Target Utopia

1

Searching the area where he should have met the Sabres left Turk with a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he’d woken up back in Iran. Nothing made sense.

He had the enemy UAV they were following on his infrared scan. It had been flying low, barely inches from the ocean where it was lost in the reflective clutter of the waves, but now he could see it clearly, running two miles ahead at a speed of just under a hundred knots. Turk closed the distance, sure the Sabres would appear in the infrared screen. But they didn’t.

He was about to call Breanna for instructions on what to do with the UAV — he assumed he was to shoot it down — but before he could it abruptly dove into the water.

Marking the spot on his GPS, he resumed his search for the Sabres, using every sensor he had, including his own eyes. But the sky was empty for a hundred miles in every direction.

“Colonel Freah — Whiplash Shark to Leader,” said Turk, clicking the radio. “Colonel Freah, I have a problem that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Go ahead, Shark.”

“I can’t find the Sabres. They’re gone.”

“Say again?”

“The enemy UAV just crashed into the water. I have the location. But the Sabres aren’t here.”

“Did they crash?”

“Negative, as far as I know.” It was certainly a possibility, of course — maybe even a probability. But something was very wrong. Why had they broken the connection? It had happened while they were still flying. Had they been damaged? It didn’t really make sense.

“They just went off the radar screen,” Turk told him. “I thought maybe there was an ECM or something. But then when I got close — there’s just nothing here.”

“Have you talked to the Cube about it?”

“Not yet.”

“Do it.” Before Turk could switch back, Danny added, “What’s your fuel situation?”

“It’s tight,” acknowledged Turk. “Do we have a tanker available?”

“Negative. Negative. Be careful of your reserves.”

“Yeah, roger that.”

The Tigershark’s sensor data as well as its location and vital signs were being pumped back to Whiplash, and Breanna had seen the UAVs disappear from the screen.

She, too, was baffled, as was everyone in the situation room.

“We’re guessing they must have sustained damage somewhere,” she told him. “But we don’t have a theory yet.”

“I can search the route they took,” volunteered Turk; he’d already turned back in that direction. “There were a few atolls, and maybe—”

“Negative, Turk. Your fuel is low. Return to base.”

“I have a few more minutes to play with.”

“You are into your reserves already,” insisted Breanna. “Turn that aircraft around and get back to land. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

That’s a change, thought Turk as he complied. Probably she’s just worried about losing the plane.

2

Ray Rubeo left the situation room and walked down the hall to his office.

Even if he didn’t suspect Reid was trying to pin some of the blame of Kallipolis and Braxton on loose security at Dreamland when he was there — Rubeo had been the head scientist — losing the Sabres without any explanation was a major disaster. While the techies all thought they’d simply been damaged and dipped into the water, Rubeo had far greater fears.

While he trusted the Whiplash computer system and its security protocols — his firm, after all, had designed them — he suddenly couldn’t trust all of the people who might eventually be given access to them. And so as he sat down he took a small iPodlike device from his pocket along with a cord; unplugging the keyboard, he inserted the device in its place, then reconnected the keyboard. The device added another layer of encryption and would destroy all traces of his keystrokes in the system once the session was over; there would be no record of what he typed when he was done.

Rubeo typed a series of commands to connect him to his own computer network. Once he was authenticated — ID’ing the physical device he was using was just a start — he began typing commands.

Retrieve the file on Braxton, he typed into the computer. Retrieve all files related to radar. Highlight Project Ghost and any related projects. List any associates on projects…

Rubeo typed for a solid five minutes, commanding the computer to search not just his files, but any file anywhere on the Internet. That meant government files as well, not all of which he was authorized to see.

This was too important a problem to worry about formalities.

Five minutes later he was looking at the paper Braxton had written on neutralizing telemetry data via sympathetic waves.

Obviously, Braxton had done more work since then.

Rubeo sifted through the other retrievals until he found the files on encryptions.

“Ray?”

Rubeo looked up to find Breanna at the door.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“Braxton was able to override the command broadcast protocol. The only possible motive was to steal the Sabres. And the only reason for that was to get their distributed intelligence architecture. That’s what he wants.”

“You don’t think the aircraft crashed?”

“Not at all. They’ve been captured,” said Rubeo. “We’ll have to study the data, but my guess is, the same techniques he’s using to hide the radar signatures were used to disguise the telemetry he sent to the Sabres. The only possible reason he would want them, though, is the distributed autonomous computing. That’s the real difference between them and the Gen 4 Flighthawks. If he was simply tweaking our nose, he could have done it earlier, rather than taking them on such a long flight west.”

“You’re saying that his plan was to steal these aircraft all along?” asked Breanna.

“I don’t know. I would say he and his people anticipated the opportunity. The way the aircraft think and communicate is unique. And obviously they are very valuable, even with the computing units.”

That was quite an understatement. The AI system was envisioned as the centerpiece of a small army of units working together and on their own with minimal human guidance. It was the stuff of science fiction, but it was well within their grasp.

“If they have our control system, we’ve got to change it,” Breanna said.

“Not until we get the Sabres back,” said Rubeo. “If we change it now, they’ll realize we know what they’re doing and how.”

“You have a plan for that?”

“I will. As soon as I figure out a way to get past the encryption in real time.”

Breanna nodded.

Clearly, Rubeo thought, she didn’t realize how difficult that task actually was.

Development of the artificial intelligence modules that piloted the combat UAVs was a long and tortuous process. Thousands of people had eventually worked on the project, and over a hundred were still working on it, making improvements every day. But despite the many variations and evolutionary changes, the core of the AI systems came from a common seed, a set of chips and programming protocols that Jennifer Gleason had originally developed at Dreamland. In the wake of the accident that robbed Zen of the use of his legs, the scientist had revamped the original designs and added what she called “piping” into the chip structure that functioned as a kind of emergency override. When a numerical pass code “flowed” down the pipeline, it could control the brain.

The pass code was a little more complicated than a standard password, as it changed on the fly. It got its basis from DNA sequencing. At the time, this was thought to be an almost foolproof identifier — the researchers could literally lick a finger, put it in a reader, and thus establish their identity with both ease and physical security. Since that time, various work-arounds had been discovered, and easier methods used, but the pipeline was an integral part of the chip construction. It was similar to a reptilian brain deeply implanted beneath the human cortex.

Rubeo wasn’t sure exactly how the pass code was being exploited. Overcoming it was theoretically possible, but difficult. A much quicker solution was to use the pass code themselves — which he had done by deciphering the part of Jennifer’s DNA used in the communications.

The problem was that a different and much longer strand was being used for the command sections, most likely on a rolling basis where the keys changed according to a formula he would have to crack. He needed the rest of Jennifer’s genotype, and even then would face a difficult task of sheer force computing to break the encryption into a “simple” code.

Braxton had obviously gotten his hands on Jennifer’s full genotype somehow, not just the small section of the X chromosome, as Rubeo had originally thought. But there was no record of the rest.

A lock of hair? That was probably how Braxton had done it.

The only thing the scientist could think of was exhuming her body.

“God, this is grisly.” Breanna shivered as he told her.

“We’d need a court order,” said Rubeo. “Or approval from next of kin. Your father.”

Breanna’s body turned ice cold, as if she’d plummeted into an icy lake.

Jennifer’s DNA? How had Braxton even gotten hold of that?

What would her father say?

“Time is certainly critical,” Rubeo told her. “We have to locate the UAVs before Braxton has a chance to study them carefully. And before the Chinese get there.”

Breanna’s mind drifted back to the last time she’d seen her father, Tecumseh Bastian. It was at Jennifer Gleason’s funeral. He’d asked for a special waiver to allow her to be buried at Arlington Cemetery. It was only right, he’d argued; she’d served the country for years as a scientist, and then died on a Dreamland operation. But the request was denied.

Bastian had blamed internal politics and a vendetta against him by some in the military hierarchy and new presidential administration. There was certainly some truth to that. The general had been pilloried by Congress and the Joint Chiefs of Staff following the operation that resulted in his wife’s capture and beheading. But Jennifer also hadn’t met the criteria for waivers, and the new President could hardly be expected to make an exception.

Breanna heard Rubeo’s voice from a distance, as if he were summoning her out of a dream. “Will you?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Will you ask him?”

“I haven’t spoken to my father in several years, nor seen him in ages,” she said. “I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know how to get in touch with him.”

“I do,” said Rubeo. “But I can’t promise that he will take your call, let alone agree to our request.”

“What’s the number?” Breanna asked.

3

Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian shouldered the rifle, then watched through the scope as the buck made its way through the trees on the hill opposite him. It was eight hundred yards away, surveying the edge of the open field below the slope.

Eight hundred yards was a very long shot, even with the customized Remington 700 rig in his hands. Dog had shot elk at that range and come away with a trophy, but that was a different gun and many years ago now. His hands remained rock steady, but his eyes were no longer what they once were. Even as he peered through the scope, his right eye began to water and the left to quiver.

Still, he had the big animal in his crosshairs as it started down the slope.

Ten years ago he would have taken the shot.

Ten years ago he wouldn’t have been here.

Bastian followed the deer through the scope. It was moving west, toward an old abandoned farm. He could swing around, cross the stream that divided the two hills, and come out in a small copse where it was likely to be browsing.

“Going to make me work a little, are you?” he said to the buck as if he were a few feet away.

The air was crisp, without a discernible wind. This piece of Pennsylvania — his piece of Pennsylvania — was deserted and empty, the one place on earth where he felt entirely alone and secure.

Dog reached a trail that had been cut some eighty years before by the previous owners — a Boy Scout council — and turned to follow it. The old blazes were faded and in many cases gone with the trees they’d been painted on. The trail itself was so overgrown in spots that only someone who had been over it many times could pick it out.

Dog could do it with his eyes closed. He’d been over it a hundred times in the past three months alone. Two blue, he called it, after the original markers. He legged down to the stream, where a rope and tree plank bridge was still the best way over the water for a considerable distance.

The wind began to pick up as he started down the trail. It shook the bare tops of the trees, gently at first, but by the time he reached the bridge, dead twigs were raining from some of the taller, crowded limbs. Worse, the wind was at his back, which would send his scent toward the deer.

He’d have to give up the hunt. Temporarily.

“You win today,” said Dog, turning around for home. He could use some tea.

There was a time when just thinking of the word “tea” sent him into the blackness, even as he insisted on keeping up the ritual. He was beyond that now, and while he couldn’t say that about many things that reminded him of Jennifer, that one thing, the one habit she had left him with, was something he was grateful for.

She would have liked the crispness in the air. Not the hunting, though. She loved to run and hike and climb rocks and mountains, but she didn’t like to hunt. She always said it was because she didn’t have the patience for it. And she didn’t have great eyesight — she wore glasses or contacts from the time she was a child. But she could handle a rifle with aplomb.

He thought it was more an aversion to killing for sport. So much of her work involved killing, indirectly, that doing it outside the job was something to avoid.

Dog unslung his rifle as he reached his cabin. There was nothing in the house worth stealing, and he could tell just by looking that he had no human visitor, but twice now he’d surprised bears near the back. A woman two towns over had come home one night to find a small black bear sitting in her living room. That hadn’t ended well for the bear or the house, though the woman at least escaped without injury.

He eyed the side yard carefully, glanced around his parked Impala, then went up the stairs to the porch. He stooped down to look through the front window.

All clear.

Dog opened the front door, which he habitually left unlocked. He put his rifle away, then went to the kitchen to start the kettle. He was just pouring the water when the phone began to ring.

Dog rarely used the phone and wasn’t about to answer it now. He concentrated on filling his kettle.

The answering machine picked up on the fifth ring.

“Daddy?”

Breanna’s voice, halting, timid, crossed the tiny space of the old-fashioned kitchen like a ghost peeking out from the closet.

“Daddy, I — we need your help.” Breanna was stuttering, stumbling over her words, the same way she had when she was little and had to tell him about poor grades in school or some other disappointment that seemed monumental to her. “It has to do with the Sabre combat UAVs, and their AI. I know you may not want to talk to me, but if you could talk to Ray, or even Jonathon Reid, we would appreciate it. You have Ray’s number, I know. Here’s Jonathon’s…”

Dog listened as she gave Reid’s CIA phone number and then repeated Rubeo’s number.

He took a step toward the phone, wanting in his heart to answer. But the distance was too great, the pain too much. He shouldn’t and didn’t blame her, and yet it was too hard to get the phone, and too hard to talk to her.

Dog stood in the empty kitchen, the walls closing around him. Water spit fitfully from the faucet as his pot overflowed.

Finally he shut the water off and found the lid for the kettle. The igniter on the burner had long since stopped working. Taking a match from the box he kept nearby, the sturdy hands he had counted on earlier when hunting shook so badly he nearly missed the striker patch on the side of the box.

4

The moment of victory was also a moment of high vulnerability, for it was a moment not only of imbalance but also hubris. Vanity was a great weakness, seductive and difficult to overcome.

And yet, Braxton couldn’t help but feel a swell of satisfaction as he steadied the two Sabre UAVs for a landing in the lagoon of the atoll two miles from the tug. It was a moment of triumph years in the making, and not simply because he had found a way to defeat Rubeo and the scientist’s military masters. He had defeated the brightest brain trust of the most powerful nation in the world. His triumph was one of historical proportions. He stood on the precipice of a new age, a time when nations no longer mattered. From this day forward, individuals were their own sovereigns; democracy had evolved to a higher level.

At the moment it applied only to a select few, but eventually the shackles of world government would be thrown off by all. Braxton had no illusions. Governments, from the biggest to the smallest, would fight the new age. History was not on their side, but there would be many casualties. He aimed not to be one.

The computer flying the two aircraft indicated they were nearly at stall speed. Braxton watched as the computer settled them into a gentle landing on the calm water of the lagoon. Unlike his craft, these weren’t optimized to survive a water landing, but he’d programmed the flight computer to compensate as much as possible. The Sabres skipped along the surface like stones, slowing gradually as they came toward the beach. He’d planned on them landing on the sand together, but an unanticipated change in the wind caused the first Sabre to slip into the water about twenty yards before the sand. The second aircraft continued on its own, hitting the sand and continuing about thirty yards up the gentle slope before spinning right and flipping over. The cameras he had posted on the island showed that it remained intact despite the crash.

Braxton logged out of the computer and got up from the workstation. Opening the hatchway to the deck, he was surprised by how muggy the night air was — the computer room was kept at a constant sixty-seven degrees.

“We’ll rendezvous at Point North as planned,” he told Fortine, who’d come over from the cargo vessel to wait for the next step.

“Do you need help?”

Braxton shook his head. “No, we’re more secure by keeping a low profile. Talbot and I can handle it,” he said, nodding at the sturdy seaman who was standing near the rope to the launch below. “We’ll meet you as planned. It shouldn’t take very long.”

5

The Whiplash mobile command center had arrived and been set up by the time Danny Freah returned to Tanjung Manis Airport. The self-contained trailer, delivered via MC-17, had an array of high-tech gear, but perhaps the most critical piece of equipment was a fully automated coffee machine that ground whole beans and brewed a cup of coffee at the touch of a button. Danny had two cups as soon as he got back from the reef.

The coffee wasn’t much of a luxury, but it was the only one he permitted himself as he reviewed the mission with Turk, who landed shortly after he did.

Ray Rubeo’s assessment that the Sabres had been the aim of the plot all along did little to assuage Turk’s guilt over losing the aircraft. The fact that the scientist believed there was little Turk could have done to prevent their theft had no effect either. He watched the videos glumly, and gave monosyllabic answers to Danny’s complicated questions on tactics and the aircraft flight characteristics. Rubeo wasn’t sure when the aircraft were taken over and was hoping that Turk could help narrow the area. But instead of analyzing the situation, Turk seemed only capable of berating himself.

“Look, you had nothing to do with it,” Danny told him finally. “But the more you blame yourself, the more it keeps you from doing your job now. We have to figure out where to look for the aircraft. And then we have to get them back. And that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Yeah.”

Danny watched Turk examine the flight map. He was still young, still a kid, and yet he’d been through so much — even before Iran.

“Come on, lighten up, Turk,” Danny told him. “Believe me, if Ray Rubeo says you had nothing to do with it, you didn’t.”

“Yeah…”

“He’s not exactly Mr. Personality, but there’s nothing about those systems he doesn’t know. If he says you’re not responsible, you’re not. Breanna doesn’t think you were, Reid doesn’t, and I sure as hell don’t. Get your head back in the game.”

“Yes, sir.”

Turk rewound the map of the incident, struggling to accept what Danny had said. He was right about Rubeo — the scientist didn’t mince words for anyone, or make excuses, even for himself.

So, back in the game.

What the hell happened out there?

He played the tape over, watching the positioning of the different aircraft and guessing what they were doing. He compared it to what he would have done, and to the literally hundreds of exercises he had with the Sabres.

“I think I know where it happened,” he told Danny. “They should have nailed the target on this maneuver here. See how they crisscross? That’s not programmed, and it doesn’t make sense. So it’s right where they closed for the attack.”

Turk reached for the keyboard and brought up a sitrep screen showing the positions of all three aircraft about sixty seconds before the moment he was focused on.

“See this maneuver here?” he told Danny. “That’s purely spur of the moment — they’re not preprogrammed to do that. They’re talking to each other, and the move makes a lot of sense. The enemy UAV dives. That is preprogrammed. He pretends to be getting speed, hoping they fly by him. But they’re working together, and they won’t do that.”

“And they’re not under the enemy’s control yet?”

“No, because look — here they make their move and get two bursts off and then stop firing. Because they lose the target. Except they shouldn’t,” added Turk, reexamining the encounter. He brought up the gun camera view from Sabre Three. “He should still be firing there… I wonder if it has to do with the weapons radar being on.”

“How?” asked Danny.

Turk shrugged.

