’t understand, Jo Ann.”

“The dark master has given you an enormous gift, Henri,” Vega said. “Eternal life, power beyond any mortal, the vision, the strength — and you waste it on whatever this stockbroker tells you to attack.”

“He has chosen his targets carefully,” Cazaux said. “I don’t understand all that he does, but the money he earns for us is far beyond anything I’ve ever seen before in my life.”

“Do you think the dark master cares about how much money you make, Henri?” Vega asked. “He has given you a gift much more precious than money. Are you going to waste it on earning a few more dollars?”

“Then what?” Cazaux asked. “You’re my adviser! Tell me!”

She stared at him, said nothing, then they both diverted their attention to the television. A group of men and women were standing in front of the White House for an impromptu press conference: “Henri Cazaux is a menace to American society, and I think it’s time the White House and the Pentagon take off the kid gloves and get serious about stopping this bastard,” the man in the lead said. He was identified by a caption as former Vice President Kevin Martindale. He continued, “So far the White House has put a gag order on their plans on how to deal with this crisis, which claimed thirty-one more victims this morning near Dallas. The American people deserve to be told how the Administration is responding to the crisis.”

“There,” Vega said. “That is your target.”

“What? Those men? I agree they should be executed, but I don’t—”

“I and my colleagues on both sides of the aisle are calling for a bipartisan Senate hearing on the terrorist crisis that is paralyzing our country,” another person, identified as Senator Georgette Heyerdahl, said. “What we are demanding is a full-scale military-led manhunt for Henri Cazaux.” “A manhunt!” Cazaux laughed. “Those idiots are incapable of mounting a manhunt for a child, let alone a group of trained soldiers.”

“Congress will enact legislation authorizing full military participation in the hunt for Cazaux,” Heyerdahl continued. “We are asking that the President federalize the National Guard to assist law enforcement agencies to patrol the airports, protect the air defense units, fly along on scheduled commercial flights, and assist in the FBI investigation.” The image shifted to shots of soldiers with Stinger shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles, and then to an aerial shot of the White House.

“There,” Vega said, a smile coming to her full red lips. “That is your target.” Cazaux was staring with complete surprise at the aerial view of the White House and of the Capitol Mall.

The White House? The Capitol? But… But, of course…

“Yes,” he breathed, his chest tightening in anticipation. “Yes, that’s it. No more airports, no more little business run by nobodies.”

Oh yes, he was going to be unstoppable.

“The attack on Dallas-Fort Worth Airport was a complete failure,” Cazaux said later to his assembled staff officers. Almost everyone except Tomas Ysidro remained perfectly still in case any movement might be noticed by their angry commander. He tossed a plastic bag onto the circular glass coffee table before them. “I will not tolerate any more failures from this staff. Is that clear?”

The plastic bag landed on the table with a gut-wrenching splut! and flopped open, but no one dared to touch it — no one except Ysidro, who was sick enough to do just about anything anyone could possibly imagine. Under Cazaux’s stem gaze, Ysidro held the bag up, examined its contents, smiled at Cazaux and nodded approvingly, then reached in and pulled a black, sticky blob out of the bag by a long rubbery tube.

“This belonged to Georges Lechamps, the butthead who hired those two dope-smoking pilots for the Dallas mission, eh, Henri?” Ysidro said, holding the thing up and twirling the tube as if he were carefully studying the thing, although he was really looking to see everyone else’s reaction. Cazaux said nothing, but watched as everyone stared in horror at the squishy black blob that Ysidro was handling and examining. “Well, I guess ol’ Georges’ heart really wasn’t in his work!” Ysidro laughed, letting the now-recognizable mass drop back into the bag.

That was enough for Harold Lake’s assistant, Ted Fell — he barely made it out of the dining room before vomiting in a bathroom off the billiard room down the hall. Harold Lake felt equally as nauseated, but he was glad he could control his stomach, because Cazaux and Ysidro watched Fell run out of the room with utter disgust and disdain.

“I’ll agree, Lechamps paid too much and got two worthless pilots to fly that mission,” Gregory Townsend said, quickly ignoring the blood-filled bag of gore on the table in front of him. “But the mission was important because it pointed out the military’s defense setup. Our field people report that our Airtech was destroyed by a Patriot missile fired from Carswell Air Force Base while the Airtech was less than a thousand feet aboveground. That was a shot from about fifteen miles away; a double missile launch, as I believe all Patriot attacks are done. That tells us that the Patriot missiles alone have extraordinary capability.

“What we learned about the other near-engagement was important as well. The Army let that first unidentified 727 fly right to five miles outside Dallas-Fort Worth Airport and still did not engage — at cruise speeds, that’s less than forty-five seconds to a bomb-release point. Our people saw two F-16 fighters scramble from the Dallas Naval Air Station, and those fighters did not engage either. At least one and possibly several Hawk antiair batteries were within range, and possibly even an Avenger Stinger mobile unit, and yet no one fired on the unidentified 727.”

“You can believe that will not be the case the next time,” one of the other staff officers said.

“The next target will have to be saturated for any attack to be successful,” Townsend summarized. “Multiple aircraft, multiple axes of attack. Follow the flight plan as best as possible, then strike as close as possible to the aerodrome. As we saw with the very first unidentified-aircraft alert in Dallas, the mobile air defense units and the fighters escorting the suspect are not in a favorable position to attack the suspect once he’s on the ground — they still track him, to some extent, but they assume he is not a hostile target when his wheels actually touch ground. We can use that fact to our advantage. Of course, timing and speed are essential.”

“The problem is getting pilots to fly these missions,” Ysidro said. “The money ain’t attracting ’em anymore, Henri — everyone knows it’s a one-way trip.”

“That’s not a problem,” Townsend said confidently. “We have a system that can fly any of our planes by remote control now.”

“It ain’t gonna fucking work, Townie,” Ysidro said. “Just find some cocky slug pilot who wants the money. Stupid pilots will do anything.”

“My GPS system has tested very well on a small singleengine plane,” Townsend said emphatically. “It’s simple and basic, like a large radio-controlled model plane except much more sophisticated. It uses a simple digital autopilot system with altitude and vertical speed presets, hooked into a Global Positioning System navigation set. I can launch, the plane by remote control, tie in the autopilot and the satellite navigator, and it’ll fly right to the coordinates I punch in. With the GPS controlling the plane’s altitude, I can have it dive-bomb right on top of whatever coordinates you like.”

“The GPS satellite system’s accuracy can be degraded by the Department of Defense,” Cazaux said. “Our attacks call for precise guidance and accurate delivery.”

“With those fuel-air explosives, Henri, you can miss the target by almost a half-mile and still blow the shit out of it,” Townsend added.