“Let’s see what Rubeo thinks,” said Danny.

As usual, Turk was baffled by his interaction with Rubeo. The scientist stared straight into the camera above his video screen as Turk told him what he’d realized. Rubeo didn’t even blink.

Breanna was sitting to his right. Turk could see her shoulder in the corner of the frame. Part of him wanted to talk to her directly, to say something like, See? I’m more valuable than you thought. What would you have done if they killed me like you wanted?

Another part of him thought that would be pathetically juvenile. Besides, he was winning just by being here.

He caught her face as she rose. It looked white, drawn — Turk, surprised by how old and pained she appeared, stopped speaking.

She glanced at the camera, then quickly turned away. What was she thinking?

Remorse, maybe?

If she apologized to him now, in front of all these people, would he accept it?

“The attack radar mode was switched on only at that point?” asked Rubeo.

“Yeah,” he said. “They don’t use it until they’re close because the other aircraft can home in on it more easily.”

“It may have masked the command transmission,” said Rubeo. “Or initiated it.”

“Yeah,” agreed Turk, struggling to get his mind back on the subject. “It may have had something to do with the weapons radar going into targeting mode.”

“So you theorize that the returns from the radar are actually instructions,” said Rubeo.

“Um, I don’t theorize anything.”

“Possible.” The scientist began talking about wavelengths and transmissions and data feeds. Quickly lost in the technical discussion, Turk glanced over at Danny Freah, who shrugged. It was hard to stop Rubeo once he started explaining something.

“I’ll spare you the actual technicalities,” said Rubeo finally. “Your insight does track with some of our thinking. The question of more immediate import is where they went next.”

“They had enough fuel for five hundred miles,” said Turk. “They could reach Vietnam, or eastern Malaysia.”

“Or any of a dozen places in between,” said Danny.

“The best theory is this archipelago,” said Rubeo. He brought up an island group three hundred miles north, near Vietnam. “The Navy will be starting the search of the area at daybreak.”

“I think that’s too far,” said Turk.

“You just said they had fuel for five hundred miles,” said Rubeo. “And your estimate is a little short. Besides, this is the only place with airfields that we’re not monitoring.”

“They were landing the other UAVs in the water,” said Turk. “I just think that they’d want to be closer. Near the intercept. Because, what if something goes wrong — what if the Sabres get shot down? You want to recover them. Easily. Five hundred miles away? Anything could happen.”

Rubeo played with the lobe of his ear, considering.

“We have several search plans under way,” said Reid, speaking for the first time since the session started. “And we do believe that the UAVs must have been operated from someplace closer. We have a possible location for that station.”

“They had that many bases?” Danny asked.

“It would make sense to have several,” said Reid. “They need to move around, and be sure of having a safe haven.”

“We have circumstantial evidence on this one,” added Breanna. “A link to Braxton’s business holdings.”

“So where is this?” asked Danny.

“A container ship and tug that have been sailing in the vicinity for several weeks,” said Breanna. “It’s currently anchored about fifty miles north of where the aircraft were last seen.”

“We should check it out immediately,” said Danny.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Reid. “How soon can you put together a mission to do so?”

6

Breanna got up from the console as soon as the call with Danny was finished. She needed to take a long walk, but there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t time for anything.

She settled for the kitchenette suite across from the lower conference room. It was a poor substitute.

“You must be floating in that stuff,” said Jonathon Reid, entering the room as she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

“Almost.” She took a sip; it was hot, but a little bitter.

“Our call to the President is in five minutes,” said Reid.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to take it myself?”

Breanna shook her head. “No.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if she had agreed to our original plan,” said Reid. “If it had been a full Whiplash mission from the very start.”

“I don’t know about that.”

If the conspiracy had been out to get the UAVs from the very beginning, the results would have been the same, Breanna realized.

Except for the Chinese, maybe. Though even there, there was no way to tell.

“You’re blaming yourself,” said Reid. “That’s foolish. You’re not to blame.”

“No, but I’m responsible,” said Breanna. “The buck stops here.”

“And here,” said Reid. “Should we take the call in the conference room or your office?”

“Conference room. Change of pace.” She smiled weakly.

A tone announced that a communication from Air Force One was incoming. Reid took his seat and directed the computer to open the line. Breanna closed her eyes while the encryption synchronized, readying herself.

“Breanna, Jonathon, I understand the Chinese ship is no longer on fire,” said the President as soon as the line was established. Her face loomed in the large holographic screen at the front of the room. “We measure that as progress, I assume.”

Reid started to answer, but the President cut him off.

“I also hear that we’ve lost two Sabres,” said Todd, clearly in a bad mood. “What’s the explanation?”

“The conspiracy appears to have taken over the controls via a transmission that mimicked one of the original command overrides,” said Breanna. She spoke quickly, not because she was nervous or wanted to get it over with, but because she felt it would be better if she was the one who told the President rather than Reid. The military aspects of the operation were hers, not his. And of course there was the Dreamland connection. “It was a vulnerability we hadn’t anticipated. It affects all of the combat UAVs, not just the Sabres. I’ve asked the Pentagon to ground all versions of the Flighthawk until we have a solution.”

“For how long?”

“We’re not sure,” admitted Breanna.

“And we’re working on getting the aircraft back?” asked the President.

“We are,” said Breanna.

“What are the prospects?”

“I can’t honestly say.”

“We believe we have located another of the conspiracy’s bases,” said Reid, cutting in. “They’re on two ships, a cargo container carrier and an oceangoing tug. We think they may have used the cargo containers to hide some of their equipment, perhaps even the minisubs they use.”

“How many bases do these people have?” asked the President, clearly exasperated.

“They have a lot of money.”

“If they were spending it on feeding the poor, we wouldn’t be talking about it,” said Todd bitterly. “What are they going to do next?”

Reid shook his head. “We’ll know more if we take those ships.”

“Take them.”

The President seemed to be staring directly at Breanna. She knew this wasn’t true — Todd was merely looking at the camera above her screen on the plane. Still, Breanna felt as if she was on the spot.

And she deserved to be. The “leak” had turned out to be far greater than she or Reid had feared. Nothing in this operation had gone entirely as planned. Breanna knew it wasn’t her fault, or Reid’s — but someone had to take responsibility.

“What else?” asked the President.

“I think that’s it,” said Breanna.

“It’s quite enough,” snapped Todd. “Update me. Try to avoid doing any more damage to our relations with the Chinese. And stay away from the Philippines.”

“If the Chinese attack—” started Reid.

“Defend yourself, of course,” said Todd. “But try to keep them out of it, if at all possible.”

There was a pop on the line as it shut.

“I understand the Secretary of State has been talking to Beijing for the past hour,” Reid told Breanna, breaking the silence. “I would have liked to have heard the conversation. The secretary doesn’t like to be woken up in the middle of the night.”

He smiled, clearly meaning the comment to somehow cheer her up. But Breanna couldn’t find anything humorous in the situation whatsoever.

“I have to go over to the big house for a breakfast meeting,” said Reid, using his new favorite expression for his office in the headquarters building across the campus. “I’ll try to get back for the operation. If there are any delays or other complications—”

“I’ll let you know.”

“We’ll get through this,” added Reid. “Always darkest before the dawn.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she managed.

Alone in the elevator to the surface, Reid thought about Breanna and the conversation they had just had. She was taking the matter far too hard, blaming herself, and Whiplash, for things that neither had any control over. The seeds of the conspiracy had clearly been planted years before. The vulnerability in the UAVs was extremely serious, but surely a solution would be found.

Breanna was working herself too hard. He couldn’t remember when she’d had a vacation. While the same could be said about him, he didn’t have a child or a spouse to take care of.

When the crisis passed, he decided, he would urge her to take some time off. It was only right.

7

Needing to move quickly, Danny decided to fly down with Turk to the Marine base and talk about a possible strike using Captain Thomas’s men. Despite the fact that they’d only returned a few hours before, the Marine commander told Danny they’d be ready to launch as soon as their Ospreys were ready to go. That would be in another two hours, shortly after dawn.

That was sooner than Danny had dared hope. While he would have preferred operating at night — and with more rest — the proximity of the Chinese took away those luxuries.

“The technical people are working on a way to counteract the Sabres and the other UAVs,” said Danny. “But we’re concerned about the proximity of the Chinese carrier task force. The cargo container vessel is about two hundred miles from the carrier group. If the carrier group gets any closer, we’re going to go in right away.”

The Marines had practiced taking down a cargo container vessel before the present deployment, and Danny agreed that it made sense to give them that assignment while his team took the ocean-going tugboat nearby.

With the Ospreys operating so far from land, one of the aircraft would be used to refuel the others. While that would give the teams on the ships more support, it would also limit the size of the boarding teams by a quarter. It was a necessary trade-off.

“I’ll work out the logistics and talk to you in an hour,” Danny told the captain. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Good.”

“One more thing — I’m a little concerned about security at the airport now that we have our trailer there. I’m going to need all my men for the mission. There’s no threat at the base, but—”

“How many people do you want?” asked the captain.

“A squad?” asked Danny. “We can augment them with our perimeter gear.”

“Absolutely. They can go back with you on your Osprey.”

“That would be ideal,” said Danny.

Turk listened as Cowboy went over the UAV encounter. The more he talked about the other planes, the more Turk wished he’d been there. Even if it had been a plot to steal the Sabres, he still felt he could have figured out a way to get the better of them.

The combat UAVs were the key. Turk knew from analyzing the Sabre video that they were roughly the equivalent of the latest Flighthawks, with the exception of the laser weapon. That was truly an advance, but even that had its limitations. It had to fire for several seconds to be effective; more importantly, it could only be used at short range. There were a small number of vulnerable places on a target as well.

“Think of it as a cannon that’s effective from three miles out,” suggested Turk. “Don’t let it get on your tail, and don’t give it a clean shot at your fuel areas, even for a second.”

“It needs three, though,” said Cowboy.

“That’s what the techs say. Anything less just gives you a hot foot.”

“Best thing is to take it down as soon as you see it,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

“Can’t argue with that,” said Turk.

Turk diagrammed a few of the basic maneuvers he expected the planes would favor, and the best way to deal with them. None of the tactics were revolutionary, though they did take advantage of the UAVs’ proclivities as well as the flight characteristics.

“Never try and outturn them,” Turk warned. “But they don’t accelerate as quickly as you’d think. And they have a lot of trouble in a two-on-one situation. The first thing they’ll do is dive.”

“Why?” asked Cowboy.

“That’s the way they’re programmed. I think it’s because they were flying with Megafortresses originally, and their role was to keep interceptors away from the mother ship. So if they were overwhelmed and couldn’t come up with a strategy, the default was to move away from the Megafortress. Because the EB-52s were typically flying at a high altitude, that meant going down.”

There were other tactical reasons, but the relevant point was simply knowing what they would do. Turk talked for a while more about tactics ranging from when to hit chaff to the need to use radar missiles at relatively close range so the UAVs had less time to duck them. By the time Danny Freah appeared at the door to summon Turk, he was talked out.

“Looks like I gotta get moving,” he told the Marines. “We’ll hook up when we have the op details. Basic plan, let me deal with the biggest UAV threats, you guys watch the teams on the boats.”

“And anybody that gets past you,” said Cowboy.

“I don’t think anybody’s gonna get past him,” said Greenstreet.

Turk glanced at the Marine officer. It was a vote of confidence — the first one he’d gotten from him.

“Thanks,” said Turk. “But if something does, I know you guys’ll nail it.”

Danny noticed a familiar face among the detail sent to help protect the Whiplash trailer: Corporal Mofitt.

The corporal steadfastly ignored him.

Just as well, thought Danny. Not my business.

The plan for the takedown of the two ships was as simple as it was dangerous — the Ospreys would broadcast warnings to the ships that they were to be inspected for contraband, then deposit teams via fast-rope onto their decks. If there was any resistance at all, the bridges on both ships would be raked with gunfire from the Whiplash Osprey. Continued resistance would net an attack from the Tigershark. They’d stop short of sinking the vessels — but only just.

The next few hours were a whirl of preparations. Danny studied the latest intelligence and conferred via satellite phone with Captain Thomas, who had refined the takedown plan on the cargo ship. Thomas also suggested Danny take a squad of Marines with the Whiplash team to act as reinforcements, in case something went wrong on either ship.

Takeoff was set for 0800, with H hour at 0910. They were good to go.

As Danny signed off with Thomas, there was a knock at the door to the Whiplash trailer. Boston poked his head in.

“Marine wants to see you, Colonel,” said Boston. “Says it’s personal, but important.”

Danny guessed it was Mofitt. He was right: Mofitt, head down, shambled into the trailer as soon as Danny said he could come in. His manner reminded Danny of a puppy who’d peed on a rug.

“Corporal? What can I do for you?” Danny asked as Boston disappeared.

“I need another chance, sir.”

“How’s that?”

“Captain Thomas thinks I’m a coward, and that’s not true. I know I froze, and you saw me, and I’m not going to lie about that. But—”

Mofitt stopped abruptly, as if he’d suddenly lost the ability to talk.

“Listen, I know you went stiff,” said Danny gently. “I also know that you didn’t freeze the day before when you and I went out and we came under fire. It’s just one of those things. It happens. You move through it.”

Mofitt looked up, surprised. “Captain Thomas doesn’t seem to think so. He said I’m an embarrassment.”

“I can’t speak for your captain, son. I can tell you what I would do if I were in your position — I’d deal with it, and move on. I’m sure you’ve dealt with adversity before.”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“See.”

“Maybe you, uh, could say something to the captain? All I want is another chance.”

“I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“Sir, he has a lot of respect for you. A lot.”

Danny nodded. He saw no point in telling the corporal that he already had talked to Thomas. “I’ll give it a shot. But I can’t tell him what to do.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Mofitt’s head bobbed up and down. “All my life, I just wanted to be a Marine. I just wanted to prove myself. But — that day. I don’t know. That day, that moment even. It just got to me for that one time.”

“I’m sure.”

They stood facing each other for a long, awkward moment. Finally Danny told him that he had many things to do.

“Of course,” said Mofitt. “Listen, I’m sorry. I–I really appreciate it. Thank you. Thank you. All I need is another chance.”

Danny remembered Mofitt’s words an hour later when the Whiplash team boarded the Osprey to start their operation. The Marine backup unit that was supposed to ride with Whiplash had yet to arrive in their Hummers.

He went to Sergeant Hurst, the head of the security detail, and told him that he was taking him and his men as backups; the Marines en route would take their place as the security force.

Hurst didn’t even try to suppress the smile on his face.

“Leave two men here to watch everything,” Danny told him. “Boston — Chief Rockland — will take care of them. I’ll tell your commander I made the switch. And make sure Corporal Mofitt is aboard the Osprey.”

“Mofitt, sir?”

“Yes,” said Danny. “I think he deserves another chance.”

The sergeant narrowed his eyes, but then nodded. “Yes, sir. As you say.”

8

“I hardly think China will go to war over a minesweeper,” President Todd told the Secretary of State, Alistar Newhaven, over the secure video connection. “Especially since they took the first shot.”

Newhaven frowned. The lighting in the State Department “tank” made him look ten years older than he was, and he was no spring chicken to begin with, as the saying went.

“I’m just reporting their stance,” he told her. “They’re calling it a provocation.”

“Theirs or ours?”

“They are one-sided, obviously.”

“We have tape and plenty of evidence, and frankly they ought to be glad that we didn’t sink their damn ship and destroy their aircraft.”

“Madam President, we have come so close to a rapprochement, and now it’s going to go up in smoke.”

“I’m not going to knuckle under to bullying tactics. Reiterate our earlier statement. We are chasing international outlaws in accordance with the UN resolution,” said Todd, trying to speak in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster, “and in the interests of justice and safety, they would do well to stay the hell out of our way. Fix my verbiage, obviously. But make it clear that we’re not backing down. That’s my position.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we back down—”

“Good.”

Newhaven started to say something she thought was an objection. Todd cut him off. “If you can’t do that, then submit your resignation.”

He looked stricken. “I was about to say that I had no problem with it.”

“Good. I’m glad we agree.” Todd flicked off the call and hit the next one in the queue — Charles Lovel, the Secretary of Defense.

“Mr. Lovel, you’re up to date, I assume?” she said, knowing that he was. “The Flighthawks are grounded until further notice?”

“They are. We’re in the process of providing a fix.” He switched the topic quickly, subtly attacking Whiplash and its unique command arrangement. “I have to say, Madam President, that this would have been better from the start if the CIA was not involved. The operation should have been launched by the Navy.”

“In a month, when the rebels they were supporting were in full control of eastern Malaysia.”

“I don’t think that would have happened. And here we have basically your private army—”

“You’re starting to sound like certain members of Congress,” answered the President. “Whiplash is under joint control, Mr. Lovel. Your department is responsible for the people.”

“They answer to the Joint Chiefs, not me.”

“I’m not in the mood for a turf battle,” warned the President.

“I’m not starting one. The Joint Chiefs are recommending that our submarine move between the Chinese and the Whiplash operation,” added Lovel. “Frankly, I’d recommend a greater show of force.”

Now it was Todd’s turn to argue for restraint. “We don’t want this to escalate too far if we can help it,” she told the secretary. “Nor do I want to call attention to the fact that we’ve lost two of our most advanced UAVs. Responding too strongly will only make them more curious, not less. How capable is the submarine?”

“Very. But it doesn’t have a land force. Or an air arm.”

The submarine Lovel was referring to was the Connecticut, a Seawolf-class sub that had been assigned to shadow the Chinese carrier. It was currently running a pair of unmanned submersibles known as ROUVs — remote-operated underwater vehicles — within a few hundred yards of the carrier. The ROUVs were not capable of attacking the Chinese carrier or its escorts, but were recording data and could be used to divert attention if the submarine did attack. The sub itself was roughly a mile outside the defensive screen.

The U.S. Navy had two aircraft carriers and their escorts near the Philippines, but Todd hesitated sending them south.

“Let’s see what Whiplash comes up with before we make any further decisions,” she said.

“Very well. But I’ve asked SOCCOM to move a SEAL team into position aboard the Reagan. They’re as capable of Whiplash in a situation like this — This isn’t a case where high-tech alone can get the job done. If anything, it’s been just the opposite.”

The remark, to Todd, was one more indication that the Secretary of Defense wanted to shut Whiplash and the Office of Special Projects down. He’d never particularly liked either the group or the arrangement with the CIA, arguing that all special operations should be handled by SOCCOM, or the Special Operations Command, which was in charge of the SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers, and other spec op units. While occasionally accused of being cowboys, SOCCOM was a highly disciplined operation with a clear chain of command — and not coincidentally enjoyed a very tight relationship with the secretary, who had made sure several of his friends had high places in the command structure.

“Thank you for your assessment, Charles,” said Todd, filing her observation away. “We’ll reconvene when we have news.”

9

Braxton had to hand it to the Dreamland people: not only had the Sabre UAVs landed intact, but their self-diagnosis modules declared they were in fit shape and ready for action pending refueling. It was far better than he had hoped: even the second generation Flighthawks would have experienced some damage to their wing structure.

While it was their “brains” he wanted, the Sabres’ airfoils would be of great interest to several countries, and could undoubtedly fetch a considerable sum if sold. The question was to whom. The two most likely candidates were China and Iran, but neither was suitable. Braxton hated the Chinese, and knew the Iranians could never be trusted, as an earlier attempt at a deal with them had proven.

Russia was a possibility, though that would also carry risks. The country’s prime minister was mercurial, which meant those under him were mercurial as well; they were as likely to try to steal aircraft as they were to actually pay for them, and Russia’s annoying tendency to insist on using Russian banks to initiate payment might even help the U.S.: for some reason, Russian officials refused to believe that the NSA routinely watched all large transactions, and would undoubtedly use that lead to break into Braxton’s financial network.

But the other countries that could afford to pay the amount of money the UAVs were worth were allies of the U.S., at least nominally, which would make dealing with them even more difficult. The only one he really would trust would be Israel, but they had a strong relationship with President Todd, who had backed them most recently on the Syrian partition.

All of that was to be worried about later. Right now Braxton had to get the aircraft aboard the launch and meet up with the cargo container.

Given their abilities, the Sabres were not only small but surprisingly light. Much of the UAV’s operational weight came from the fuel it carried; three-quarters empty meant it was light enough to be easily handled by two men. In fact, Talbot could probably have handled it by himself; holding the left wing, Braxton mostly steered as they carried the aircraft off the beach and onto the bow area of the long launch. With a wingspan barely as big as the average desk, both aircraft fit nicely in the front of the boat. Lashed down to the deck, they looked a little like stingrays with short tails.

As soon as the aircraft were secured, Talbot backed the launch off the shoal, turning carefully toward the open sea. Satisfied that they were in good shape, Braxton eased himself forward to examine the Sabres. It was hard to believe that aircraft so small and sleek could be so deadly.

If his own UAVs were advanced — as aircraft, he reckoned they were close to the second generation Flighthawks, though not quite as fast — these were a step or two beyond. Even smaller than the Flighthawks, they were built around a lightweight but powerful jet engine and a 25mm cannon. The main electronics, consisting of custom-made chips and IC circuits, were distributed along the aircraft, rather than concentrated in one place; they couldn’t be accessed without disassembling the spine of the aircraft.

The bulge of the rear part of the engine on the underside of the aircraft was similar to that on his airplanes — not a surprise, given that his engine was an earlier version of the Sabres’. The nozzle and variable thrust mechanisms at the back of the planes was both strikingly simple — two perforated pieces of metal, one over the other, made up the body — and yet effective, acting as both a thermal dissipater and directional thruster at the same time. Unable to access the interior of the molded unit, Braxton surmised it was controlled by a coglike mechanism that aligned the perforations as well as changed the length and shape of the tailpipe, adding a vector effect to the thrust.

It would be a shame to sell the technology, he thought. They should keep it for themselves.

“We’re being hailed,” said Talbot from the wheelhouse.

“By who?”

“A Chinese patrol craft.”

“Screw them,” said Braxton.

“I’m not answering.”

“Do they have aircraft up?”

“Not clear,” said Talbot. “Nothing on the passive radar.”

Braxton took the binoculars from the shelf next to the wheel and scanned the horizon. There was a dot in the distance to the north, directly in their path. It was too close to be the cargo container ship.

“Let’s go to Daela instead of the rendezvous,” he told Talbot.

“Got it.”

Daela was the last of their reef hideouts. Larger than the others, with good vegetation covering a third of the land, Braxton had used it for the early tests of the UAVs. It was claimed by Vietnam as well as China and Malaysia, and nearly equidistant to Vietnam and Brunei.

Talbot immediately changed course, consulting the GPS to come to the right heading. Within minutes the blip on the horizon disappeared.

Braxton wondered if he’d been too cautious. He was about to tell Talbot to turn back to the north when they were hailed again, and this time told to stop dead in the water or face an attack.

“They can’t possibly be talking to us,” said Braxton.

“They’re using the Malaysian registration number of the launch,” said Talbot.

“How would they have gotten that?” Braxton asked. It was a rhetorical question — surely the Chinese had plenty of spies in Malaysia who could have supplied it. “It has to be a bluff.”

“Should I answer?”

“Absolutely not.”

Braxton went back to scanning the horizon. The way in front of them was clear, but there was another shadow now to the north.

“It may be a trick from the Dreamland people,” said Braxton, thinking out loud.

He had defeated the locator circuitry in the Sabres as part of the process of taking them over. It had to have worked, he thought; otherwise they would have been all over him when he recovered the planes, if they even let him get that far.

Were the Chinese really following?

“Talbot, when was the last time you used the launch?” he asked.

“Couple of days ago, after we left Brunei.”

“Was it scanned?”

“For bugs? Of course.”

But they were tracking them, weren’t they? How?

Braxton went to the GPS unit.

“Has this been tampered with?” he asked, examining the holder plate. “These screws have been replaced.”

Talbot bent to look at it. “I think you’re getting paranoid.”

“No. It’s either been monkeyed with or replaced. It may even be the same unit; they just have to know which signal is pinging the satellites. Damn.”

He yanked it out and threw it in the water, though if it had been bugged, the damage was already done.

The speck to the north was growing exponentially. Braxton noticed that it was above the water — a helicopter.

He took out the H&K 417 from its case beneath the seats.

“I can handle the gun if you take the wheel,” said Talbot.

“Just steer.”

In a few minutes the helicopter revealed itself as a drone — an unmanned reconnaissance aircraft used by the Chinese navy and generally flown off small patrol vessels. It was rare that they were this far from land.

Braxton hesitated as it approached on the port side of the launch, unsure whether shooting at it would make things worse. It came within thirty meters, passing without slowing or seeming to notice. As it circled back, Braxton raised the gun. He waited until the black bulb of the aircraft’s nose filled his scope, then fired on full automatic, sending two long bursts at the middle of the aircraft. Seemingly unfazed, the aircraft continued past on the starboard side, flying for about a half mile before turning back toward him.

“I can’t believe I missed,” said Braxton, aiming again.

This time the bullets burst the forward portion of the fuselage. The hardened plastic and metal splattered into the air. Part of the shrapnel damaged the rotors, and the aircraft’s tail began to spin slowly. Braxton poured the rest of the magazine into it; flames began spewing from the gas tank as it quickly rotated itself down into the water. It crashed with a satisfying hiss.

Braxton had barely any time to savor his victory — two more drone helicopters appeared from the same area as the other. Meanwhile, the dot on the horizon that had been following them had grown considerably larger and separated into two small fast patrol boats. They looked like speedboats, barely bigger than Braxton’s launch — but considerably faster and undoubtedly armed.

“How far are we from Daela?” he asked Talbot.

“Ten miles.”

“We have to get there ahead of them,” said Braxton, slamming a new magazine box into the gun. “Or we’re through.”

10

Turk tried to relax as the Tigershark raced toward the cargo container vessel and the oceangoing tug, its array of sensors and optical cameras working overtime to record everything below. He was at 25,000 feet, not quite invisible to the naked eye but certainly far enough away that he’d look like little more than a blur in the distance. Neither of the two ships seemed to have a radar system capable of tracking him, let alone direct a weapons system to shoot him down. And yet he somehow felt vulnerable, as if he were being shadowed by an enemy he couldn’t identify, let alone defeat.

It wasn’t the fact that he didn’t have the Sabres escorting him, although it felt strange to fly without them. Nor was he really worried about the Chinese fleet sailing a few hundred miles away — he knew he could fly the pants off a dozen J-15s.

But the fact that someone had managed to take over the Sabres — had proven they were more advanced and smarter than OSP, Dreamland, Rubeo, and everyone else — that was a little unnerving.

And that, he decided as he checked his course, had to be the problem.

The Sabres were grounded until the brain trust figured out what was going on, but Turk had to now wonder if they could take over the Tigershark as well. It used a completely different intelligence system to help him fly, but its interface connected with that of the Sabres. Maybe these bastards could worm their way in through the UAVs’ interface.

Rubeo had insisted it was impossible — but wouldn’t he have said that about the Sabres as well?

“Whiplash Shark, we need you to take another pass at high altitude,” said Danny Freah over the radio. Freah was in one of the Osprey assault aircraft, heading toward the ships.

“Roger that, Colonel. Stand by.”

Turk brought the Tigershark through a bank and came back over the two ships a lot slower this time. He zoomed the infrared image on the left side of his screen, using the computer’s filter to identify where the people were. There were about twenty on the deck of the cargo carrier, and only eight topside on the tug. The infrared could get no images of anyone belowdecks.

“The cargo containers are shielded from the penetrating radar,” noted Danny. He was looking at his own set of images. The tops of the containers were lined with multiple layers of material arranged to confuse the penetrating waves of lower-powered units such as those carried by the Tigershark. “We need you to keep an eye on them.”

“Roger that.”

Turk selected the array of cargo containers on the forward deck, then instructed the computer to alert him to any physical change in that section. He took some more slow circuits of the area, extending his orbit to a five mile radius around the cargo ship. She was moving at about twelve knots, a decent pace for the vessel, though as far as Turk was concerned she could have been standing still. Satisfied the area was clear and the sensors hadn’t missed anything obvious, he pushed down to 15,000 feet and started a run directly over the two vessels. Nothing had changed; the same number of people were on the decks of each ship.

“All right,” said Danny, watching the feeds. “We’re ten minutes from go. Make your last pass at H minus 02 minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Turk, checking his time.

Danny Freah forwarded the image of the tugboat to the helmets of the rest of the Whiplash assault team.

“We have eight people on the deck of our ship,” he told the troopers. “No weapons are visible. We go in exactly as we planned. Secure the bridge and work down. Everyone good?”

One by one the Whiplashers chimed in. Achmoody, now the team leader with Boston back at the base, pointed out that six of the crewmen were on the stern deck. He suggested they land some of the Marines with the two Whiplashers assigned there, assuming the crewmen on deck remained roughly where they were.

“That way it will be easier to hold them without having to shoot anyone,” he explained. “If they see a bunch of people, they’re more likely just to stay put and not make a fuss. Safer for them, easier for us.”

Danny agreed. He went over to the Marines and showed them the setup using his tablet, then asked if they’d have a problem fast-roping down.

“Fast-roping is our middle name,” said Sergeant Hurst, the Marine NCO in charge.

Danny rolled his eyes, then called over Baby Joe and Glenn Fulsom to work with the Marines.

“Four Marines go in on the stern,” he told the sergeant. “The rest remain aboard as reserve; we use them on whichever ship needs support. These guys will lead you down.”

Cowboy took his position on Greenstreet’s wing, then checked his systems one last time. The plan was to buzz the cargo container ship fast and low, a show of force ahead of the assault. They’d ride bow to stern, with about twenty feet clearance directly over the deck — assuming, of course, that Turk didn’t see something happening before then.

If he did, they’d deal with it. Besides the small-diameter bombs, two of the four F-35s in the squadron formation were carrying “Slammers” — ARM-84 SLAM-ER Block 1Fs, long-range antiship missiles capable of sinking the large cargo ship with a single hit. While not quite as capable as the newer ALAM-ATA Block 1G — a Slammer with the ability to change targets and “reattack” following other missile hits or misses — the weapon was more than capable of dealing with a lumbering cargo vessel.

Cowboy was not carrying a Slammer; tasked to be on the lookout against the drones, he had a pair of AMRAAMs and Sidewinders to go with his small-diameter bombs.

Satisfied that his aircraft was ready for the fight, Cowboy pushed his head back against the top of his ejection seat and tried to slow-breathe away the growing tension and adrenaline. He needed to stay loose and relaxed — nearly impossible tasks this close to showtime. He was like a football player waiting for the Super Bowl to begin; it was just too damn important, too damn exciting, to calm down for.

He loved it.

Working for Whiplash would be like this all the time. Whatever it took, he was going to find a way to get there.

First, this, Cowboy reminded himself. Let’s get this show on the road.

Turk watched the numbers marking his altitude drain on the screen. He’d taken the Tigershark down to 5,000 feet above sea level — low enough to get 4k images of every bolt head on deck.

It was also low enough to get him blown out of the sky if he wasn’t careful. So even though this looked like a cake walk, he knew he couldn’t take it for granted.

“Two minutes,” he told Danny over the Whiplash circuit. “Moving in.”

The Flighthawk bucked a bit as he started out of his turn toward the stern of the cargo carrier, shaking off a burst of turbulence. The sun glinted off the waves, round and bright and big. The back end of the cargo container looked like the squashed bulbous rear of a hippopotamus. The ship sat high in the water, fat and awkward. It was large enough to fit three stacks of containers top to bottom on the stern deck behind the superstructure, eight across. But there were only two there now, brown rectangles whose sides and tops were dotted with patches of rust.

The superstructure, which included the stack for the engine exhaust and all the important crew compartments from the chart room to the bridge, rose high above the stern deck, some eight stories — or container equivalents — high. There was a man on the rail at the starboard side, looking out toward the stern.

There were two large crane structures on the long forward deck. They looked like massive beams or pieces from a suspension bridge; they made it possible for the ship to load and unload containers and other items in ports unequipped to handle large-scale container operations. Turk went straight over the middle of the structures, drawing a line that split the ship in half.

Three dozen containers sat on the forward deck area, arranged in an irregular pattern from one to four high, which left plenty of room not only on the deck itself but on each successive layer, except for the highest, where a single container sat near the centerline of the vessel.

Turk’s flight over the ship lasted no more than a second or two. Rising as he cleared the vessel, he slid left, riding his wing into a tight twist that got him headed back toward the two ships. This time he put his nose on the tugboat’s bow and let his altitude bleed down to 3,500 feet, exactly. His airspeed had slowed as well, though at 250 knots the Tigershark wasn’t exactly standing still.

Unlike its cousins that worked in harbors, the oceangoing tug was a good-sized vessel, nearly three hundred feet long, with a boom behind the wheelhouse big enough to haul the cargo carrier behind her. The flat stern deck was long and low in comparison to the rest of the ship, but it still towered over the waves; the tug was small only in comparison to its companion.

These guys have got serious amounts of money, Turk realized as he pulled the Tigershark away from the two ships.

It was of course an obvious fact — they would never have been able to build the UAVs otherwise, let alone grab the Sabres — but he hadn’t considered the seriousness of the threat they posed until now. It wasn’t just that they could take American secrets and use them against her interests: the conspiracy could, in effect, change the entire order of world politics.

Turk might have considered this further, or at least scolded himself for coming so late to such an obvious conclusion, but for a blaring warning that nearly pierced his eardrums — someone aboard the cargo ship had just launched a missile at his tailpipe.

11

Braxton was less than four miles from the island, but he wasn’t going to make it before the Chinese reached him.

He’d gone through nearly all of his ammunition trying to push the helicopters away. At least ninety percent of his bullets had missed — the robots were quick and small, and he was shooting from a moving boat. They ducked and weaved and moved off, and when one finally went down, a fourth took its place.

He had a single box of ammunition and an RPG launcher with a single grenade. But that wasn’t going to do it. Sensing that he was running low on ammo, the helicopters moved across their bow, egging him to fire.

Braxton picked up the rifle, then decided against firing it. He guessed that they wouldn’t actually allow a collision and told Talbot to keep the throttle wide-open. The aircraft zoomed close, the lead helicopter coming within inches of striking the forward prow of the launch before edging upward.

Maybe he could shoot it down on the next pass, but what was the point? The two motor torpedo boats chasing them were now practically even with them, flanking their sides. Small craft with a machine gun dominating the forward deck and a pair of stubby torpedoes on either side of their gunwales, the boats looked like souped-up versions of World War II American PT boats, with long platforms at the rear for the robot helicopters. The Chinese boats had sleek, speedboat-style hulls and open cockpit-style wheelhouses — and, more ominously, three or four sailors aboard each, pointing Chinese ZH-05 assault rifles at them. They flew Chinese flags from their masts.

“You will stop or be sunk,” said the Chinese commander over a loudspeaker.

“You gonna use the grenade launcher?” Talbot asked him. His face had grown increasingly pale as they’d fled; Braxton thought it might turn transparent soon.

“If I do that, they’ll rake us with their guns. I can’t sink them both.”

“Right. But what do we do?”

“Keep steady. Once we’re on the island they can’t touch us.”

Another two miles and they would be there, and then he could do just about anything. But it might just as well be 2,000 miles. Braxton grabbed the radio and called Fortine back on the cargo vessel.