Cazaux thought about that idea for a moment, then nodded his agreement. “Very well, we will use the GPS-controlled planes as well, but only with the smaller planes — I want human pilots controlling the larger aircraft. Where are your GPS-controlled planes, Gregory?”

“I just flew the first one into Boone County Airport for testing,” Townsend replied. “I can pick up the fuel-air explosives canisters and fly it anywhere you want.”

“Very well.” Cazaux gave him a destination airport, then said, “Tomas is correct — there seems to be no shortage of pilots who will fly these missions foi* the proper sum of money. You are authorized to offer any amount necessary to get a crew to fly our planes. But understand this: any crew we contract with will either deliver the weapons on target as specified, or they will die the same fate as Monsieur Lechamps. Is that clear?” There was an immediate chorus of “Yes, sir” all round the table and its grisly centerpiece.

“The key to a successful strike now is to destroy the ground-based air defense sites nearest the designated target,” Cazaux said. “We shall stage commando raids on the nearest Patriot, Hawk, and Avenger batteries to the designated target, and on the master command and control van on the ground. Our scouts can locate each of these assets and plan coordinated attacks at every point.”

“That leaves the fighters and the radar systems that control them,” Townsend said. “We can attack the terminal radar antennas to knock out the ground-based radars; we know their locations precisely. But the airborne radar planes and the fighters will still be in operation. If they’re on the ground, we can hit them. We know the radar planes’ main operating base is in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and our scouts can locate any other aerodromes they may use to deploy their radar planes. The fighters are widely deployed — we’ve seen them at the most unlikely aerodromes, parked beside fabric-winged planes and tiny line service plywood shacks trying to top up on jet fuel — and they fly more aerial patrols instead of returning to ground alert after a run. That means they’ll be harder to target. But we’ve got the manpower and the hardware to raid a dozen locations simultaneously, Henri. Just give us a target and a time. A few days after we get the planes, we can—”

“I’ve got a better suggestion,” Harold Lake interjected. “Why don’t we quit while we’re ahead here?”

The entire room turned as quiet as a tomb. The other staff officers looked at Lake in astonishment, wondering how he or any man who knew Henri Cazaux could dare to suggest such a thing as stopping an operation that Cazaux was actively directing. Lake noticed the sudden, deathly silence, took another deep swig of Scotch, and went on. “Look at you bums, looking at me like I just developed four fucking heads. Henri, I’m serious about this.” Lake turned to Cazaux. He knew the terrorist respected strength and military protocol, and so he straightened his shoulders and said in a clear, steady voice, “Permission to speak, Henri.”

“Of course, Harold,” Cazaux said, nodding his approval. “You have earned the right. I have been remiss in not acknowledging your contribution to this campaign. I was distrustful and wary of your idea concerning using the stock and options markets to raise money for our operations, but you have far exceeded all expectations. I congratulate you, and I admit that my hesitation about your plan was because of my ignorance. Speak.”

“Thank you, Henri. I’ll preface my suggestion with the quartermaster’s report, gentlemen: we have almost ninety million dollars in cash or liquid securities in our hands right now. The options that will expire in the next three to five days will net us another ten to twelve million—”

“You’re shitting me!” Ysidro cried enthusiastically. “I don’t believe it, Drip — you really made that stock option shit work!”

“This is by far the largest war chest we’ve ever had,” Lake went on. “The only payables we have right now is the refurbishment and reregistration of the Shorts Sherpa following Henri’s Memphis mission. We’re not just repainting it, of course, but we’ve got to create new airworthiness certificates and registration documents, and all that takes time and money — and of course the prepurchase of the new aircraft, weapons, and hardware for the next mission.

“But each securities transaction I accomplish now is getting more and more attention, and it’s only a matter of time before someone starts a Securities and Exchange Commission investigation. I’m not worried about that — the source of the money is very well covered, and besides, everything I’m doing is completely legal — but it will create a little attention, and we can always do without that. But when we purchased the Airtech transport we used on the Dallas raid, I’m sure our paperwork was scrutinized by the FBI or the Marshals Service. Any plane that even slightly appears as if it might be used in a Henri Cazaux-style raid will be subject to a more intensive search. In short, Henri, the heat’s being turned up everywhere — not just over the target, but in the brokerage houses, banks, and the airplane dealers.”

“So what’s the point, Drip?”

“The point is, this might be a good time to take the cash, fold up our tents, and get out of the country,” Lake went on. “Our operating expenses from our normal smuggling and tactical operations were about six million dollars a year. That’s half of what we’ll make on interest on our war chest alone, without ever touching the principal. In addi-, tion, I’ve established several iron-clad legitimate business entities in seven countries just in the past two weeks, all completely untraceable to any of us. I’ve got entrees into * the defense and aviation ministries, from countries like the Czech Republic, Indonesia, and mainland China, which — means they will sell us weapons and aircraft with a phone call and a wire from a bank that we own.

“Henri, this is no shit, I swear it — I’ve got us tapped into resources, government officials, bank accounts, letters of credit, and industry pipelines to over ten billion dollars’ worth of airplanes, weapons, real estate, anything you want,” Lake went on excitedly. “We’re players now, ' Henri — global, international, zero-frontier players. With all due respect, Henri, we’re almost as big now as we were as just Henri Cazaux’s smuggling gang, and far more legitimate-looking. We can pull the strings from anywhere on the planet that has a phone — not even a phone, man, as long as we could see the sky to aim at a satellite — and we could get away from the FBI and the regulators forever. And if we turned our backs on it all, flew the Shorts down to South America, bought a plantation outside Caracas or Rio or Cartagena, we could live like kings and have enough dough to set our grandchildren up in business fifty years from now.”

Harold Lake had mesmerized this audience — he even seemed to have Cazaux’s full attention. Tomas Ysidro said, “Hey, Henri, the Drip is paintin’ a pretty smooth picture right now. I see stuff on the news about the feds closing in on us — I don’t see it happening, but, you know, it kinda gets stuck in your brain, you know…?”

“Ysidro is babbling as usual,” Townsend said, “but I share his thoughts. In any previous operation, Henri, we have never stayed in a country as long as we have for this one. Staying on the move, and especially outside the States, has helped us keep out of the reach of the authorities. I feel we’ve overstayed our welcome here, as well. Perhaps it is time to consider taking the cash and laying low for a few weeks.”

To everyone’s surprise, Cazaux nodded — the sense of relief was obvious. “Very well,” he said, crossing his arms.on his chest. “My adviser has indicated to me that the authorities are indeed closing in on us, and so we shall close our operation, disperse, and meet again in a new location— after one more mission.” He turned to Lake and said, “Harold, you indicated that Universal Equity still has two major companies in America untouched — Westfall Air at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, and Sky Partners Airlines in New York City.”.