“We are about to come under attack from the Americans,” said Fortine, before Braxton could say anything. “They’ve warned us they’re going to board.”

Braxton was taken by surprise, and momentarily forgot about his own predicament. “Are you sure it’s the Americans?”

“Yes. They’ve said as much. We’re fighting back,” Fortine added. “I’m not going to be taken prisoner.”

“The Chinese have caught up to us,” said Braxton. “Do what you think is best.”

He was talking more to himself than to Fortine. He might have tried to talk someone else into surrendering, but he’d known from the start that the fatalist captain would never give in to any government.

“We will win in the end,” said Fortine.

The line was covered with static — one of the Chinese boats was blocking the transmission.

“You will surrender!” said the Chinese commander over his loudspeaker. “There will be no other warnings!”

Just in case they didn’t get the message, the machine gunner in the boat on the starboard side fired a dozen shots into the launch’s bow. They weren’t simply warning shots — the bullets splintered the side of the craft.

“All right,” Braxton told Talbot. “We’ll let them take us. We’ll have to think of something on the fly.”

Talbot frowned, but he, too, had reached that conclusion. He put his hand on the throttle and slowly killed the engine.

12

Turk had been fired on dozens of times before. But that didn’t lessen the amount of sweat rolling from the back of his head down his neck, or keep a knot from forming in his stomach. A cloud of small decoy flares automatically exploded behind his aircraft as a laser-detonating system hunted for the enemy warhead, but even so, he and his aircraft were perilously close to twenty-some pounds of high explosive.

It might not sound like a lot, but up close and personal with an airplane, it was more than enough to ruin a day. The Tigershark’s small engine red-lined as Turk pushed the aircraft away from the missile; he held steady until he saw the missile explode harmlessly behind him, far enough away that the shock blast was lost in the wake of the aircraft’s escape.

Now it was his turn. Turk banked out of his climb, lining up on the rear deck of the cargo container ship. There were three men there, one with a bino, and two others working over a case.

The computer ID’ed the kit as a 9K38 Igla, a Russian-made antiaircraft missile known to the U.S. and NATO as the SA-18 Grouse.

“I have two targets preparing a MANPAD,” said Turk, recording what he was seeing as well as broadcasting it to Danny. “Preparing to take them out.”

“Cleared hot,” said Danny. “They’ve ignored our warning.”

Actually, thought Turk, they’d answered it, pretty emphatically.

The rail gun shook the aircraft as he fired, its slugs accelerating to several times the speed of sound as they left the plane. The first one struck the missile’s solid propellant. The explosion obscured the rest of the target area, and Turk couldn’t see that the next two slugs killed the men.

He was already aiming at the radar above the superstructure. He took it out, then wiped out the radio mast and the compartment directly below it. The big ship ceased transmitting any radio signals at all.

But it was far from dead.

“Container G7 — roof opening,” said the computer.

It took Turk a few seconds to understand what the Tigershark was telling him — one of the containers was hiding a weapon.

“Radar active,” warned the computer.

Turk was ready. Accelerating toward the ship, he aimed his nose at the container highlighted on the screen. He got off three rounds before he passed; the last slug ignited an explosion and small fire.

Three more containers popped their tops in the time it took for the Tigershark to climb and then turn back.

“Aircraft launching,” warned the Tigershark computer.

“Whiplash assault team, hold back,” radioed Turk. “We have resistance — they’re launching three UAVs, combat UAVs similar to the ones encountered last night by Basher flight.”

“Roger that,” replied Danny. “Standing by.”

Cowboy could see the aircraft shooting upward from the cargo vessel like arrows suddenly appearing from small puffs of black-fringed white smoke. The three aircraft attacked the sky at seventy-degree angles, propelled by rocket motors that quickly lifted them several thousand feet.

“Request permission to engage enemy aircraft,” he asked Greenstreet.

“Do it!” said Greenstreet. “I have One and Three. You’re on Two.”

Cowboy designated the second target. But before either he or Greenstreet could fire, the first UAV exploded in the air — Turk had taken it out with his rail gun.

“The UAVs are mine,” radioed the Dreamland pilot. “You guys wipe out those containers on the foredeck.”

“Acknowledged,” said Greenstreet.

For all their sophistication, the enemy UAVs were using a simple and relatively primitive launching system. Fitted with a booster section, they were lifted on a vertical gantry about forty-five degrees, then fired into the air. The rocket at their rear propelled them for a little more than sixty seconds before their own engines took over. Only then could they maneuver.

Taking the first two aircraft down was like hitting ducks on a carnival firing range. Turk brought the Tigershark onto a line just above the first UAV, put two shots into the body of the aircraft and a third into its booster, then turned hard to his right to get on the tail of the second UAV.

The enemy aircraft slipped out of his targeting cone before he could line up. He held on, following as it continued to climb. The Tigershark couldn’t match its speed, and after a few seconds Turk realized he’d have a better chance at getting it after the booster separated. Leaving it for last, he slid down on his wing toward the fourth and final aircraft to launch, just now climbing below him to the south. The computer had already dotted out an intercept; all Turk had to do was follow it.

Danny Freah was asking him something over the radio, but Turk couldn’t spare the attention. Greenstreet radioed something else about staying clear, but Turk lost it in the background noise.

Now, he told himself as the aircraft came up into the middle of his targeting cue.

The Tigershark rumbled with the shock of three slugs firing in quick succession. Only the first one hit: the other two passed through the debris field where the aircraft had been.

As Turk turned his head to look for the UAV he’d given up on earlier, the Tigershark shrieked at him — the enemy was diving from above, training its laser weapon on his fuselage.

Danny Freah froze the image of the cargo ship and the tug. A machine gun had been brought up to the forward deck of the tug. More ominously, there was a man running along the starboard side with what looked like a grenade launcher in his hands.

“Basher One, we have individuals running along the starboard side of the cargo ship,” he said, radioing the Marine aircraft. “They appear armed. We’d like to take them out before the Ospreys come in.”

“Affirmative, Whiplash,” replied Greenstreet. “We’re going to unzip some of those cargo containers and then we’ll clear the rest of the vermin off the decks.”

Danny thought of ordering them not to bomb the containers; he would have greatly preferred getting whatever was in them intact. But they weren’t worth risking the lives of the Marines.

“Understood, Basher. We’re holding position until all clear.”

“Won’t be long, Colonel. Hang tight.”

Cowboy tilted his nose toward the cargo aircraft and pickled his bombs, dropping a dozen of the backpack-sized weapons in quick succession. Each pair of the bombs had been programmed to hit a different cargo container. He was so close and the ship moving so slowly that he probably didn’t even have to use any guidance at all. But why take chances? The weapons system in the Lightning II had locked on to each container via its radar and optical guidance system, and subtly steered each bomb directly to the programmed sweet spot. In quick succession six large containers blew up on the forward deck of the ship. One began to burn, sending a large plume of smoke into the air.

Greenstreet had already made his run and was circling back.

“Freah said there’s a guy on the starboard side with an RPG,” said Greenstreet. “You see him?”

“No.”

“Let’s take a closer look. Follow me in.”

With only a fraction of a second to react, Turk started to dive away from the pursuing aircraft, pushing the Tigershark’s nose down steeply and ramming the throttle. But the UAV had anticipated this, and while it lost its aim point for a moment, it was quickly back on Turk’s tail.

It’s flying a pattern and I can beat it, Turk reminded himself.

I’m flying against a Flighthawk. What do I do?

Up and roll back.

He jerked his stick back, abruptly putting the Tigershark into a climb. At the same time, he hit his chaff, blowing out a cloud of tiny strips and pieces of metal foil intended to confuse radar missiles homing in on the fighter. It also confused the Dreamland-designed UAVs at close range because of a peculiarity in how they flew in close pursuit: since the target’s maneuvers were bound to be extremely rapid, the original C³ computer programming took over the flight at close range, following the locked target and enabling the remote pilot to concentrate on firing.

Dishing out chaff when pursued at close range by a normal fighter wouldn’t do much; the pilot would simply use his eyes to guide the plane. But here the computer had to switch from its radar guidance to infrared or video mode. Either way, there was a delay — only a few seconds in this case but long enough for Turk to put his Sabre on its back and roll behind the enemy UAV. As he did, he noticed an entirely unexpected result — the UAV was now trailing smoke from its right wing.

How had that happened?

The only explanation — or at least the only thing he could think of — was that its laser weapon had heated the chaff, which damaged the aircraft as it flew into the cloud.

There was only one way to test his theory — try it again.

That meant not only giving up his position now, which with a flick of the wrist would put him in the perfect spot to shoot down the enemy drone, but letting the UAV get back on his tail and zero in on him.

That was exactly the sort of trade-off Turk had been taught not to make as a combat pilot. Take the sure kill, leave the experimenting to someone else. But if he didn’t do it, he wouldn’t be sure it worked.

He held tight to the UAV’s tail. The UAV started a tight turn left. Turk suspected this was a deke — generally, when surprised by the up and rollback sequence, the Flighthawks would fake left and then break right, trying to accelerate away to reprocess the threat’s abilities. He waited a moment before reacting; sure enough, the UAV tucked back toward him. But instead of rolling to keep it in his gunsights, Turk stayed straight.

It took the UAV a second to realize it was not being followed. It took another half moment to evaluate what that meant — was it a trick, or was it flying against someone who was dumb? Because all it had to do was come back left and it would find itself in a perfect position to eviscerate its foe.

Turk waited. He was no more than a mile ahead of the aircraft, a fat target for the laser.

It began to fire. Turk hit the chaff. This time he held his course but accelerated, wanting to make sure the UAV flew directly into the chaff, or at least had reason to.

There was an explosion behind him strong enough to send a shock wave against his wings.

“Bogie Two destroyed,” declared the computer.

Turk banked back in time to see the UAV disappearing in a fireball.

“All UAVs destroyed,” he radioed Danny.

Cowboy saw a figure running near the rail on the starboard side of the cargo ship as he approached. Just as Greenstreet cleared the ship’s stern, the man stopped. Something flared from the rail — the man had fired an RPG at Basher One.

It was an act of complete futility, as the F-35 was well beyond the reach of the rocket-propelled grenade. But it also sealed the man’s fate. Cowboy, his gun selected on the armament panel, pressed the trigger and danced a few dozen bullets into the side of the ship and the enemy standing there.

He was past the spot before he could see what happened. Greenstreet radioed, asking what was going on.

“You had somebody firing on your tailpipe,” replied Cowboy. “Little grenade launcher.”

“Did you get him?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We need to run in again before we clear the Ospreys.”

“Roger.”

Cowboy followed his flight leader into a wide arc that took them back around to the bow of the cargo container. Smoke was rising from several areas on the ship, and there was now a gaping hole and mangled metal where the man with the RPG had been.

“No threats obvious,” said Greenstreet as they cleared.

“Roger.”

Rising back in the sky after the pass, Cowboy tried to sort out what he’d seen. He didn’t feel bad about having killed the man — he was an enemy, and had obviously been trying to kill him. He did, however, feel a certain touch of sadness or maybe regret that he had to do that.

“Whiplash, Marine Force, container ship is on fire,” radioed Greenstreet. “You have people on deck on both ships. No missiles seen. Machine guns and launchers down.”

“Acknowledged,” said Danny.

13

The captain of the Chinese PT boat was a short, thin man in his early fifties with a wispy moustache. Nearly bald, his forehead bulged forward, and with his head at least a size too big for his otherwise diminutive body, he looked almost like a bobble-head doll. He spoke excellent English, much better than the man who’d handled the bullhorn, and it was clear from his manner that he was not a man to be taken lightly.

“You are a prisoner of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy,” he told Braxton after two sailors lifted him aboard his PT boat. “You will comply with my orders.”

“N ho,” said Braxton, saying hello and adding that he and his companion were in international waters.

The Chinese commander ignored Braxton’s attempts at Mandarin. “You are in territory claimed by the Chinese government,” he said in an accent that made him sound like a world-weary American. “You are carrying weapons of war. You are now my prisoner.”

A man in civilian clothes stepped out from the cockpit area. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he was in his mid-twenties. But though he was the only man aboard the small boat who wasn’t in uniform, he had the swagger of a commander, and even the boat’s captain gave him a deferential glance as he came forward.

“You are Braxton,” said the man, whose En-glish pronunciation was as polished as the captain’s but several times more energetic. He was tall, and towered over not only Braxton and the boat captain, but everyone else on board, including Talbot. “We have been seeking you out for a long time. My name is Wen-lo.” He smiled and extended his hand.

Braxton eyed it warily, then shook it. The man’s grip was strong, firm though not oppressive. Wen-lo stood about six feet tall; the loose sweatshirt couldn’t quite hide the fact that he was on the plump side. His skin was very pale, several shades lighter than the captain’s.

“I’ve read your manifestos and admired your work for a long time,” said Wen-lo. “I studied your first papers at Stanford and have followed you ever since.”

If the remark was calculated to make Braxton like Wen-lo, it backfired badly — he hated Stanford and everyone associated with it. He also realized not only that he was being flattered, but that the flattery was a thin veneer intended to ease Wen’s conscience about whatever violence would ultimately follow. Because that was what government goons always did: lied and then forced you to do their master’s will.

Nonetheless, Wen’s phony eagerness told Braxton there was hope of escape yet.

“It’s good that we met,” he told the young man. “We might cooperate in many ways.”

“Yes,” said Wen-lo brightly.

“Right now the Americans are attacking my ships,” said Braxton. “I need them to stop.”

“It’s unfortunate that’s happening,” said Wen. “But it’s none of my business, nor of my country’s.”

“You could intervene,” said Braxton.

“That is impossible,” interrupted the captain. “We are under orders not to engage the American force. We can take no action against them.”

Wen-lo responded sharply in Chinese, and the two men began to argue. They spoke too fast for Braxton to understand more than the bare gist of what they were saying. The captain had been ordered directly by Beijing — that part was repeated several times — not to engage the Americans unless fired upon or given orders from the carrier task force. Wen-lo, meanwhile, emphasized that the captain was not in charge of the operation, that he, too, had orders from Beijing, and that he would be the one who decided what was done — even by the carrier group.

“My forces can fight for themselves,” said Braxton finally. “I can use these aircraft.”

“How?” asked Wen-lo.

“I have launchers on the island. I’ll turn everything over to you after the attack. As long as my people are saved. Without your intervention,” he added, speaking directly to the captain.

The captain wasn’t impressed. He and Wen-lo began arguing again. Wen-lo finally took out a satellite phone.

“You speak Mandarin?” the Chinese boat captain asked Braxton, glancing at Wen-lo.

“Not very well,” said Braxton.

“I hope well enough to realize that I will not be fooled by you,” said the captain. “I know this is a trick.”

“You wouldn’t try to get your people freed? If they were attacked, you wouldn’t help them?”

“My men will shoot you if you try to escape. We are not friends.”

“I don’t want to be friends. Temporary allies is more than enough.”

The captain gave him a sour look.

Wen-lo held the phone out to the captain triumphantly. The older man waved his hand at it, in essence surrendering.

“Proceed to the island,” Wen-lo told the captain, ending his call. “The fleet is going to respond to your distress call and intervene, Mr. Braxton. In exchange, you will cooperate with us to the fullest extent.”

“Do I have any other choice?” asked Braxton.

14

“We go in fast and hard,” Danny told his team of Marines and Whiplash troopers. “They’re armed and hostile. If they surrender, good. Otherwise, we do what we have to do.”

There were a few thumbs-up; the rest nodded cautiously. It was a professional response, but Danny missed Boston and his enthusiastic, Let’s do it!

The Whiplash Ospreys, both heavily armed, rode in first, one skimming near the tug and the other toward the bow of the cargo vessel. Orders were broadcast over the standard marine channels and the loudspeakers, telling the captains they were going to be boarded and warning them that force would be met with force.

Danny moved to the side door where the fast-rope apparatus waited.

The team had practiced exiting from the aircraft so many times it was almost like a rote exercise. Muscle memory took over. As he moved to the door, Danny glanced at the machine gunner covering the ship and noted that he wasn’t firing; the tugboat at least had surrendered.

He grabbed on and swung down, sliding quickly but under control. The deck pitched as he hit, but he adjusted and landed squarely. He let go of the rope, regained his balance and trotted forward.

Bullets flying or not, it was still a precarious moment. Taking over a ship was never an easy task. Even in an exercise, things could go wrong. Just a few months ago a promising young Whiplash trooper had broken both legs when he slipped during a fast-rope exercise, and that had been on land.

The teams fanned out quickly, securing the bridge and the forward deck. Making his way up the ladder, Danny heard Achmoody giving terse instructions over the radio. They had prisoners — the men at the stern were being instructed to keep their hands high in the air.

The tugboat captain was standing near the ship’s wheel, hands at his side. He was Asian — Japanese, Danny guessed. His spotless white shirt was freshly stained with perspiration under both arms. The lone mate with him — a woman in her forties, Hispanic — stood near the wheel, hands in the air. Guzman was looking over the equipment while Bulgaria and Dalton covered them.

“I am in international waters,” said the tugboat captain. “You are committing an act of piracy.”

“You’re under arrest for the theft of U.S. property,” said Danny. “And for assisting the shipping of contraband to a UN member nation. I’m asserting my right to search your ship.”

“You are breaking the law,” repeated the man.

“Hey, dude, you shot at us,” said Guzman. “You’re fucked.”

“There were no shots from our ship,” said the captain, addressing Danny. “You had no resistance.”

“We’re going to search your boat,” Danny told him.

“You have no authority.”

Not in the mood to argue, Danny told Dalton to search the captain and his mate for weapons, then cuff them. Guzman, meanwhile, had figured out the controls. He stopped the tug in the water, applying just enough of the screw to keep her position steady.

“How many people do you have aboard?” Danny asked the captain.