“Sure,” Lake replied, “and they’re trying to make a comeback of sorts, using the public’s fear as a marketing tool. Universal Express has moved most of the package stuff to other airports, and the blowhard president, McSor- ley, is promising to fly even if all the other carriers close up shop during the air emergency. We missed Westfall Charter when those dopers failed to attack Dallas-Fort Worth, Henri, but Westfall is small potatoes — Sky Partners is the real prize. The stock is on the upswing — ripe for another fall.”

“Then that will be our objective… our secondary objective,” Cazaux said. “And now I will brief you on our primary objective — and what I demand of all of you.”

After completely destroying a corner of a very expensive Persian carpet in the billiards room, Ted Fell leaned on the pool table, his eyes filled with tears, trying to block out the grisly image of a murdered man’s heart being dangled in front of his face. Cazaux had butchered a man and brought his heart back, obviously as a warning to everyone else. What was really sick was that Mexican bastard Ysidro. Cutting out a man’s heart and stuffing it into a Ziploc bag was one thing — pulling it out and gleefully examining it as if it were a pet mouse or a newly discovered seashell was another thing. Fell thought he had never seen anything as disgusting in his life.

A few guards checked Fell, but they ignored him as the attorney continued to dry-heave in the corner, chuckling at the bean-counter’s cowardice as they walked away. The image would simply not go away — Fell saw that gruesome piece of flesh everywhere in his mind’s eye. He finally stood upright and tried to force fresh air into his lungs, noticing that the front of his suit was stained with vomit. He left the billiards room to find a bathroom and clean his suit, and perhaps get some help in cleaning the room. It was obvious that Henri Cazaux and most of the others were out of place in that big New Jersey mansion — Cazaux looked as if he belonged in a southeast Asia jungle or an African swamp — but he still feared meeting the wrath of Cazaux or Ysidro if they found the mess he had made, so he thought he better clean it up.

Fell heard voices coming from the kitchen, but he decided to avoid that place — the guards, most likely on break or getting dry. He noticed what looked like a broom closet at the top of the stairs, so he quietly stepped upstairs. No guards were nearby to stop him. He reached the top of the stairs and found some towels and cleaning supplies, then went down the hallway to the bathroom to wet the towels. He was about to enter the bathroom when he passed a set of stairs leading up to the third floor — and he heard a woman’s faint sobs coming from upstairs.

At first Fell told himself to forget what he just heard, forget all about whoever was up there. He thought that Cazaux probably didn’t have a wife or girlfriend — who in hell would want a psychopath like Cazaux? Was she a captive? Some kind of sex slave? Was she a hostage? In any case, he didn’t think Cazaux would take too kindly to someone sneaking around his house. Fell heard a groan and a labored cough — she obviously sounded hurt, perhaps recovering from being strangled or hit. Beating up on women was the mark of a coward — and so was terrorism. Henri Cazaux fit both descriptions perfectly. And what was Ted Fell made of? He was either very brave or very stupid, because he found himself quietly tiptoeing up the stairs and pushing open the one door.

The attic had been turned into a very nice little studio apartment — but what else he found was not so pretty. Fell saw a woman lying on her back on the bed in the center of the apartment, her clothing ripped away from her body, her breasts exposed, her dress piled up around her waist, exposing her crotch, her legs dangling off the side of the bed. She was facing away from him, so she could not see him. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her hands and fingers were stained with…

“It is not safe for you to be here,” she said suddenly. There was a slight pause while she sniffed and let out a painful breath; then she added, “Mr. Fell.”

Fell resisted the urge to run down the stairs and back to the billiards room as fast as he could — obviously he had made a lot more noise than he thought he did, even though he had tried to be quiet. But her shaking voice and trembling hands and shoulders told him that she was in real trouble. “Who are you?” he asked in a loud whisper. “How do you know my name? What happened to you? Was it Cazaux?”

“My name is not important,” she replied weakly. “I know all who come to this place, except you, so you must be Mr. Lake’s assistant, whom I have not met. I…”

She had tried to rise onto her elbows, but a shot of pain had cut her off. Fell darted into the room, closed the door, and sat on the bed beside her. Her face had been savagely beaten, covered with red and black bruises. Her nose was broken, and it did not look like the first time it had been done. He pushed her skirt back down over her knees, but couldn’t help noticing the blood that stained the bedspread under her anus. “My God… the sonofabitch…”

“He is no longer in control of himself,” the woman mumbled. “The dark master controls him.”

“Cazaux? Who controls Cazaux…?”

“I tried to stop him,” she said. “I tried to tell him that he still had a choice, that he can still control his destiny. But his soul has been taken. He no longer listens to human reason.”

“Forget Cazaux,” Fell said. “Is there a way out of here? I think you need medical attention.”

“I cannot leave here,” the woman said. “There is no way out for me while Henri lives — but you can leave.” Her eyes no longer reflected the extreme pain she was suffering, but locked firmly on his, riveting him. A plan came instantly to mind — she just hoped she’d be there to watch it. “You are my only hope. You must stop Cazaux before he flies this last mission.”

“What last mission? What do you mean?” The thought of he, Ted Fell, trying to stop Cazaux from doing anything was both laughable and terrifying. “Hey, I’m trying to help you, miss, but I’m not going to try to get in Cazaux’s way. The last guy who crossed Cazaux — well, there’s a human heart on the coffee table downstairs. I’d like to keep mine for a while longer.”

Vega didn’t know about the heart, and she had to force herself to suppress a smile. My God, Henri really has gone over the edge! She hoped she could see the heart, see the knife that he did it with, maybe listen to him describe how he did it. But she forced a horrified expression on her face. “Ted Fell, listen to me,” the woman said. “You must kill Henri Cazaux.”

“What…?”

“You must do it, Ted Fell,” she said. She reached under her mattress and came up with a tiny .22 caliber automatic pistol. “I’m too weak to do it. If he comes back for me, he’ll kill me, I know he will.” Vega let the remains of her blouse fall away, revealing her breasts to him, and she noticed with a tiny smile that, despite her face and the beating she took, he was admiring her chest. A typical male, she thought, wanting to suck tits and screw pussy without one single thought regarding the woman. He was going to do just fine, she thought — this little tit-sucking weasel was going to pull a gun on Henri Cazaux, and when he did she was going to watch Henri, Townsend, and Ysidro chop him up into fish food. She pressed the gun into his hands. “You must do it, Ted… for me. You want to help me, don’t you?”