“I have eight hands, not counting myself. You will find my papers already laid out there, with the log.”

“Small crew for this big a vessel,” said Danny.

The captain shrugged. The bridge was fully automated, and it was certainly possible that the ship could be run with only a handful of people. But Danny didn’t quite believe him.

“Dalton, you’re with me,” he said as soon as the captain and the mate had been handcuffed. “Guzman, secure those papers and get us closer to the cargo vessel.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

Turk made a slow circuit above the two ships as the Ospreys rose. The boardings had gone off without a hitch, with no resistance on either ship. He was surprised — given the initial reaction from the cargo container vessel, he had expected a serious gunfight. But apparently the bombs from the F-35s had dampened the crew’s appetite for a fight.

They had also killed and injured at least a dozen people, and started several small fires. Black smoke drifted upward in bunches, angry fists pounding the air.

Turk stretched his shoulders and then his legs. It was far too early to relax — the mission had several hours to run, at least — but it appeared the heavy lifting was over, at least for him. A destroyer that had been with the Marine expeditionary force on the eastern side of the island had just checked in. Tasked overnight to sail west, it headed toward them at flank speed and was roughly three hours away.

Turk checked in with Basher flight. The Marines were flying their own patrol orbit at 5,000 feet, making a large figure eight over the two ships.

“Whiplash Shark, we’re all getting close to bingo,” said Greenstreet. “If you’ve got things under control, we’re going back to the base to refuel.”

“Roger that, Basher One,” Turk told him. “Clear skies ahead. Looks like things are settling down.”

“Affirmative. Nice flying,” Greenstreet added.

“Thanks.”

“He’s slipping,” said Cowboy. “Took him all of five minutes to get them all.”

“It wasn’t more than three, I think,” said Greenstreet.

“You should have let me have one of those bogies,” added Cowboy.

“I was feeling greedy,” quipped Turk. “See you guys later.”

With the tug secured, Danny left Achmoody in charge of the search and called the Osprey to take him over to the container vessel. While the Marines had secured the ship with surprising speed and ease, the search of the massive vessel was proceeding slowly. Not only did the containers have to be opened and inspected one at a time, but a bomb had knocked out power through most of the ship. Worse, fire had spread to a compartment below the container deck.

The Marines had captured a dozen crewmen. Four more were killed in the air attack and another six wounded. The wounded were being triaged on the forward deck, a few yards from the prisoners, who sat with their hands on their heads, nervously whispering to one another as Danny’s Osprey lowered itself to a clear space nearby.

“Most of the crew are Filipinos,” said Captain Thomas, leading Danny to the superstructure a few moments later. “They don’t seem to know much.”

“Somebody had to be operating the aircraft,” said Danny. “They can’t launch on their own.”

“Maybe, but we haven’t found them yet. Ship’s intact,” added the Marine captain. “But I’m not sure we’re going to be able to put the fire out.”

“I’m going to send one of the Ospreys over to the McCain to pick up a skeleton crew,” said Danny. The McCain was the destroyer detailed to sail west and help them. “They’ll help.”

“Good. This way,” added Thomas, pointing to a set of metal steps that went up the side of the superstructure. “The captain is a Frenchman, or at least he has a French accent. Won’t give his name. Ship’s papers say it’s Fortine.”

“Fourteen?”

“Spelled F-o-r-t-i-n-e.”

“Hold on.”

Danny stopped and tapped the radio button at the back of his glasses to transmit back to Whiplash headquarters. He gave the name to the desk tech, who told him that Rubeo wanted to have a word.

“Colonel, there were radio transmissions detected from the vicinity of the two ships as the aircraft launched,” said the scientist.

“Yeah, roger that. We’re looking now.”

“The signals do not appear to have come from the cargo container vessel,” continued Rubeo. “Looking at the mast antenna of the tug, we believe that it is configured to allow it to control the aircraft.”

“The tug? Really?”

“I would suggest you search both,” said Rubeo.

No shit, thought Danny.

“You gave Betrand the name of Fortine,” added Rubeo. “Be careful with him. He was a French naval captain.”

“Right.”

Rubeo turned him over to another analyst, Jeremy Von Schmidt.

“We’ve updated the schematic of the cargo carrier,” said Von Schmidt, one of a dozen naval officers helping interpret the intel at the Cube. “We can lead your teams around the fire.”

“Punch that right through to Thomas,” said Danny.

Achmoody checked with an update from the tug: The team had discovered that several of the compartments below the main deck were locked and booby-trapped. They were assessing whether they could be disarmed or blown in place without endangering the ship.

“All right,” Danny told him. “In the meantime, get somebody up to the radio room and send video back to the Cube. We’re looking for something capable of controlling the UAVs.”

“Probably in one of those locked-down areas,” suggested Achmoody.

“Agreed — but let’s eliminate the other possibilities.”

Danny checked the communications space on the cargo vessel himself. Outfitted with the latest satellite communications and a 4K high-definition television screen that had to be at least seven feet in diagonal, it was big enough to host a sports bar. But the room was almost entirely empty except for a few office chairs and the radio equipment. There were no joysticks or the dedicated consoles that typically were used to control UAVs, let alone the array of servers and other computer gear ground stations generally needed.

Danny sent video back to the Cube, then went up to the bridge to talk to the ship’s captain. Fortine was sitting on a chair at the side of the bridge, face pale but with his arms crossed, and even before he answered Danny’s questions it was clear he wasn’t going to be very cooperative.

“So you’re French?” asked Danny. “You served in the French navy?”

“I’m sure you know my entire background,” said Fortine.

“Why did you join Kallipolis?” Danny asked.

“I didn’t join — I started it.”

“I thought Lloyd Braxton started it.”

“There were several of us — hundreds,” added Fortine, continuing in an accent that sounded more British than French. The movement was one of historical proportions, he claimed; from the small seed he and the others planted, a massive movement would grow.

“You’re a military person,” said Danny. “Usually anarchy doesn’t sit well.”

“We don’t believe in anarchy,” said Fortine.

“What do you believe in?”

“Freedom.”

“From everything?”

Fortine gave him a sarcastic grin. “If you are willing to open your mind, I will be happy to debate the matter with you. But not at the point of a gun.”

“I’m not pointing a gun at you.”

“But you are armed, and you clearly intend me harm. You attacked my ship—”

“Your ship attacked my aircraft,” answered Danny. “You were warned not to resist. You are in violation of several international laws. Smuggling weapons and providing assistance to rebels and terrorists,” Danny added quickly, seeing that Fortine was about to object. “Your own country voted for the UN resolution forbidding that, and in fact has its own laws—”

“I have no country,” said Fortine. “I have renounced my citizenship. And I am in violation of no laws.”

“Firing on aircraft is certainly against international law,” said Danny.

“Defending my vessel and my crew against pirates is my right, and my duty.”

“What other arms are you carrying?” Danny asked. “Where is your cargo manifest?”

“I showed that to the first officer who entered the bridge.”

“Where’s the real manifest?”

Fortine smirked. “Always the government goons play their games and word tricks.”

“You can help us save your vessel from sinking,” suggested Danny, “by telling us what else we have to worry about.”

“I will not assist you in any way,” said Fortine. “You can’t hold me. You have no authority.”

“I have plenty of authority,” said Danny.

“Guns, yes.”

“And those, too.”

Danny decided not to bother wasting any more time. Thomas met him on the external ladder as he was going off the bridge.

“We’ve searched the engine room,” said the captain. “No contraband so far. Nothing that looks out of place.”

Several of the crewmen were eager to talk, but to a man they insisted they were merely hired hands, paid nearly four times the going rate and treated far better than they would have fared ordinarily. They knew nothing of Kallipolis, and while they thought it was “beyond odd” that they had spent the last several weeks sailing in the same waters, none had seen any UAVs or heard of any plans to attack anyone, let alone Americans. All were shocked when the containers were opened to reveal the launchers.

“What about the guys who tried to shoot down our planes from the stern?” Danny asked.

“They say they were the mates in charge,” explained the Marine who’d taken charge of the interrogation. It happened that his mother was Filipino, and he spoke Spanish with an accent similar to theirs. “I don’t know how much to believe them, but none of the dead guys look Filipino. They’re all dressed differently, with button-down shirts. For what that’s worth.”

“A shirt makes them an officer?” Danny glanced at Thomas, who shrugged. “Any of the wounded talking?” he asked.

“Not about anything important,” answered the interpreter. “Most of them are pretty messed up.”

“See if you can get any information about the tug, about people coming and going, where they’ve been, that sort of thing.”

“Questioning them that extensively is going to take time, Colonel,” said Thomas. “Much better off bringing them back ashore.”

“As soon as we do that, we have to alert their embassy,” said Danny. “Besides, we’re going to be out here for a while longer. How many EOD guys you got with you?”

The unit had four men with explosives or EOD training and experience, though none were technically considered specialists. Danny decided to leave two aboard the cargo ship in case the search there turned up anything; the other two came back to the tug with him.

He was just hopping off the Osprey when Turk’s voice, high-pitched with excitement, came over the Whiplash circuit, breaking through the chatter of the search team.

“Whiplash leader, we have company,” warned Turk. “I have eight Chinese fighters on long-range radar. And they are trying to set a new world’s speed record getting here.”

15

Braxton Led Wen-lo down the concrete steps to the bunker where the Kallipolis tech room was hidden. While not as expansive as the one at Gried that he had blown up, it was nonetheless well equipped — and perfectly positioned for what he needed to do.

Wen-lo’s greed and hubris would help.

The lights automatically turned on as he approached the door to the bunker. Laser beams scanned his face; once his identity was verified, the door would be unlocked unless he said anything — a precaution against his being forced at gunpoint to let anyone in.

He remained silent until they were inside.

“We have launch facilities on the south side of the island,” he told Wen-lo, steering him down the corridor from the small foyer. “I can activate them from here. And then your men must carry the UAVs into position.”

“Of course.”

The quickness of the answer told Braxton that Wen-lo didn’t intend that he would get that far. He adjusted his plan accordingly.

Most of the crew of both boats had come ashore with them. All heavily armed, they followed quietly but quickly, stepping in unison at times so that they reminded him of the storm troopers in the Star Wars series. It made for quite a crowd in the narrow hall.

“I have to ask your men to step back,” Braxton told Wen-lo. “If the computer sees weapons, it won’t open.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Computer, open,” said Braxton.

The door stayed shut.

Wen-lo reached beneath his shirt and took out a 9mm pistol. It was a Chinese knockoff of a Glock, one Braxton had never seen before.

“Open the door,” said Wen-lo, raising the barrel of the gun so it pointed toward Braxton’s head.

“It won’t as long as your gun is out. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Do it.”

Braxton took a deep breath. “Open door,” he told the computer.

It stayed shut. Wen-lo pushed the pistol against his temple.

“Don’t you think there’d be precautions?” asked Braxton, trying to keep his voice calm. “You’ve seen the technology we have. You know that we are enemies of the Americans. You think that we are fools?”

Wen-lo pushed the muzzle back and forth.

“The computer is reading my heart rate right now,” said Braxton. “If it doesn’t get back down below sixty-eight beats a minute, we’re not getting in at any point, whether you have a gun or not.”

That was a bluff, but one Braxton felt he could get away with — as was the caution about the weapons. He had actually thought of instituting such a precaution when he built the system, but decided it might prevent him from bringing a gun into the room when he needed one.

Wen-lo lowered his pistol, then told the others to step back.

“Give your gun to someone before you come inside,” said Braxton.

“No.”

“Then walk to the end of the hall, out of range of the camera, and put it under your shirt. There can only be two of us in the control room at a time. The computer will count the heartbeats.”

“We’ll all go in.”

“You don’t really think we’re going to fit, do you? It’s a little closet.” Braxton pointed to the wall. “That panel will open and reveal a glass window. Your men can watch everything. There’s a room with a monitor farther down the hall; I’ll send a feed there. But you’ll see — the room is too small for more than two people. Even two can be a squeeze. It wasn’t planned as a conference room,” he added. “It’s just for a pilot. And the aircraft only needs one pilot.”

“To fly two airplanes?”

“To fly a dozen. Two dozen,” Braxton added with a veiled contempt. “What do you think this is all about? That’s why you want it, right? You don’t give a crap about the UAVs. Drones are nothing. It’s the AI, and the distributed intelligence. What these things can do. That’s the value. The brains.”

He’d touched a nerve. Wen-lo told his men curtly that he was going in by himself, and they were to watch from the doorway and through the window. After they had moved back and Wen-lo holstered his pistol and pulled his shirt over it, Braxton nodded and pretended to be calming himself.

“OK,” he said, giving the key word as he looked at the floor. “Open door. Please.”

The lock buzzed. Wen-lo pushed ahead of him, entering the control room. Braxton followed.

He hadn’t been lying when he said it was small; the main console was exactly six feet long and ran the entire length of the room. Six video screens were arrayed at its head in two rows, with keyboards and two joystick-style controllers. Computing units were stacked around the rest of the room. There was just barely enough room to pull the chair out.

He sat down, then started to reach for the switch that would open the panel on the window. Wen-lo grabbed his arm.

“You want your men to see us or not?” Braxton asked.

Wen-lo let him hit the switch. The panel moved up, revealing the thick window separating the room from the hall.

“It will take a few minutes for the computers to boot up and everything,” he told Wen-lo. “It will get hot in here, too. Listen, we need to get the Sabre UAVs off the boat and onto the launchers. Can you have some of your men do that?”

“Where are the launchers?”

“The south side of the island — the path to the left of the bunker will take you there.”

“How are they launched?”

“I’ll show you,” said Braxton, pulling over the keyboard. “First, we need to launch the aircraft that are mounted, so we have room. What are you worried about? You have my man Talbot as hostage. I’m not going to trick you.”

Wen-lo went to the door and spoke to his men, sending four of them away. Braxton moved his hand to the switch that would close and lock the door, hoping Wen-lo would go outside into the hall. But his Chinese antagonist kept it open, his body against the jamb.

All right, Braxton thought to himself as he called up the launching panel on the computer, on to Plan D.

16

Turk continued to climb. As the Tigershark passed through 25,000 feet, he noted that the Chinese fighters had separated into two groups, both with four planes apiece. The first, flying on a direct course for the tug and the cargo ship, had just reached 30,000 feet. They were two hundred miles away but moving well over Mach 1; they would reach the area in roughly twelve minutes. The other group, flying to the west, were lower and slower. If they kept on their present course, they would reach a point about fifty miles west of the ships a few minutes after the first group.

Turk could engage the first group, but without the Sabres it would have to be at close range. That would make it difficult to shoot them all down before the other planes were in a position to threaten his guys below.

Of course, he wasn’t authorized to shoot anyone. Just the opposite. He radioed Danny for instructions.

“You can intercept the Chinese aircraft,” Danny told him. “But don’t fire on them.”

“With respect, Colonel—”

“Those are your orders. If they change, I’ll let you know.”

Bullshit, thought Turk.

“Computer, prepare intercept for Bandit Group One,” he said. “Plot an engagement for all four aircraft.”

“Computing.”

Aboard the tug, the team had disarmed two explosives and was working on the last, which would allow them to enter the lowest deck level of the ship. Achmoody estimated it would take ten minutes to get the device disarmed; they would need another five to check the passage for other booby traps by sending a small robot equipped with an explosives “sniffer” down the corridor.

“Don’t rush it,” Danny told Achmoody. Then he went back up on the deck to talk to Breanna on the Whiplash circuit.

“The Chinese are coming,” he said as soon as she acknowledged.

“Yes, we see.”

“Can we shoot them down?”

“Only if they are an active threat,” she said. “We’re informing the White House now.”

“If we wait until they come, they may be difficult to deal with.”

“I realize that, Danny. If you feel you have to protect yourself,” she added, “do what you have to do. I’ll back you up. It’ll be on my orders.”

“Thanks,” he said.

As soon as Cowboy heard Danny hailing Greenstreet, he knew what was up, and exactly what Greenstreet would say as soon as the brief transmission ended.

“Basher flight, we’re going back,” said Greenstreet a few seconds later. “Three and Four — dump your bombs. We’re dealing with Chinese fighters.”

Turk liked the fighting ballet the computer had projected, but he also knew it would never work out that pretty.

It had him going head-on against the lead aircraft, nailing it and then taking down the jet on its right wing. From there he was to flip around and take the farthest plane in the group before accelerating to nail the last. Maybe he could get the first three if they didn’t react quickly, but there was no way he was going to catch the last plane. Once he saw what was going on, the Chinese pilot would dive and accelerate. Granted that would take him out of the immediate fight — an achievement the computer would find acceptable when diagramming an engagement — but it would leave the American units vulnerable to a later attack.

It was academic, though. Turk had orders not to fire.

What to do? It was highly unlikely that they would fall for his flare trick a second time, and besides, they were moving too fast for him to try it.

The only thing to do, he concluded, was climb and wait.

He thought of putting out his landing gear and tossing tinsel out to increase his radar signature so they could pick him up. It might scare them off, or it might provoke them into turning on their targeting radars. But there was no guarantee they would do either. And it would cost him the element of tactical surprise, which might be of use if he was ever allowed to attack.

The idea of disobeying his orders kept occurring to him. He was trying to get out of Whiplash, wasn’t he?

But some part of him just wouldn’t let go. Even though he thought he knew better, his training insisted that he follow the command of his superior, assuming he still had faith in his judgment.

And bottom line, he did trust Danny.

“Recompute intercept at this point,” Turk told the computer, pointing near the ships.

17

President Todd was welcoming a group of schoolchildren to the Oval Office when David Greenwich, her chief of staff, appeared at the door.

It never seemed to fail — just when she was doing something she truly enjoyed, there was an important interruption.