She brushed her breasts against him, averting her eyes and letting a few wisps of hair fall innocently across her face — and he was hooked. He took the pistol, hefted it, then set his jaw and stuck the pistol in his pants pocket. Even if he never pulled it oufi Vega thought, someone would notice it. She would be listening, and the first sense of commotion she heard, she’d rush downstairs and hopefully be just in time to watch. “Go, Ted. Save me — please!” She pushed him off the bed with surprising strength, but Fell didn’t need too much prompting — he was already racing for the door. “Do not stop!” Her voice was cut off by another fit of coughing, but by then Fell was taking the steps three at a time, landing on each step on tiptoes.

He reached the first floor without anyone seeing him. He glanced back upstairs, wondering if any guards were chasing him or had heard him stomping down the stairs, and had just walked past the double doors to the billiards room when he ran headlong into Thomas Ysidro. The Mexican executioner pushed him away, but held him tightly by his jacket. “Where the fuck did you go, asshole?” Ysidro growled.

Fell’s mouth flapped open and closed like a dying fish— he was so scared he couldn’t answer. Ysidro’s expression went from suspicious to angry to murderous, and he grabbed Fell by the lapel and pulled him closer, shaking him like a dirty throw-rug. “I said, where the fuck did you…?” Then he noticed the green and yellow stain on Fell’s shirt, then sniffed at the same smell coming from the billiards room. With Fell still in his grasp, he peeked around the comer and saw the mess on the carpet. “Shit, bean-counter, you barfed on my fuckin’ rug!”

“I… I couldn’t help it…”

“Well, clean it the fuck up!” Ysidro said, pushing Fell onto the floor in front of the vomit. Fell waited for the follow-up kick, but all he heard was another “Shee-it” as Ysidro left. Fell found some rags in the cue rack on the wall, and used his hankerchief to mop up the rest and take out as much of the stain as he could. He stayed on his hands and knees after cleaning up the mess, thinking hard.

Could he do it? Could he kill Henri Cazaux? No doubt the world would be better without that psychopathic woman-beating bastard, but certainly Ysidro and the others would execute him right away… or would they? It did not take a genius to see the power struggle going on in Cazaux’s organization. Maybe he’d be doing them a big favor… yes, maybe…

“Hey, asshole, on your feet,” Fell heard a voice say behind him. He struggled to his feet, feeling his knees wobble and his fingers shake. The guard had a small, mean-looking submachine gun in his hands, held at port-arms in front of him. He noticed the vomit on Fell’s jacket and sneered. “Back in the other room, the others are leaving.”

Fell was prodded back into the foyer outside the den where the meeting was held, only to find the meeting breaking up and Cazaux’s officers putting on coats, preparing to depart. Fell caught Cazaux’s gaze on him, a mixture of hatred and suspicion. Jesus, does he know I made contact with his captive upstairs? But Cazaux’s eyes only glanced down at the vomit stain, and his eyes told Fell that he was being dismissed as too weak to be a threat to him. He was so smug, so confident, ignoring the little weak guys simply because they were smaller and less imposing. Cazaux was an animal, a human animal. He deserved to die, the bastard, he deserved to die, long and hard and painfully. Ysidro might even reward him for daring to do something that he obviously wanted very badly to do himself.

But even more fearful than Cazaux’s questioning stare was Harold Lake’s face — he looked horrified, shocked* as white and colorless as if he had been dead for several hours. He nearly stumbled into Fell as Fell tried to help him on with his coat.

“Harold, what is it?” he whispered as they headed outside. “What’s going on?”

“Just go,” Lake said. “Out.”

“My briefcase,” Fell said, hesitating as long as he could. “I’ll get it.”

Fell went back into the conference room for the briefcase and picked it up. He was alone. The nearest guard was back in the hallway, almost completely out of sight, and Henri Cazaux was standing on the opposite side of the room, his back turned to him, looking out the window. The perfect opportunity. There was an inside slit in his raincoat that allowed Fell to access his pants pocket. Fell reached into the slit, then into his pants pocket…

“Look out, Henri!” he heard a voice — a female voice- shout behind him. “Look out, he’s got a gun!”

Cazaux spun, crouched, a knife appearing in his hands as if by magic. Fell turned. It was the woman, dressed in a red silk robe, the blood cleaned off her face, even wearing makeup. She was pointing toward him. Cazaux hesitated, seeing who it was threatening him, then he chuckled softly and lowered the knife from its throwing position. Fell was confused — why was she doing this?

Three guards pounced on Fell, wrestling him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back so hard and so high that Fell thought they’d snap off. Hands were all over him, searching him, then dragging him up to his feet before Cazaux. The big Belgian mercenary looked at Fell with an amused expression.

“Nothing, Captain,” the guards said. Ted Fell had lost his nerve after rushing downstairs and had placed the gun underneath a large tree planter in the second-floor hallway. The guards released Fell, then turned toward the darkhaired woman. She looked momentarily confused.

“He is not armed, Madame Vega,” Cazaux said. “Why did you think he had a gun?”

“I… I’m sorry, I guess I’m just too keyed up,” she said. “I’ve never seen this man before. He scared me.”

“He was just leaving,” Cazaux said. He gave Fell one last menacing look, and Fell felt sweat pop out on his forehead and felt urine uncontrollably rush out of his bladder. He barely caught it in time before he wet himself. Fell was escorted out of the house by the two guards and virtually dumped into the duallie with Lake.

Lake refused — or was unable — to say anything until they were outside and back into the six-passenger pickup with the security glass between the front and rear seat closed. Fell waited several minutes for his heart to start hammering in his chest. The damn bitch tried to get me killed, Fell thought. Who in hell is she? But soon the curiosity of what was happening with his boss, Lake, finally took over. “Harold, what happened? What’s going on?”

“We’re folding up shop,” Lake said finally. “First thing tomorrow morning, we put stop orders on all outstanding contracts, negotiate for cash closings. We need to arrange for a cash-asset transfer — probably use Win Millions Casino again.”

“Sure, sure, Harold, they’ll give us whatever we want,” Fell said. “So we’re bugging out? Time to see what Brazil is like in the wintertime?”

“We’ll be out of the country by tomorrow night… two nights, tops. While Henri is counting the cash, we’ll be on the Challenger to Belo Horizonte.”