“Now children, I have a question for you,” she told the dozen fourth-graders, all of whom had come to Washington following a national history competition. “How many would like to be President someday?”

One hand went up, albeit very slowly. Then another, still tentative, and finally the rest.

Thank goodness, thought Todd. Many days no one wanted her job.

“Well, I can’t make you President,” she told the class. “But you can see what it is like to sit in my chair. Would you like that?”

The chorus of “Yes!” nearly rattled the walls.

“Teachers, please arrange that. Mr. Devons will help you.” She smiled at the assistant education secretary, who was escorting the group. “Make sure everyone gets their picture taken.”

As the children lined up, the President discreetly walked to the door.

“The Chinese have sent aircraft against Whiplash,” whispered her chief of staff.

Todd led him out into the hall, out of the others’ earshot.

“Have the Chinese been warned off?” she asked.

“They’re in the process of trying that. They wanted you to know that they may ultimately shoot them down.”

“If that’s what it takes,” said Todd.

“You want to call in Senator Peterson and the Speaker,” suggested Greenwich.

“Round up the usual suspects, eh?” Todd smirked.

“The Chinese ambassador has called you twice this morning. I’m sure he won’t be silent.”

“Congress will complain one way or another,” said Todd. “We need our technology back. Prepare the situation room. I’ll go down for an update as soon as I finish with the children. We don’t have to worry about the Chinese — they won’t go to war over this.”

“It’s Congress I’m worried about. They’ll use anything to say you’re going beyond your powers. They’ll accuse you of trying to start a war.”

“I’ll deal with Congress. I know there’ll be fallout, David. But better to deal with it over the incident than to lose the technology as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the chief of staff.

“If I dealt with China the way the leaders of Congress wanted,” added Todd, “I’d be letting them take control of the world and kill my people in the process. And that will never happen on my watch.”

18

Ray Rubeo saw the alert from the Navy’s stealth UAV and immediately went to the information screen. Four aircraft had just launched from an islet about fifty miles east of the two ships.

They had to be Braxton’s.

Rubeo called up a map of the area, zooming in on the little ellipse of sand and overgrown jungle. It looked very much like the tiny island close to Malaysia where the bunker had been blown up. It hadn’t shown up on the geographical match search because it was thought to be outside the range of the UAVs.

Assumptions.

Rubeo picked up the phone that connected him to his New Mexico lab.

“Have we cracked the command coding yet?” he asked.

“Sorry, Ray. We’re working on it. It’s pretty damn complicated.”

“They’re launching more combat UAVs,” said Rubeo. “Can we observe their transmissions and back-engineer the encryption?”

“We’re on that but it looks hopeless. We need either the back door or just brute force, which is already what we’re doing.”

“Keep at it.”

Rubeo put the phone back down. Breanna was standing next to him.

“They’ve launched more aircraft,” she said.

“Yes,” said Rubeo.

“Do you think they’ll do anything with the Sabres?”

“It’s a possibility,” admitted Rubeo. “But if their main intention was stealing, more likely they’re using this to cover their retreat.”

“If they were interested in retreating, why launch the aircraft at all?” said Breanna. “We didn’t know about this base — they could have hidden there.”

“Yes.” Rubeo nodded. They were missing something.

“Can you take over the planes?” Breanna asked.

“We know how we can transmit, but we can’t get around the encryptions they’re using. Not yet.”

Pena Gavin, the head of Cube security, entered the room and walked down to the station where they were standing.

“Breanna? Do you have a moment?” she asked. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“It’s not a great time—”

“I know, but… there’s — someone at the gate needs to see you.”

“Not now,” said Breanna, annoyed at what seemed a trivial interruption. The security officer shifted uncomfortably, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “Tell him to go to the Pentagon office,” added Breanna. “I don’t have time—”

“It’s your father.”

19

The limited instruction set in the combat UAVs meant that Braxton had to continue guiding them for two minutes after the booster separation; only then could he direct them to the two ships and let them go.

Monitoring the aircraft as they climbed out from the launch area, he saw from the passive radar sensors that the Chinese had sent fighters in the direction of the ships — and another set toward him.

There were American aircraft over the ships as well: three Ospreys. While he couldn’t see it, Braxton guessed that the Tigershark would be there too, with or without its Sabres.

Which gave him a better opportunity than he had hoped for.

He set his four UAVs on course for the area over the ships, and instructed them to defend the ships against all unfriendly aircraft — a default preset that allowed the planes to use all of their programmed maneuvers to fight until there were no more contacts in the air.

“Your planes are in the air,” said Wen-lo. “Now, take us to the launcher.”

“I have to program them all first,” said Braxton. “Or they’ll just fly around over the island and bring the Americans here. We don’t want that, right?”

The wide-area plot showed Braxton that the UAVs would reach the area of the ships at roughly the same time as the Chinese did. That was perfect. He started to get up, then sat back down as Wen-lo walked to the door.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, deciding not to leave anything to chance. He designated the lead Chinese aircraft as the primary target for the first UAV, then cleared the screen quickly so Wen-lo couldn’t see what he had done.

“All right, let’s go,” he said, jumping to his feet. “We have to get the Sabres loaded ASAP. The Americans are bound to send more aircraft and other reinforcements.”

20

Even though he was currently flying with passive sensors only, so he couldn’t be easily detected, Turk could see the approaching combat UAVs thanks to the input from the Cube. There were four of them, exactly like the ones he’d dealt with earlier. They were heading straight for the Chinese J-15s.

If the Chinese saw them, they didn’t react. The UAVs were also apparently using passive sensors, no doubt more sophisticated than anything the Chinese had.

Turk clicked into the Whiplash circuit to talk to Danny. “Colonel, Kallipolis has launched UAVs.”

“Four of them, right? I just heard.”

“Just a guess here, but they look like they’re going to attack the Chinese.”

“Warn the Chinese that we’re conducting an operation,” said Danny. “Tell them to stand off. And tell them about the UAVs. Make it clear that they are not ours.”

“No way they’ll believe that,” said Turk. “But yes, sir.”

Turk broadcast the warning. He got no response.

“Listen guys, I know you can hear me,” he said, dropping the formal tone he’d used at first. “No shit, there are four combat UAVs running right at you hot and heavy. And they will shoot you down. Believe me; we’ve dealt with them.”

“Stop your tricks, American,” responded one of the Chinese pilots.

“I’m not playing tricks. I’m above you to the south, about twenty-five thousand feet. I know you can’t see me. The four UAVs are low, they’re coming from the east, and they can take you down in a heartbeat.”

“We see you south.”

“That’s another flight. I’m over the ships. Those UAVs are just about on you,” added Turk, seeing the plot. “They’re going to attack. They’re climbing—”

“You are playing a trick.”

“I’m not.”

“Order them away.”

“Those aren’t our planes,” answered Turk. “They’re being run by high-tech pirates who’ve stolen technology and are helping terrorists. That’s what this operation is all about.”

The Chinese pilot didn’t answer — verbally. Instead, he turned on his weapons radar, targeting the Ospreys.

The Ospreys immediately began evasive maneuvers. Their electronic countermeasures could adequately fend off the Chinese medium-range radar missiles; heat-seekers and cannons would be a different story.

“Don’t threaten our planes or I’ll be forced to shoot you down,” said Turk.

“Stand down, American,” said the Chinese pilot.

A second later there was an electronic shriek over the circuit — the UAVs had fired their lasers in unison, destroying the lead plane.

The explosion shook the ship so badly that Danny fell against the railing on the catwalk around the bridge.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked Achmoody over the radio.

“Robot set off one of the bombs,” replied the trooper. His voice sounded shaky. “There must have been a motion detector at the far end of the corridor that we didn’t see. It blew out the entire passage.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Just egos,” said Achmoody. “The explosion put a pretty big hole in the bulkhead. We’re starting through now.”

Danny had barely turned around when he saw a black cloud appear in the sky to the north.

“Turk, what’s going on?” he asked.

“The UAVs are engaging the Chinese aircraft. The Chinese think they’re ours,” he added.

“Tell them they’re not,” said Danny. Then he had another thought. “Can you help them? Keep them from being shot down?”

“You want me to help the Chinese?”

“Yes.”

“Colonel—”

“Do it, Turk.”

“Roger that,” snapped Turk.

21

Breanna’s throat felt as if it had turned to stone. She could barely breathe, let alone swallow. She stood just inside the inner door at the top of the Cube entrance, in front of the elevator to the lower levels. Two security aides, submachine guns in their hands, were at her side.

“Daddy, why are you here?” she asked.

“Ray said you needed help. If you don’t want me—”

“Did he tell you what we need?”

“There was a text that said something about DNA coding.”

“We need Jennifer’s body exhumed,” said Breanna. She hadn’t seen her father in nearly five years. He looked thinner, scruffier, yet somehow younger than she remembered. Emotions were flooding through her; it was a struggle not to scream at him.

“No, you need her DNA profile,” he said. “It was analyzed. I have it here.”

He held up a small USB flash drive.

“It’s part of her password,” added Tecumseh Bastian. “I know what you need it for — it’ll let you in the back door of the AI programs she worked on. All of them. Braxton stole it, didn’t he?”

“You know?”

“We suspected. That’s why he was fired.”

“I thought… he was harassing Jennifer.”

“He was. But that’s not why he was fired. She’s all on this disc, her DNA. Not her.” Bastian smiled, but it was a sad, wistful smile. “Over seven hundred fifty megabytes. She designed it herself.”

Breanna hesitated, then reached out her hand.

“It’s password protected, the drive,” he told her. “I’m not sure which password she used. She had a couple.”

The elevator opened behind her. Ray Rubeo stepped out. For a moment Breanna felt as if she were watching them on a video screen.

“Ray,” said Bastian.

“General.”

“I brought the drive with the sequence.”

“You should come downstairs,” Rubeo told him. “I may need you.”

“It’s not up to me.”

Breanna looked at her father. He still had his clearance, though after everything that had happened, Breanna didn’t know whether she should let him down or not.

There could be anything on the drive.

And did she want to trust him?

What she wanted was to yell at him, to ask why he had run away, walled himself off from her and Zen and their daughter. Leaving the military she could understand, mourning Jennifer Gleason she could definitely understand, but deserting her?

Blaming her. Along with the others. That was the reason.

“We need to move quickly,” said Rubeo. “I suspect that the launch of the UAVs is aimed at providing cover as they make off with the Sabres. It’s the only logical explanation.”

“Sabres?” asked Bastian.

“A lot has changed since you’ve been gone, Tecumseh,” said Rubeo. “We can discuss it later. I need the sequence now. Breanna?”

“I’ll take the flash drive,” she said.

“It might be more useful to have your father with us,” said Rubeo. “To get past the passwords quickly.”

“All right, yes, let’s go, come on,” said Breanna, turning swiftly. “He’s with me,” she told the guards, and then in a louder voice, repeated it for the security system monitoring their movements.

22

There was nothing Turk could do to help the first Chinese fighter; his plane was already fried so badly, the pilot barely ejected before it blew to bits.

But in the seeds of that victory lay the enemy UAVs’ demise. They flew over the destroyed J-15’s path, banking south as a group while computing which target to hit next and how. Their course took them nearly perpendicular to Turk, and far below. He tipped his nose forward, turned slightly, and even before the rail gun was ready to fire he had locked up the lead UAV.

The Sabre rocked as three slugs sped from its nose. The UAV was a small target, but that just meant there wasn’t much left for the third bullet to hit. The first shattered the main section of the aircraft, destroying the “brain” as well as blowing a hole through the main fuel tank; the second slug blew through the engine. All the third could find was a large piece of shattered wing engulfed in flames.

Gently pressuring the stick at the right side of his seat, Turk put the Tigershark on the tail of the UAV at the end of the pack. The aircraft was starting a turn to the north; Turk rode with it, staying just to the outside as he waited for the small plane to swing back in reaction to his presence. It did so, then twisted sharply, spinning its wings and heading toward the waves.

It looked for all the world as if the plane had malfunctioned into a weird spin and was out of the game. But it was just a trick — one Turk had seen on the range many times. He followed, waiting for the UAV’s wings to flatten out. As soon as they stopped rotating, he fired a burst that caught it back to front, splitting it in two.

While Turk was busy following the UAV through its phony spin, the Chinese J-15s made the mistake of trying to tangle with the other two. As Turk looked skyward, he realized that the Chinese had managed to catch one of the UAVs in a sandwich between them.

“Break off, break off,” Turk warned. “Let me get them.”

There was no response from the Chinese fighters, and no indication that they had even heard him. The lead Chinese fighter accelerated upward, trying to swing the trailing UAV into a scissors maneuver where his wingman could fire heat seekers from behind. He was doing a reasonable job of jinking out of the UAV’s sights, but he hadn’t accounted for the other UAV, which suddenly attacked him from the side.

The J-15’s wingman fired a pair of heat-seeking missiles, but they went off course, apparently fooled by decoy flares the lead Chinese plane launched as he tried to escape. He turned hard west, only to have his right wing fly off — sheered clean by the UAV’s laser weapon.

The second flight of Chinese aircraft to the west turned in their direction, riding to the aid of their comrades. Inexplicably, two of the aircraft fired medium-range missiles — crazily, Turk thought, since they couldn’t possibly have locked on the targets.

If the missiles were intended to get the UAVs’ attention and break their attack, it didn’t work. The pair climbed east, preparing to circle back. By now it was clear the UAVs were following an order to attack the Chinese planes; they were closer to Turk’s Tigershark but ignored it, even though his active radar was now telling them where he was.

“All Chinese aircraft, break east,” radioed Turk, trying to get them to move toward him and make it easier to get the UAVs. When they didn’t respond, he gave them a heading and told them he would cut between them and the two surviving UAVs. But both J-15s near him continued south, toward the ships, as if they were intending to attack.

“The UAVs are your enemy,” he told them. “Not the people on the ships.”

They either didn’t hear or didn’t care, instead activating their attack radars to try to launch missiles on the large cargo carrier.

Cowboy saw the two Chinese J-15s lining up for shots on the big ship.

“I have Bandit Two,” he told Greenstreet.

“Roger that, Basher Two. Firing Fox Three.”

The F-35s launched their AMRAAMs toward the Chinese planes. At roughly the same moment, the air-to-surface missiles the J-20s were carrying dropped from their wings, heading for the cargo vessel. It was a sitting duck.

Suddenly, something exploded a mile and a half from the ship, directly in the path of the missiles. One of the missiles, which had started to arc for a final attack, abruptly dove and exploded. The other veered sharply, then wobbled back toward its course.

Turk had managed to get his aircraft between the missiles and the ship, and deked one of them into exploding with a shower of chaff. But the other was still moving toward the vessel.

Turk saw the second missile move into his pipper and squeezed the trigger without a solid lock. He got off three shots, but only the first was on target, and even that barely hit, blowing a hole through the rear propulsion area of the missile. The warhead had enough momentum to continue into the cargo ship, striking it near the bow.

Time moved in slow motion. His maneuvers had taken him below 5,000 feet; his forward airspeed had dropped below 250 knots. Both the UAVs and the Chinese fighters were somewhere above and behind him.

In other words, he was dead meat.

“Come on,” he told the Tigershark, leaning on the throttle and ignoring the warnings that he was being targeted. “Go! Go! Go!”

Cowboy’s thumb was just about to press the cannon trigger to nail the J-15 on Turk’s tail when he realized that one of the UAVs was going to beat him to it. The Chinese pilot had been so intent on getting Turk that he’d ignored the slippery UAV behind him.

A nudge left, and Cowboy had the UAV in his crosshairs.

He fired a half second after the UAV’s laser burned a hole in the J-15’s tail.

The resulting cartwheel of explosions warmed Cowboy’s heart.

“Yee-haw!” he shouted over the radio. “Scratch one UAV!”

“Let’s stay focused,” scolded Greenstreet. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

23

Braxton led Wen-lo out of the command room and back into the bunker’s hallway.

“We have only a few minutes,” he said. “Once the UAVs reach the ships, we need to be back to control them.”

Wen-lo said nothing. The two guards who’d been standing in the hall stepped into line behind them, their automatic weapons clutched against their chests.

Braxton felt his heartbeat rising. Adrenaline was surging through his body so badly that his eardrums felt as if they were going to explode.

Was that possible? He certainly felt something. It was almost a high.

He’d felt this way when the deal to purchase his company was about to go through.

And years before that, working late with Jennifer Gleason. He’d tried to tell her that night how he felt about her, but he was too tongue-tied, too shy, and the moment and opportunity passed.

He’d always thought there’d be another chance. But things had changed too rapidly after that.

A lesson.

He walked to the end of the corridor, but instead of going to the main entrance, turned and opened a door at the side. There was another door just inside the tiny corridor.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Wen-lo, grabbing his shoulder to stop him before he could open the second.

“To the launching area. Your men should be waiting.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind,” said Wen-lo. “You’re coming back to the boat.”

“You’re reneging on our deal?” Braxton felt his face flush.

“What deal?” asked Wen-lo, drawing his pistol.

“Just relax,” said Braxton. He raised his hands slowly, then glanced at Wen-lo’s goons, who’d raised the barrels of their guns. “You need my help. I’m very valuable.”

“I’ve seen your interface. It’s no more advanced than the general Flighthawk controls. I mastered those long ago.”

Braxton took a step back so that his foot was against the door. He needed to open it, but at the moment that didn’t look possible.

“You’re going to need help with the Sabres,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Someone who can take them apart and examine them. Someone who’s worked on the systems already.”

“I have my pick of engineers. You’ll work for us, or you’ll die,” said Wen-lo.

“Quite an offer.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Let me shut down the launch area, then.” Braxton turned and put his hand on the interior door. Wen-lo grabbed him and pulled him back.

“What is in there that you want?” he demanded. Without waiting for an answer, he told one of his men in Chinese to open the door.