“Great, great,” Fell said. That was a relief — the farther he was away from that dark-haired bitch, the better. “I’ve been checking on the plane and the crew every day for a week, making sure they’re ready to blast off. Flight plans are no problem if you’re leaving the country. One stop in Belize for gas and maybe a few senoritas, and we’re out of here with twenty million dollars in cash at our disposal, all nice and safe in numbered bank accounts. We’ll live like kings in that little town, what’s its name, Abaete or something…?” Lake wasn’t sharing in the image one bit — in fact, he looked as if he were turning to stone, or wax. “What the hell’s the problem, Harold? Cazaux will never find the cash we’ve been siphoning off from the Asian contracts. Did he accuse you of something? What—”

“There’s going to be one more operation,” Lake said. “One more big strike…”

“As long as we’re out of it, I don’t really care,” Fell said. “We close up shop and we’re done… right?”

Lake said nothing else during the rest of the ride to the garage, where their limo was waiting-for them. The image of them relaxing on the red-tiled veranda of their two-thousand-acre ranch in central Brazil was gone… replaced by the woman’s struggled plea to stop Cazaux. Obviously he was planning something so deadly, so monstrous, so devastating, that not even Lake could talk about it.

It didn’t matter, Fell decided. In two days they were going to be out of the country. Twenty million dollars and a Gulfstream bizjet bought a lot of comfort, especially in Brazil — it bought a lot of forgetfulness, too. He was going to have to forget the woman’s piercing eyes, her plea that reached down to the core of his soul…

… and remember, if he could ever forget, what happened to experienced mercenary soldier^ who crossed Henri Cazaux. Remember that bloody bag, the black mass dangling from an artery, remember Ysidro’s sick grin. What chance did an attorney from Springfield, Massachusetts, have? Silence and a life of luxury in equatorial Brazil, or go to the authorities and face Henri Cazaux, Tomas Ysidro, Gregory Townsend, and almost certain death.

Ted Fell didn’t need to be a Harvard Law School grad to figure that one out.

Mojave, California Two Days Later

“They’re coming in here faster than we can handle them,” the man said. “I’ll be of any help I can. You have your pick of the litter, I can assure you.”

Harold Lake did not say anything — he was too surprised to speak. He was looking not at a puppy kennel or thoroughbred racehorse stable, but at two mile-and-a-half-long lines of airliners — all shapes and sizes, in various states of repair but all generally in very good condition. It seemed every airline in the world had an airplane here, and the paint jobs looked brand new. Even Ted Fell, Lake’s assistant, who hated airplanes and anything having to do with flying, was suitably impressed. “My God, I never dreamed anything like this existed,” he said, gaping at what he saw.

“I imagine most folks don’t,” the facility manager responded, smiling at Lake’s amazed expression as they drove down a taxiway in a thankfully well-air-conditioned Range-Rover. “Mojave Commercial Air Services used to be a boneyard for airliners — much like Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson stores and parts-out old military aircraft. We’ve cut up and recycled over ten thousand aircraft since we opened back after World War Two.

“But airliners last longer and are much more expensive, so when times get tough and nobody’s flying, companies send their planes out here for storage — low humidity, not much rain, pretty good conditions for outdoor storage. Some companies buy them and immediately fly them directly out here for storage. When they signed the contract to buy them three years ago, the industry wasn’t in quite bad shape. Now they own it, and it’s a big investment, but it wouldn’t pay to fly it half-filled with passengers, so they bring it out here for storage. The industry will bounce back, and when it does these babies will be put on the line.” He motioned to one airplane, obviously the size of a DC-10 of L-1011, completely cocooned in shiny aluminized plastic. “We used to just fly them in, weatherize them, and let ’em sit, but more companies want a bit more protection from blowing sand and moisture, so we shrink-wrap some planes.”

“That’s shrink-wrapped?” Fell asked. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Shrink-wrapped just like a copy of Playboy on the magazine racks,” the manager said. “Actually, it’s much better than that. It takes only a couple hours to apply it, and it protects the planes against most every hazard. It’s completely sealed — all the air is pumped out, so it’s impervious to the elements. A plane in shrink-wrap like that will be as good as new ten years from now — we guarantee it, in fact. No mildew, no critters, no corrosion.”

“Incredible,” Lake exclaimed. The array of planes out here was amazing — he saw quite a few MD-11 and Boeing 757 and 767 airliners, the cream of the airline crop, sitting here idle. “There has to be four or five billion dollars’ worth of machines sitting out here.”

“Pretty good guess, Mr. Lake,” the manager said. “The actual figure is three-point-seven-two-billion dollars — we keep a weekly tally.” He pulled up to a plane and put the Range-Rover in park. “Here’s 331. We started the prepurchase inspection as soon as your people showed up. Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

Lake distrusted and usually discounted anyone who talked about inanimate objects in human terms, and he was proved correct on this one. They were looking at an Aeri- talia G222 twin turboprop heavy transport plane, and it was a short, squat-looking airplane with a tall tail and high- mounted wings — not exactly a “sweetheart” unless you were into ugly-looking planes. This one was painted up with high-visibility white-and-orange stripes, with the words SISTEMA AERONAUTICO ANTI–INCENDIO painted on both sides. Lake opened a thick information folder on the plane: “This is a 1988-model water-bomber? It looks in great condition.”

“The G222 is the finest pure water-bombing aircraft on the market today,” the facility manager said. “These actually have the newer uprated Rolls-Royce Tyne turboprops, so they each put out closer to four thousand shaft horsepower instead of the normal three thousand four hundred. She’s also been strengthened to pull over four Gs instead of the normal two-point-eight — pretty important when your clients are diving into the bottom of a deep canyon chasing that last stubborn torcher. I’ve got to hand it to you water- bomber guys — you got balls the size of coconuts. Which group did you say you were representing?”

“I’m acting as the finance manager for a broker representing Walter Willis and Company,” Lake said. “The G222 and any other aircraft I can find within the next thirty days will be going to his ranch in Colorado for modification and training — and possibly go operational if this summer stays hot and dry like this.” It was all a lie, of course, but he had laid enough groundwork over the past few days, with this deal and with a half-dozen others, to make the fiction work unless a real in-depth investigation was begun. Years ago, Lake, working with the skinflint president of Universal Express, Brennan McSorley himself, had helped finance the lease of several aerial firefighting aircraft to Walter Willis, the biggest private aerial firefighting company in the world. Lake had been involved in several other financing deals since, so he had the credentials to visit this place in Mojave and talk turkey.

“I’ve never worked with Mr. Willis himself,” the facility manager said. “How is the old buzzard doing?”

Fell looked at the guy, then at Lake, and he could immediately sense that his boss’s mood had suddenly turned as dark as the inside of a thunderstorm. He stepped back a pace to watch the fireworks…

“He’s doing fine,” Lake said tightly. He glanced at the manager, who was suddenly eyeing him with a great deal of suspicion, then added, “Walter is doing fine — for a guy who’s been dead for eleven fucking months, you cold- hearted son of a bitch!” The manager’s jaw dropped open in surprise, and Lake used his dumbfounded expression as a target for his anger: “His son Brad Willis and the Universal investor group own the company; I was an usher at Brad’s wedding last January in Aspen. Do you know the Willises?”