Braxton dove to the ground as the hallway seemed to explode. A bright light flashed — the door and nearby hall were rigged as a giant flash bomb. The first door had been engineered to protect against the blast, but with it open, the concussion shocked the small space; it quickly filled with smoke.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, but he knew what he had to do — he leapt to his feet and ran to his left, back into the hall and the foyer, heading for the main door a few yards away. One of the guards scrambled after him, firing as he ran.

“Close door!” Braxton yelled as he reached the threshold. A thick metal panel slammed down behind him. It caught the guard in the arm, severing it as it closed.

Braxton fell against the steps.

“Gas them,” he told the security system. “Suffocate the bastards. Gas them and kill them all.”

24

Though he knew the planes were poised to attack, Danny was so intent on the hidden compartments they’d discovered that he stayed below, moving forward with the team as they checked the tugboat’s corridor. In short order they found two control rooms, both with gear that looked exactly like the ground stations for Flighthawks.

There was another compartment that looked like an arms locker. It had a full array of weapons, from rifles to grenade launchers. All looked brand new.

“Colonel, there’s something behind this panel in the corridor,” said Achmoody.

Danny went out to take a look. Achmoody and Glenn Fulsom were standing along the bulkhead, looking at the wall’s surface.

“Are you sure there’s a panel there?” asked Danny.

Achmoody held up a handheld sensor unit that detected magnetic fields and used them to find cavities and openings. There was a gap in the wall behind the panel that matched the dimensions of a hatchway.

“It’s behind the metal, so the smart helmet radar can’t detect it from the hall,” added Achmoody, referring to the low-power detection unit built into his Whiplash helmet. The device was intended for urban warfare situations, and could easily scan through conventional plaster and plasterboard walls. Metal was more problematic, though it took relatively sophisticated techniques to fool the system.

Kallipolis had proven they had those in spades.

“Can you get us in?” Danny asked.

“We have to blow a hole through. It’s thick.”

“Let’s do it.”

Danny went back topside as the demolitions were set. As soon as he reached the deck, he saw a fresh plume of smoke rising from the cargo ship’s bow.

“Captain Thomas, what’s going on over there?” he called over the radio.

“Bow of the ship was hit by a missile, an Exocet or something like that. No injuries here, but we’re taking on water.”

The missile was actually a Chinese YJ-82 (also known as a C-802), but the comparison to the French-made Exocet was apt. Even though its body had been splintered by Turk’s slug, the armor-piercing warhead of the missile had enough kinetic energy left to pierce the hull and deck area before exploding, ripping a gaping hole at the front of the ship. The container carrier was taking on water at an alarming rate, and even an experienced crew would have their hands full keeping her afloat.

“Abandon the ship,” Danny told Captain Thomas. “We found the control rooms over here. I’ll have the Ospreys pick you up.”

“Roger that.”

The Osprey pilots had moved south, trying to stay clear of the air battle raging above. They were still easy targets, but the pilots didn’t hesitate when Danny told them the Marines needed to be taken off the ship. It was Turk who told them to wait.

“Colonel, let me mop this up first,” he said, breaking into the transmission over the Whiplash common channel. “Then they can come in with no danger… and they won’t be in the way.”

“We’re fighting time.”

“I just need a few minutes. It’s simpler if they stay where they are.”

“Understood,” replied Danny. “You clear them in. Don’t let those Marines get wet.”

“Not gonna happen.”

A hatch work of contrails crisscrossed the sky. Two columns of black smoke rose in the north and puffs of black and gray were scattered along the horizon. But the scene was too pretty to suggest the ferocity of the raging air battle.

“Colonel, we found something on the stern deck you might be interested in,” said Corporal Mofitt, trotting over to Danny. “Looks like a hidden passage below.”

Danny followed him to a spot beneath a life raft, which the Marines had pulled away. The prisoners were standing nearby; two seemed angry, the others simply resigned.

“Locked shut from the inside, sir,” added Mofitt.

“I think we can blow it,” said the team’s sergeant, coming over.

“My explosives guy is below,” said Danny. “I’ll get him up here.”

“I can do it,” said Mofitt. He held up a small block of C-4.

“Go ahead,” said Danny. “Don’t use too much.”

He stepped back and then called down to Achmoody. They’d gone through the panel and found what the trooper called a rat’s nest of small, interconnecting rooms.

“We can hear sounds,” said Achmoody. “We think there are people.”

As he finished speaking, Danny heard the sound of automatic weapon fire in the background.

“Correction,” said Achmoody. “We found some people. And they’re armed.”

Turk banked in the direction of the last UAV. It was five miles west, trying to follow the lone surviving Chinese fighters. If the J-15 lit its afterburner, it would escape; the UAV could not stay with the larger aircraft. But for some reason the Chinese pilot turned back toward the ships.

And Turk.

The UAV cut down the distance between them, driving toward the J-15’s rear quarter as the Chinese fighter pilot flew a nearly straight line toward the plane he thought was his enemy. Turk endeavored to save him, even though he suspected the pilot wouldn’t return the favor.

Starting a good 10,000 feet below the other two aircraft, Turk managed to close the gap to about 5,000 as he pushed into a firing slot to hit the UAV. Before he could fire, the drone realized it was being targeted from behind and gave up on the J-15, veering left.

Turk decided he would take advantage of his discovery of the aircraft’s laser weakness. He turned to follow the slippery UAV through the turn, letting the Tigershark get thrown out ahead of the slippery drone as it cut a tighter radius. That put the UAV behind him — right where he wanted it.

The RWR shrieked; the drone was trying to lock him up. But the turn had been so tight that the aircraft had lost considerable speed, and the gap between its nose and Turk’s tail was too wide for it to fire.

Ordinarily, that would have been a good thing — but Turk wanted his enemy to shoot. He corrected slightly in its direction, then waited for the UAV to catch up. It was just about in range to fire when Cowboy radioed a direction to him.

“Break left, break left!” rasped the Marine.

“No, no!” yelled Turk over the radio, but it was too late — a pair of heat seekers flashed from the F-35’s wings. Turk made his cut in the sky, diving away from what was now a one-on-one furball between Cowboy and the UAV.

Tiny flares poured from the back of the drone like little matches thrown by a pyromaniac. As Cowboy’s missiles sniffed for the heat source, the plane managed a cut so sharp that it looked like it was flying sideways. Knowing his missiles would miss, Cowboy started a turn to line up another shot. But the F-35 couldn’t match the smaller robot’s maneuverability, and within seconds he lost sight of the UAV.

It didn’t take a sixth sense or advanced radar to know it would now angle behind him. Cowboy started weaving desperately in the sky, drawing a convoluted ribbon that made it difficult for the UAV to get a bead on him. He saw Greenstreet passing in Basher One below him, and then the Tigershark — very disappointing, since it meant they weren’t in position to blow his pursuer out of the air.

“Let him target you and start to fire,” said Turk over the radio. “Then hit your chaff.”

“What?”

“Do it,” said Turk.

“Where are you?”

“Trust me.”

“Let this bastard lock on my tailpipe?”

“The chaff will blow him up. Make sure you hit it when I say.”

I don’t see how, thought Cowboy to himself.

Turk tightened his turn and then accelerated, trying to get on the UAV’s tail. But he was just too far away to get a lock.

The drone was tight on Cowboy’s six. What Turk was telling him to do surely went against every instinct the Marine aviator had, not to mention years of training. But it was the only way to get out of the situation if Turk couldn’t get a bead on the UAV.

The enemy robot tightened its noose around the F-35’s tailpipe. Even if Cowboy didn’t make a mistake, he was going to get creamed in a few seconds.

The laser fired.

“Do it!” yelled Turk. “Chaff! Chaff! Chaff! Keep your course straight!”

The rear of the plane seemed to explode. Turk felt a hole open in his stomach — he’d gotten his friend shot down.

In the next moment there was another explosion, this one with fire. Cowboy’s plane hadn’t blown up at all — Turk had seen the canisters of chaff exploding. The reflected laser beams had destroyed the UAV.

“You’re clear, Basher Two,” Turk told Cowboy.

“What the hell just happened?”

“You overloaded his flashlight,” said Turk, easing off the throttle and running his eyes quickly over the indicators.

The hatchway on the stern lifeboat deck blew with a discreet car-ufff and a small puff of smoke. Mofitt ran over and kicked it with his foot, shoving it out of the way. He fell to his knees, peered down, then disappeared into the hole before anyone could stop him.

Two Marines hustled forward to join him.

“Careful!” yelled Danny. He stepped back to ask Achmoody what was going on.

“Two guys down here, both with assault rifles,” reported the trooper. “We’re gonna hit them with gas.”

“Hold off. We found a passage down,” said Danny.

There was a shout from the hatchway and then a run of gunfire.

“Our guys are behind them!” Danny told Achmoody. “Our guys are there.”

There were more shouts, then silence.

Damn, thought Danny. Why did I let them go down?

Mofitt had surely acted on impulse, undoubtedly wanting to redeem himself. But there was a difference between acting bravely and being a fool — he should have been more careful.

I should have been more careful, thought Danny. I should have stopped him.

A head popped up from the manhole. “We got ’em,” said the Marine who emerged. The second grunt came up behind him, then Mofitt.

The corporal was drenched in sweat, but he was smiling.

“They were loaded for bear,” he said. “The Whiplash guys are getting them.”

Right on cue, Achmoody came over the radio and told Danny they had gotten the two men who’d fired at them. Both were dead. Achmoody said they looked like technical people — Europeans and Asian, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with flip-flops.

“Their footwear clashed with their AR-15s,” added Achmoody, delivering the gallows humor with a straight, even tone. “These guys had a box of magazines between them. Would have taken us all day to get them out if you hadn’t sent the Marines down.”

“They went on their own,” said Danny. He was proud of Mofitt, even as he realized the Marine had been a little reckless. But sometimes you had to go overboard to show others who you really were.

“There’s a hatchway out the side of the ship,” said Achmoody. “Might be one of those submarine ports we found on the beached boat. Looks just like it.”

Danny glanced over at the prisoners. Two of the men were barefooted and wearing shorts; the others were in jeans with sneakers or work boots. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Sergeant, get those two guys in shorts and bring them over here,” he said.

The sergeant whistled to one of the guards, then started shouting instructions. Mofitt started over with one of the other Marines.

Danny turned and put his hand over his ear, listening as Turk reported in on the situation in the air. Someone shouted behind him. He whirled around in time to see Mofitt race across the deck and throw himself into one of the men wearing shorts, who’d grabbed something from near the life raft.

As they tumbled over the side of the ship, there was an explosion.

The man had grabbed a bomb disguised as a fire extinguisher in the raft and tried to detonate it. Mofitt had saved at least a half-dozen lives, including Danny’s, at the cost of his own.

25

While the Sabres were light for aircraft, Braxton couldn’t bring them all the way to the launch pad on his own. But there was no need — all he had to do was bluff the four Chinese sailors guarding them into helping him.

“We need to get the UAVs loaded,” he told them, speaking in English first and then Mandarin.

“Commander Wen-lo said to leave them here,” said one of the men in English that was better accented than Braxton’s Chinese.

“If you want to go argue with him, go ahead,” said Braxton, holding out his hands. “He’s talking to someone in Beijing, and he’s pretty pissed. The guy has quite a temper.”

The sailor hesitated, then ordered the others to help. They had the aircraft on small trolleys; pushing and pulling, they took them to the launching area.

The launchers rode rails out from the trees, rising to launch the planes. After launching, they were programmed to prostrate themselves — to Braxton, they looked as if they were begging for more.

He went over and helped the men slide the Sabres onto the launch slots. He would have preferred refueling them — the underground tank had a hose assembly hidden in the foliage a short distance away — but there wasn’t time, and he calculated that it wouldn’t be absolutely necessary.

“Come on, come on,” he said, directing the men to push the second UAV into position. Only two of the four were working. “You and you, go help!” he barked.

They frowned but went over. As they did, Braxton walked to the edge of the clearing. An oblong green box sat in the dirt half covered by castor oil plants. He reached in, fumbling until he found the thumb reader.

“What are you doing?” asked the Chinese sailor he’d been talking to.

As Braxton straightened, he raised an AR-15 from the chest. Sweeping the spray, he emptied the thirty-round box into all four men.

One of the sailors, though wounded, didn’t fall. Braxton whirled around and grabbed another gun; when he turned back, the man had disappeared.

Cursing, Braxton ran after him. If the man made it to the beach, there would be trouble; already it seemed likely that the wily captain of the PT boat would send someone to check out the gunfire. Braxton was just about to give up when he saw something moving through the brush to his right; he stepped over and put a three-round burst into the man’s head.

Blood was gurgling from the back of the sailor’s skull when Braxton got there. It was an odd thing to see, unnatural and yet pleasing somehow.

“Back to work,” Braxton told himself, whispering as if someone might overhear. “Clear the air and launch the Sabres, and get in the plane to go. Go! The revolution has begun.”

26

Tecumseh Bastian sat down in the seat at the rear of the Cube’s situation room. It was almost déjà vu — he’d been in rooms like this countless times, most especially as the commander of Dreamland.

But it wasn’t déjà vu. The room was different, smaller, with less people but even better tech. And his daughter was in charge: confident, mature, moving around with a grace and assurance that shocked him.

It shouldn’t. She’d been a well-accomplished pilot even back at Dreamland, and that was years ago now, nearly a decade.

God, he felt so old. He was old.

“Are you all right?” asked Ray Rubeo, putting his hand on Dog’s shoulder. That was another change — the scientist almost seemed human.

He was human, of course, even if he chose not to admit it. He was the last friend Bastian had. Certainly the only one who’d stood by him.

“I’m OK, thanks,” said Bastian.

“It’s going to work,” Rubeo told him. “Ten more minutes and we’ll be in. It’s a rolling key that uses parts of the strand. Thank you. We’d never have gotten it without you.”

Bastian nodded.

“We’ll get our aircraft back,” said Rubeo.

“Good.”

“More planes are launching from the island!” said one of the techies down in front. “The signature is different from the earlier ones — could be the Sabres.”

Rubeo hurried over to see. Bastian watched with some satisfaction as his daughter moved slowly toward the workstation. Only a pilot could be that calm when things were going to hell.

27

The marines recovered the bodies from the water in a matter of minutes. The man who had grabbed and detonated the bomb lost his hands in the explosion; Mofitt was intact, though it was obvious the concussion and internal injuries had killed him instantly.

They carried him to the forward part of the ship, then arranged for the Osprey to pick him up.

“He was a brave man,” said the sergeant. “He got a bad rap.”

“I heard,” said Danny.

“You can’t tell what you’re gonna do under fire,” added the Marine. “Every time’s different. But his impulse here — he saved us. Deserves a medal.”

“Damn straight,” said Danny. “Damn straight.”

Turk tried hailing the Chinese pilot whose neck he and Cowboy had just saved, but he refused to respond. At least he wasn’t continuing the attack: the J-15 was flying in a wide orbit above the ships.

The four J-15s that had been west were about two minutes away. They, too, were refusing to answer Turk’s queries.

A voice with a strong Boston accent came over the radio. “This is USS McCain contacting Whiplash Tigershark,” it said. “Can you update us?”

“McCain, roger that,” said Turk, responding to the destroyer’s query. “Here’s what we got…”

The McCain was the fourth ship in the Zumwalt class, a sleek, tumble-home wave piercer equipped with an array of high-tech gear. Unlike her earlier sisters in the class, the McCain was equipped with SPY-3 and SPY-4 radars, exactly as her designers had intended. The powerful dual band radar was “painting” all of the aircraft in the region — except for the ultrastealthy Tigershark, which was too far from the destroyer to be seen by it.

The ship was a little less than fifty miles away, cruising at top speed. The Chinese aircraft were within range of its SM-2 Standard ship-to-air missiles, so when Turk finished the conversation and saw that the Chinese planes had begun to turn back west, he assumed that was the reason. But a few seconds later the Cube told him what was really going on.

“There’s been a launch from the island where the UAVs came from,” said Greenstreet. “These are larger — it’s a good possibility it’s the Sabres.”

“No shit,” he said, turning the Tigershark in that direction.

With the marines evacuated from the cargo vessel, Danny had Guzman take the tug a safe distance away. Though he was a SEAL, Guzman had never served aboard ship, and now joked that he was doing more “Navy stuff” with Whiplash than he’d ever done as a sailor.

Danny was just about to compliment him on his seamanship when Breanna contacted him on the Whiplash circuit.

“More UAVs have been launched from the island to the west,” she said. “The same place where the others launched from. We think they’re the Sabres.”

“All right. We’ll get over there ASAP.”

“Hold on, Danny. There are two Chinese PT boats on the island’s shore, and the four J-15s are headed that way as well.”

“We can deal with them.”

“We’re working on a way to get the Sabres back,” she said. “I don’t want you to launch until we’re ready. There’s no sense putting you in danger.”

“The Chinese are weak right now,” answered Danny. “I can deal with a couple of PT boats. And Turk can drive off the fighters.”

“He’s low on fuel,” said Breanna. “I want you to hold him back.”

“Understood,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he could.

28

The President pushed the button to allow the call to go through. The Chinese premier’s face popped up onto the video screen. The bright lights of the Beijing conference room turned his face almost purple. Todd had been in that very room four years before; it was clearly modeled after the CIA situation room shown — incorrectly — on many televisions shows.

It was empty then. Now it was packed with aides.

“Mr. Premier, we have a problem in the South China Sea and there is no reason for it,” she said. “Your forces have interfered with our operations against pirates, who as you now know attacked you as well as us and the Malaysians. We have tried to use restraint dealing with your forces, even after they fired on us. I have to tell you frankly, that restraint will certainly cause me political problems here.”

Actually, anything she did would give her political problems, but she didn’t feel the need to detail that. Nor did she give the premier a chance to respond, continuing quickly.