“Ah, no, but you see…”

“Then why did you ask about Walter? My friend Brad almost had a nervous breakdown at the death of his father.” Lake did not know Brad Willis except by his ultra-irresponsible playboy reputation — Brennan McSorley and Universal got a good deal when they bought the company from Brad. “And Walter was certainly not an ‘old buzzard’ when he died — he was only in his early sixties, in the best physical condition of his life.” Lake turned toward the manager, enjoying watching the bastard wilt under his glare. “Is this some kind of test, Mr. Adams?” Lake asked. “Are you actually testing me?”

“I would never even consider…”

“Sir, I do not have to submit to this,” Lake said, truly indignant that this old bastard would dare to try to clumsily trap him like that. “I can drop names all day to you, and you might be impressed or you might not. But I let my credentials, my reputation, and my money speak for me, sir.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lake, I did not mean to…”

“As I recall, I deposited a certified check in the amount of nine million dollars in your bank account in Los Angeles two days ago, along with enough credit references that my submission can be measured by the pound. It took a staff of four two days to complete it, working night and day.” He reached into his jacket breast pocket and withdrew an envelope, opened it, and showed the contents to the manager. “This is another certified check for sixteen million four hundred thousand dollars, made out to your company, with today’s date, as the second deposit for the two aircraft.” Lake waited until he could see the facility manager’s eyes grow wide with surprise and want — then crumpled the check up in his right hand, right in front of the man’s face. Lake held his clenched fist with the check inside it up in the man’s face until he saw sweat pop out of his forehead. “I am not accustomed to being treated like a teenager trying to buy a bottle of cheap wine at the Safeway, sir. Ted?”

Fell turned to the Aeritalia G222, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The three men he had hired to do the prepurchase inspection on the freighter looked up and turned toward him. “Pack it up,” he shouted. “The deal has been canceled.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Lake,” the manager pleaded. “Hold on. It wasn’t a test, I swear it wasn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“No, and after your company finds out what happened, I would think you won’t be selling too many aircraft, either.” “C’mon, Mr. Lake, I didn’t mean anything by it,” the manager said. “It’s all these federal boys out here — I guess I started thinking like some bozo gumshoe detective.”

Both Lake and Fell twisted their necks around to stare at the manager when he mentioned “federal boys.” Fell shot a subdued, panicked look at his boss, but Lake quickly regained his composure and shot a warning glance at Fell, who turned away and walked toward the G222 so he could effectively hide his shocked expression. “Federal boys? What are you talking about?”

“This place gets a visit by someone or other from Los Angeles or Washington or Las Vegas or Sacramento damned near every day,” the facility manager said. “I guess it has to do with that terrorist that’s dropping bombs on American airports. The feds ask tricky questions all the time, trying to trip you up, like I can hand Henri Cazaux to them on some shiny silver platter.”

“I think that’s the last straw,” Lake said quickly. “Federal agents, indeed! You’re just trying to pin your clumsy attempt at making me feel uncomfortable on someone that doesn’t exist.”

“No, Mr. Lake, they’re here — look, there’s one now,” the man said. He pointed at a dark gray Chevrolet Caprice sedan cruising up and down the flight line. “That’s… damn, I can’t remember his name…” He fished around in a pocket and came up with a business card. “Yeah, here he is — Timothy Lassen, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Here’s his card.”

Lake snatched the card away — he didn’t want to be so obviously upset, but a thrill of panic had just settled into Lake’s brain, and he was no longer totally in control of himself. Yes, the card said he was a U.S. Marshal, from Sacramento… and now the man in the Caprice had spotted him talking with the facility manager and had turned in their direction.

“Well… perhaps I’ve been a bit hasty,” Lake said as the sedan approached. “I should’ve realized you’re under considerable scrutiny these days.”

“That is the truth, Mr. Lake, it certainly is,” the manager said, relieved that the sale would actually go through. Lake motioned to Fell, who told the inspectors to go back to work.

“I will direct my bank to cut another check for you — it’ll take an extra day, I’m sure you understand.”

“I certainly do, Mr. Lake,” the manager said, practically kissing Lake’s hand in gratitude. “And I sincerely apologize for my behavior. I’m very, very sorry…”

“I’d like nothing more to be said about it,” Lake said, adding a touch of his command voice into his request. “My clients appreciate discretion as well as efficiency. There will be questions about why the transaction is to be delayed an extra day, and that’ll have to be handled.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Lake,” the manager said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” Just then the sedan pulled up to them, and a tall, good-looking man a bit older than Lake emerged. His plain dark-gray suit coat was unbuttoned, revealing a plain white shirt and plain dark-blue tie with diagonal red stripes. The sun was hot and merciless already that morning, but the man kept the jacket on. “Excuse me, Mr. Fennelli, but how do I get out of here? I’m lost already.” “Easy enough, Agent Lassen,” the facility manager said, pointing southwest. “Just head for the gap between the big hangars out there, you’ll see the front gate. Be sure to watch out for planes taxiing around.”

“Got it,” Lassen said. It was obvious that Lassen didn’t need any assistance getting off the airport. He looked at Lake, and the investor could practically see the marshal going through the mental exercise taught to all law enforcement officers that would imprint a man’s face on their memories for years. He held out a hand toward Lake: “Hi. Tim Lassen — how’re you doing?”

“Harold Lake, Marshal Lassen,” Lake responded, shaking Lassen’s hand. “My associate, Ted Fell.” They shook hands. “Mr. Fennelli tells me you’re a federal marshal,” Lake said. He motioned to the expanse of high desert and rocky mountains surrounding Mojave Airport. “Seems like the perfect setting for a marshal, like the Old West. All you need is a horse and a big six-gun.”

Lassen chuckled easily and genuinely enough, but his eyes never left Lake’s. He said, “Actually, you’re pretty close, Mr. Lake,” Lassen said. “This area used to be one of the roughest and toughest in the country. Claim jumpers, fugitives on the run from justice, hijackers, bank robbers… terrorists… the scum of the earth always seemed to congregate around this area, as if the desert would protect them from the law… This your plane, Mr. Lake? It’s Italian, isn’t it?”

The federal agent eased into the questioning even more smoothly and naturally than Lake had expected. Lake responded, “No, it’s not my plane. I know very little about planes, actually.”

“Your plane, Mr. Fell?” Lassen asked, turning toward Lake’s assistant, who thought himself completely out of the conversation.

“No,” Fell replied much too hastily, too nervously. “Actually, I hate airplanes. I have to practically be sedated into unconsciousness before takeoff.”

“It’s a beauty,” Lassen said. “I don’t know too much about them, either, but of course the job lately has introduced me to lots of different kinds.”

“You’re investigating the terrorist Cazaux,” Lake said knowingly. “The lunatic who isn’t satisfied with blowing up one plane — he’s got to blow up the entire terminal.” “Exactly,” Lassen said. “This kind of plane, as you might know, is just like the one Cazaux might use — big, relatively inexpensive, heavy payload, designed to drop things out the back. This is a fire-bomber, right?”

“A water-bomber, to be exact,” Lake corrected him. “And yes, it is Italian. It is used all over the world for firefighting, military transport, even civilian and commercial passengers. So how’s the investigation going? You going to catch that bastard yet?”

“Oh, I think Cazaux will either slip away out of the country, do something really stupid and get himself caught, or one of his soldiers will rat him out for money or to 'make a deal with prosecutors,” Lassen said matter-of-factly.

“You sound pretty sure of this,” Lake observed, trying to act disinterested.

“I wish I could say that most crimes are solved by expert, meticulous investigation by wise, insightful, observant agents, but in fact most crimes get solved because the bad guy screws up… or someone very close to him turns him in.” He paused, his eyes affixing on Lake, and the New York investor felt the first prickle of perspiration on the back of his neck.

“Most criminals, Mr. Lake, are dishonest, egotistical, greedy slimeballs,” Lassen explained. “Many of the people that psychopaths like Henri Cazaux surround themselves with are also slimeballs, but they’re usually smarter. These guys are not quite as violent or psychopathic as their boss — they’re usually motivated by greed, not by the thrill of killing or some voice inside their head telling them to kill. They are cowed by the psychopathic leader into following him, even when the killing grows beyond anything anyone could imagine.

“But sooner or later it appears that the leader is getting too far out of control, and the smart underling realizes that he’d better cut and run and make a deal with the authorities before everyone lands in prison for life plus two hundred years — or dead. The smart underling turns in the psychopath, gets a reduced sentence or maybe even put in a Witness Protection Program, and thanks his lucky stars he saw the light before it was too late… I’m sorry, I’ve been chatting on here. What is it you do, Mr. Lake?”

At first Lake acted as if he didn’t hear the federal agent’s question — and in fact he hadn’t, because he was too stunned by what Lassen had said. He had precisely described the dilemma Lake was in.

Cazaux was getting more and more violent every day, urging his troops to take more chances, go to any lengths to carry out his orders. Lake had been looking for his chance to scrape together enough cash to disappear to a ranch in Brazil or Thailand, but it seemed Cazaux was always around, watching him, ordering him around. This trip was exactly a case in point: Lake knew nothing about doing prepurchase inspections on cargo planes, but Cazaux had him come out here anyway instead of just staying in his office and monitoring their ever-growing portfolio of options contracts. They were making ten, sometimes fifteen million dollars a day from their series of investments, and it required careful study and analysis to keep it all going. But Cazaux ordered him out here, and now he was being confronted by a fed from Sacramento, a damned fed who seemed to see right through him.

“I’m a smart underling,” Lake finally responded with an easy smile, “and I work for a broker who can really terrorize a tiramisu or an apricot flambe if he sets his mind to it. I’m going to turn him over to Jenny Craig any day now.”

The ploy thankfully worked — everyone laughed, and Lassen finally disengaged his piercing gaze, laughed loudly, and shook a finger at Lake as if to say, Okay, okay, okay, you got me. “Hey, have a great day, everyone, I’ve got a long drive back to Sacramento ahead of me. Nice to meet all of you. Thanks again, Mr. Fennelli.” He shook hands with Lake and Fell and headed back to his car, casually studying the G222 as he did. He finally took off his jacket just before getting into the sedan, and Lake noticed he seemed to wear no gun.

A pencil-pusher, Lake guessed, pressed into field service in Hell’s half-acre in Mojave because the feds were stretched so thin. “Seems like a nice guy,” Lake said to Fennelli as the fed departed.

“That’s the most I’ve heard him say the whole time he’s been here, about four days now,” Fennelli replied. “Pokes around here and there, flies off, shows up again a couple days later, never asks for anything, pokes around some more, flies off again. That’s his Cheyenne over there.”

That made Lake relax a bit — the guy really did seem like nothing but a pencil-pusher, not a real investigator. But as soon as Lake took some comfort in that thought, his mind went on the alert again. Lassen was a deputy U.S. Marshal — that was not a ceremonial or political post. Lake wished he had taken more time to study the fed better. He was going to have Fell check him out.

“I’ll be returning to Los Angeles this afternoon,” Lake told Fennelli. “My staff will conclude the transaction.”

‘'Yes, Mr. Lake.” Fennelli said. He extended a hand to Lake; he did not accept it. “Everything will be ready for your ferry crews. If there’s anything else you require, please let me—”

“All I require, Mr. Fennelli, is for you to do your job.” Lake said, “and to leave the sleuthing to Deputy Marshal Lassen there.”

“Of course, Mr. Lake,” Fennelli said contritely. He led Lake and Fell back to the Range-Rover. He started heading back toward the flight-line offices where his customer’s Leaijet was parked, then did a sudden one-eighty turn and headed back down the flight line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lake, I almost forgot.” Fennelli said. “You’ll be wanting to see your other plane. I'm sure.” Lake really didn't care to see it, but he said nothing as Fennelli sped down the row' of airliners. It did not take long to reach it. “Here we are. It looks like they’re farther along the prepurchase inspection on this one.”

Lake found his legs and hands shaky as he stepped out of the-Land-Rover and looked up at the huge aircraft before them. He glanced at Ted Fell, and he w^ras just as whitefaced and nervous as his boss.

This had to be some kind of joke, Lake thought bitterly. Henri Cazaux had issued his order that he wanted this plane, and Lake had found him one right away without really asking why he w-anted it. Now, seeing it like this, Lake understood exactly w'hy Cazaux wanted it.

It w as a Boeing 747-200F freighter, still in Nippon Cargo Airlines livery, although the markings on the vertical stabilizer from its former owner had already been painted over in bright white. The aircraft was a cargo-carrying version of the 747 airliner, with a huge nose loading door hinged at the top just below the flight deck, which opens out and up. like a huge sun visor. Almost two hundred thousand pounds of cargo could be rolled into the cavernous cargo bay through the front or through large side doors. “It’s a beauty, all right,'’ Fennelli was saying. “JA8167 is one of the earlier models, built in 1980. Relatively low-cycle airframe, treated fairly well in over ten years of service although it’s had its share of short fields and tropical weather. It’s still got its RB211 engines, so its max payload is about ten percent less than if it had JT9Ds or CF6s, but it’s got its quiet kits installed and it’s fully certified for Stage Three noise level operations, so you can fly it anywhere. You got yourself one fine bargain. Who’s going to do the paint job on it?”

“Excuse me?”

“The paint work,” Fennelli said. “Your ferry crew indicated that its first stop is the paint and mod shop. Where are you taking it? You know, we do a really fine job of configuring your bird to your exact specifications. Since you’re a customer, of course, we can offer you a substantial discount. Nobody does a better paint job on large aircraft like Mojave. Please consider it, Mr. Lake.”

Damn flyboys, Lake cursed silently. The stupid bastards that Cazaux and Townsend were digging out of the woodwork to fly these missions had real big mouths. The modifications and paint job were going to be done at one of four facilities already hired to do the job — Little Rock, Arkansas; Salina, Kansas; Portsmouth, New Hampshire; or Newark, New Jersey, depending on which had all the necessary personnel, equipment, and cargo ready to go, and which was under the least surveillance by the authorities. Fennelli would obviously want the job badly, so he might try to contact some of the names in the application to ask them directly. Lake had sewn up most of those traps so Fennelli might not get anywhere — but then again, he might if he tried hard enough.

“I’m afraid that’s up to the buyer, Mr. Fennelli, and he hasn’t confided in me about his plans for the airplanes,” Lake said. “But I will certainly pass along your offer.”

Lake couldn’t have been more relieved to get on the, Learjet and head back toward Los Angeles.

“Ted, get on the damned phone and contact the ferry ¹ crews,” Lake ordered. “Tell them that if they don’t keep their mouths shut from now on, I will personally see to it that Cazaux deals with them. Then I want—”

“Harold, it’s not a good idea to use the Flitephone for something like that,” Fell interrupted. “The phone on the airplane has to go through a UHF radio station before it hooks into the landline phone system. It’s worse than a cellular phone system — everybody with a thirty-dollar scanner can listen in.”

“We’re still using the secure phone system and the dead- drop line, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I’m not so sure how well it works over an ARINC network.” The scrambled phone system was a simple but usually very effective analog voice-scrambling system that would protect against unauthorized recording and casual surveillance; the dead-drop line was an 800 number that tied into the local and long-distance phone lines so all calls made would appear to go only to the 800 number, not to any particular phone or person. Fell knew that sometimes calls from the plane were not scrambled, or could not be descrambled on the other end, because of the properties of the additional Aeronautical Radio, Inc., radio link.

“The damned system cost well over a thousand dollars a month to operate — it better work,” Lake said. “I need the bank to cut a replacement check for Fennelli, and I want to make sure the taps on Universal’s branch offices and to Worthington Enterprises brokerage are in place — if Fennelli tries to contact them directly, I need to know about it. Get on it, Ted, right now. ”

Lassen, in a Piper Cheyenne II turboprop plane shuttling northward to visit another airport, was undoing another button of his shirt to try to get a bit cooler when his transportable phone insistently beeped at him. He plugged his headset into the unit, pressed the green SYNC button, and waited until the scramble-synchronization circuits between the caller and his unit agreed and allowed the call to connect. When it did a few seconds later, he heard a tone and responded, “Sweeper.”

“Sweeper, this is Peepshow,” came the reply. “Peepshow” was the tactical mission commander aboard an RC-12K Guardrail communications and intelligence aircraft. Because cellular and radio communications were difficult to maintain so far out away from large cities, federal agents involved in special investigations in remote areas often set up communications relays, which allowed them to maintain constant contact. One such communications relay system was the U.S. Army’s Guardrail system, which was a modified Beech Super King Air turboprop plane loaded with communications and signals intelligence equipment. Along with providing a secure, efficient communications link, Guardrail could also eavesdrop on radio, TV, cellular, telephone, and data communications for a hundred miles in any direction, and could break in on conversations or broadcast on civil channels or frequencies. “We got some information on your subject.”

“Stand by one.” Lassen pulled out a personal digital assistant computer, created a new note file, and readied his electronic stencil. “Go ahead.”

“Your target filed an IFR flight plan direct Santa Monica Airport,” the tactical mission commander reported. “Normal air traffic control communications. We monitored three separate radiotelephone calls via ARINC Mojave to a WATS number. Do you need the number? Over.”

“Let me guess,” Lassen said, retrieving another note file from the PDA and reading off an 800 number.

“The same,” Peepshow responded. “The conversation was scrambled, but the ARINC transmission was garbled and they had to repeat the password sequence several times. Finally, your target ordered the WATS operator to turn off the scrambler so he could log on to the service. We copied the ID number and password.” Peepshow passed Harold Lake’s service ID number and password to Lassen. It would — probably not do too much good — Lake would undoubtedly change the password at his first opportunity. “We copied several phone numbers, account numbers, and what appear to be code names before they scrambled the transmission again.” The tactical mission commander passed that information to Lassen. “In addition, we got a good analysis of the scrambler algorithm routine as they shut it off and then turned it back on again, so we can probably give you their scrambler’s algorithm to plug into your descrambler once we get back on the ground. That’s about all. Over.”

“Great work, Peepshow,” Lassen said. “Sweeper out.” Well, it didn’t prove too much, but it was a start. Using blind phone drops was not illegal — blind or dead drops prevented someone from knowing what number was called— although it looked very suspicious. It was going to take time to check out all these names, and he had six other airports between Mojave and Reno to check out. He decided to transmit his notes from the PDA via his radiotelephone back to his office in Sacramento so his staff could get to work on it; using Guardrail, the task took only a few moments.

Harold Lake and Ted Fell were two new names in this investigation, so this trip may not have been a total bust. Two guys from New York who admitted not knowing that much about planes, traveling all the way out to Mojave, California, to buy two very large transport planes. It might take a warrant for Fennelli to give him any information on Lake, his company, his financial institutions, and the persons he worked for. With a little push and some carefully veiled threats, Lassen was sure that Fennelli would easily roll on Lake or anybody else and hand over the files on Lake. But if Fennelli was smart and called in his attorney, Lassen would get into hot water with the U.S. Attorney, that avenue of information would snap shut, and, if he was dirty, Lake would disappear.

More pieces to the puzzle, Lassen thought — a little patience and determination, and eventually the pieces of this puzzle would start fitting together. Harold Lake was being evasive, and Lassen’s instincts told him Lake was dirty. Meanwhile, there were still a thousand more pieces of the puzzle to examine.