“Pirates have stolen some of our aircraft, and we are in the process of getting them back. This is a deep and far-reaching conspiracy. They have been helping arm rebels in Malaysia. Several of their robot aircraft attacked your aircraft. Our people tried to shoot them down before they attacked you, but your pilots did not follow our instructions to help.”

“Your drones attacked my country’s planes,” said the premier. His English was very good; he didn’t need a translator.

“No. Those are not our drones. They attacked us as well. We will provide evidence. We have a common enemy here,” added the President. “If you allow us to continue our work without interference, we will eradicate them.”

One of the aides stepped forward and whispered something to the premier. Todd noticed that the defense minister was sitting with a very glum face on the premier’s right.

“Minister Zao, I’m sure you’ve gotten a report from your fleet by now,” she told him. “You see how capable this enemy is. We can defeat him, but only if you don’t interfere.”

The minister pressed his lips together but said nothing.

Todd knew that the Chinese were in a difficult position. While they had a carrier task force within a few hours’ sailing time, the UAVs had just proven more than they could handle. With the U.S. destroyer on the way, not to mention the ships escorting the MEU to the east, they were clearly outgunned. And that was without even factoring in the submarine trailing the carrier.

But a conflict, even a lopsided one, would greatly complicate the already thorny relations between the two countries. Todd wanted to avoid that if she could. She also wanted to increase the odds of getting the Sabres and their technology back.

“We will not interfere with your forces if you combat the pirates,” said the Chinese premier finally, reaching forward to end the call. “But this matter is not over.”

“I didn’t expect it would be,” she told the blank screen.

29

From the moment Turk knew that the Sabres had been launched, he was sure he was going to get them back. It didn’t matter what he had to do, he was going to get them.

“Basher One, I need to go west,” he told Greenstreet. “There are more UAVs in the air. Can you hold here and deal with the Chinese if they get nasty?”

“Affirmative,” replied Greenstreet. “We have the ships.”

“You need a wingman,” said Cowboy. “I volunteer.”

“I’m good on my own,” answered Turk.

“No, take Basher Two,” said Greenstreet. “We’ll cover the ships.”

“I don’t need a wingman,” Turk told Cowboy.

“I’m not going to argue,” answered the Marine. “I’m just going to watch your back.”

“All right. Stay close.”

The Tigershark was only a little faster than the Sabres, and while fifty miles didn’t seem like a lot, they had enough of a lead that — properly exploited — it would be impossible to catch up before his fuel situation got critical.

Turk knew that if he seemed like a threat, they’d come back for him. But the Tigershark wasn’t a threat from long-range; it didn’t carry any missiles.

The F-35 did, however.

He pressed the mike button to tell Cowboy to fire a missile at the Sabres. Then he hesitated — he was going to tell Cowboy to make himself a target.

Cowboy was a good pilot, but the Sabres were flown by a command system that was the culmination of years of combat experience and flight science. Flying against them was like flying against all of the air aces ever, from von Richthofen to Zen Stockard. And he’d be doing it in an aircraft that wasn’t just inferior to them, but wasn’t designed to be an air superiority fighter in the first place. Even Turk would have trouble defeating two Sabres at once.

“Whiplash Tigershark — Captain Mako, this is Breanna Stockard,” said his boss over the radio. “What’s your fuel state?”

“Uh…” Turk knew exactly what she was getting at, even without looking at the calc screen. “I got plenty of reserves.”

“Turk, I don’t want you putting yourself in jeopardy.”

Kind of late for you to think about that.

“We don’t think you have enough fuel,” she continued. “Don’t be foolish. It’s one thing to take risks. It’s another to be… to be stupid about it.”

Her voice seemed to crack.

A legend appeared on his main screen: VIDEO ACCESS REQUESTED.

Turk enabled it. Breanna’s face filled the top left-hand screen.

“Turk, I’m serious,” she said. “You are more valuable than the planes.”

Her face was worn, tired. She was in the main situation room at the Cube, leaning toward the camera at the top of her workstation. If there were people behind her, they weren’t visible to the camera.

“I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself,” she said when he didn’t answer. Her eyes welled up; her voice was soft. “We’re working on a set of instructions you can transmit to take over the Sabres, but it may not be ready in time.”

“I’ll shoot them down if I have to.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Sure it is.”

Breanna’s lower lip quivered. She wanted to say something else, but the words were choking her up. “Turk—”

“I got this,” he said. “Sorry, I gotta go. If you get that coding, tell me right away.”

He killed the video.

Flying the F-35 was pretty much a pilot’s dream — it was the newest aircraft in the fleet, arguably one of the best ever made. Getting a chance to sit in the pilot’s seat was without a doubt one of the highlights not just of Cowboy’s Marine Corps career, but of his life.

So why was he feeling huge pangs of jealousy just staring at the back end of the sleek aircraft Turk was piloting a few hundred yards ahead?

The Sabres weren’t visible on his radar yet, but he assumed Turk could see them. He certainly acted like he knew precisely where they were.

Were they going to shoot them down? Or was Turk going to simply “capture” them once they got close?

Cowboy assumed the latter, but he was ready to do combat with them. He assumed it would be even more intense than the furball with the combat UAVs he’d just finished.

Bring it on, he thought. Bring it on!

“Basher Two, do you have the Sabres on your radar?” asked Turk.

“Negative.”

“Do you have AMRAAMs?”

“One,” answered Cowboy. “I have two Sidewinders and my cannon. I’m good to go.”

“We’re not going to catch them this way,” said Turk. “I need to get the Sabres to turn back and come for us.”

“Let’s do it.”

“I want you to fire your AMRAAM,” said Turk. “It may lure them back.”

“I don’t have them on my radar,” said Cowboy.

“If I give you a general heading, can you fire them in bore-sight mode?”

He was asking Cowboy to fire the missile without a lock. While not often done, the missile did have the capability to fly into the general direction of any enemy aircraft and then use its own radar to lock on to the target.

“If that’s going to work,” said Cowboy.

“I don’t know,” admitted Turk. “Assuming the Sabres react, they’re going to come after you. They’re going to make you their primary target.”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem.”

“They’re tough little fighters to deal with,” said Turk. “I’ll issue commands to take them over, but we may end up shooting them down. We can’t let them fall into enemy hands.”

“Roger that.”

“They haven’t responded to the general control signal already, which is… bad.”

“Then we’ll shoot the bastards down if we have to, right? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“That’s why we’re here. But you’re going to be the target once you fire.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll nail them if I don’t.”

“Stand by for a bearing.”

30

Rubeo propped up his head on his fists, staring at the computer screen as the DNA coding was read into the encryption formula, trying to unlock it. They had plenty of transmission to work with — the two Sabres were “talking” to each other, using their distributive computing power to decide what to do about the planes pursuing them. But Rubeo’s team hadn’t been able to get past the changed encryption, let alone get deep enough into the systems to figure out how to take them back over.

With all the computing power at his disposal, it was still taking minutes to grind through the damn thing.

Had Braxton done this? There were so many damn possibilities.

The screen blinked, then flashed with a new message: WORKING.

They’d found the encryption key. Now all they had to do was get into the Sabre programming, examine it, then rewrite it.

Like climbing Mount Everest in shorts and sneakers in the middle of the winter, and setting a world’s record for the hundred yard dash along the way.

Rubeo thought back to the earliest days of the Flighthawk program. There was always a fear that the planes would take off on their own.

It seemed silly now, as if they’d all watched I, Robot or 2001 a few too many times.

But they’d put in a knockoff code that reset everything. Jennifer had come up with it, joking it was an S&M “safe phrase.”

He’d been so sheltered he’d had to ask what the hell that was.

What the hell was it?

“Ray, we have some sequences ready,” said Kristen Morgan, back in New Mexico.

“Stand by,” he told her. “Captain Mako, I will have a transmission for you to try,” he said, punching in the connection. “We will start with the basics, a simple recall. I don’t expect that to work,” added Rubeo. “We will then have it initiate a response and a data dump. You will receive a great deal of telemetry. You’ll be best off flying by hand as it transmits, to avoid any error induced by processing delays.”

“That’s how I always fly,” responded Turk.

“Good for you,” responded Rubeo dryly, though for once he wasn’t being sarcastic.

Breanna got up from her station, ostensibly to refill her coffee cup, but actually just to walk off some of her excess energy. At times like this she really missed flying. The effect of all the übertechnology in the room ultimately reminded her how far from the action she was.

She wanted to be the one in the danger seat, not Turk. She hoped she was not sending him to his grave.

She’d done that already. It wasn’t really fair to him that he had to go through it again.

And there was her father, standing like a statue near Rubeo at the back, arms folded, looking not awed, not even old, but exactly as he’d once looked in the Dreamland situation room, waiting and watching as his people were on a mission. He’d sent them into danger countless times — often, he was right there with them.

At the time, she’d questioned whether he should be out there. Even a colonel — his rank when he first arrived and for a considerable time afterward, though he was surely doing the work of a general, and one with more than one star — was expected to command from a distance, not duck fire at the front. Leading from the front didn’t mean making yourself the spearhead, which her father often was.

But now she understood why he’d done it. Ordering someone to risk their life was a hell of a lot harder if you were sitting in a bunker yourself.

Her father glanced over and saw her.

“Nice place you got here,” he said.

Then he smiled. She hadn’t seen that smile in a long, long time. It felt enormously good.

“Thanks,” she told him. “We had a good model.”

31

The Sabres ignored the AMRAAM until the missiles began searching for them.

Then they got pissed off.

“We got their attention,” Turk told Cowboy. “They’re coming back for us and they’re getting the lead out.”

“I’m seeing them up on radar now,” said Cowboy.

“Do a one eighty. Head back from where you came. Don’t be slow. I’ll pick them up.”

“You don’t really think a Marine’s gonna run away from battle, do you?”

“It’s what I need you to do. I have to fly with them long enough to give commands. Or shoot them down.”

“Roger,” said Cowboy, clearly reluctant.

The Sabres had a standard maneuver to change direction quickly, climbing and flipping their wings as they topped into a loop. The variable control surfaces and wing-in-body design — not to mention the lack of a pilot — allowed them to withstand g forces that would shatter a normal aircraft, and so they could change direction in far less space. They couldn’t defy physical laws, however — it was impossible to transfer all their energy and momentum to the new direction. That gave Turk a little bit of a breather. He flew at them, transmitting his “takeover” code, the command which would normally retrieve Sabres into escort mode.

The planes ignored it.

He tried a verbal command and then decided he would have to treat them like hostiles: he told his weapons radar to target them.

The Sabres didn’t react.

“I need your attention,” he said, pressing the trigger of the gun.

Three rounds shot out in the Sabres’ direction. He was way too far to get a hit, but the Sabres’ control computer realized he was trying to kill them. They talked it over between themselves and decided there was only one reason that could be — surely this enemy had found a way to spoof their mother plane’s silhouette. That decision overrode the safety protocol that kept them from targeting him, and they promptly began tracking him as an enemy.

In a traditional dogfight, a two-on-one advantage is not insurmountable, especially if the single aircraft is flown by a superior pilot who understands the limitations and advantages not just of his plane, but of his opponents’. Still, a numerical advantage in the air is just as potent as one on the ground. The enemy must be approached with skill and savvy. All things being equal, a head-on attack is usually not advised.

Which was one of the reasons Turk undertook it. The other was that he needed to play for time to let Cowboy get away.

The Sabres were flying a so-called “loose deuce,” a time-honored side-by-side formation that allowed either (or both) planes to go on the attack as well as support each other. The distance between them was roughly the same as their average turning radius; whichever plane Turk focused on, the other aircraft could get on his tail with an easy maneuver.

Rather than aiming for one or the other, he beelined toward the area between them. This forced the Sabres to decide on a strategy; Sabre One turned to meet him, while Sabre Two tucked into a dive but stayed on course.

Besides calculating counters to his move, the artificial intelligence that flew the planes was also evaluating his tactics and, in an effort to predict what he would do — his intelligence or stupidity — though it didn’t use these terms. The fact that he had gone after two planes head-on didn’t win him points in the IQ department, but the AI had to consider whether this might not be a trick — to put it crassly, was the move so dumb that something was going on that the computer didn’t know?

In the next few moments Turk gave the Sabres every reason to think that was true. Rather than continuing the course to take on Sabre One, or tucking his wing left and going after Sabre Two — or, more prudently, getting the hell out of there while he still could make a clean break — he pulled his nose up and aimed for the sun. This necessarily slowed him down, and made him a dandy target for Sabre One.

Just as the aircraft locked him up in its weapons radar, Turk dropped the Tigershark toward the earth as hard as he could. Sabre One was temporarily without a shot, but it strove quickly to make up for that, dropping into a dive. Meanwhile, Sabre Two banked south, trying to head toward Turk.

“How’s that sequence coming?” Turk asked Whiplash. “I got the transmission gateway open. You can transmit directly.”

“Yes,” said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested Turk’s IQ was perhaps ten points below moron level. “We are doing that now.”

If anyone thought he was a moron, it was the Sabres; he now had both aircraft behind him, not a very good place to have an enemy in a dogfight. But the aircraft were worried that it was a trick: the Tigershark’s airfoil demonstrated it had high capabilities, and it had already convinced them that it was their mother ship. So rather than attacking with the all-out abandon a human pilot might have used, the planes remained cautious. Sabre Two closed on Turk slowly, while Sabre One stayed above and behind, just in case.

Turk took his pursuers downward, weaving and bobbing in a ribbonlike pattern that teased Sabre Two but didn’t allow it to get close enough to take more than a single shot. Since its autonomous programming prevented the aircraft from shooting anything less than a ten-shot burst with a ninety-five percent degree of probable accuracy — the programming was there to preserve the limited ammo store, and could be overridden remotely — Turk knew he was in relatively little danger as long as he had sky to maneuver in.

But then as he turned hard right, he saw that Sabre Two had broken off and was climbing up behind him. The planes had given up targeting him.

Why did they do that?

The answer was provided by the flash of a Sidewinder exploding a half mile away: Cowboy had come back to protect him.

At the worst possible moment, thought Turk, cursing.

Cowboy knew the missile was going to miss before he fired it — all-aspect or not, the Sidewinder was too far from its target to guarantee a hit. But what he wanted was to break the Sabres’ lock on his wingman. It looked like Turk was about to get nailed, and he needed to do something to get the UAV off his back.

It worked. The Sabres left Turk. The only problem was, they were coming for him.

Cowboy jerked the plane into the sharpest turn he could manage without blacking out. As gravity threatened to cave in his chest, he got a warning that the other Sabre was targeting him. This was followed by a run of black BBs across his wing.

Possibly I bit off more than I could chew here, he thought.

Seeing the F-35 and the Sabre locked in a tight turn, Turk scrambled to get close enough to get the plane off the Marine’s back.

“Take him lower!” he told Cowboy. “Go as low as you can, break out of your turn when I tell you.”

Turk’s idea was to kick off the Sabre’s safety protocols. Like most moves born of desperation, it didn’t really work — the Sabre slowed to compensate for its better dive qualities, but it remained virtually locked on Cowboy’s tail as he veered lower and lower, passing through 5,000 feet. The F-35’s ECMs were going full blast, which did help, since it meant that the Sabre had to stay close to get a lock. But that was going to be immaterial as soon as Sabre Two got in the mix — which it was aiming to do now, starting downward from above.

“Come toward me, now!” ordered Turk. “Just flat out toward me!”

“It’ll lock.”

“Not long enough to fire. Do it!”

The F-35 and the Sabre accelerated in Turk’s direction. Turk lit the rail gun. The first slug flew right at the Sabre, missing only because the aircraft dove at the last second.

Sabre Two changed its target, coming for Turk instead of Cowboy. Turk had used nearly all of his available energy to get into position and fire; he was flat-footed.

He managed to evade, turning and diving, dropping close to the water — close enough to get his safety protocols annoyed. As the Sabre closed, he hit his last bit of chaff and took a turn, practically losing his wingtip in the water.

The Sabre sailed past, climbing to get away from the waves.

“I need you to stay close to the Sabres,” said Rubeo over the Whiplash circuit, “and to turn off your ECMs. I need sixty-five seconds to transmit. You have to be within a mile. Closer is even better.”

“Turn off the ECMs?”

“In the F-35 as well,” said Rubeo.

“If he does that, he’ll get shot down.”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll get shot down anyway.”

Rubeo’s logic was undoubtedly correct. But Turk still hesitated — it was one thing to make himself a target, and quite another to tell someone else to sacrifice himself.

But it was the logical thing to do. And it was the only thing that would get the Sabres back and accomplish his mission.

“Cowboy,” said Turk, “they’re going to try transmitting a command to retake the Sabres. But they need us to turn off our ECMs.”

“Roger that.”

“I don’t think you understand — that Sabre is right on you. It’ll nail you.”

“We gotta do what we gotta do.”

“Hit every store you have — everything,” said Turk. “Then punch your gas, turn off the ECMs. And run.”

“Is that all?”

“Hold on. Let me get closer to your tail — we’ll do it on my count. Twenty seconds.”

32

Danny Freah watched the Osprey pick up the last of the downed Chinese pilots. He wasn’t the only one watching — the J-15s were circling overhead, with the F-35s above them.

It wasn’t going to go down as one of the great moments of international cooperation, but at least no one was firing at one another. The Osprey had been invited to bring the downed Chinese pilots back to the Chinese aircraft carrier; Danny decided to grant permission. It was the sort of bold move that would undoubtedly get him cashiered if the Chinese decided to renege on their ceasefire, but he felt it was the right one.

The Whiplash team, meanwhile, had assembled to board another Osprey and go west to the island where the UAVs had launched from. Danny was leaving the small Marine contingent aboard the tug; the McCain should be there within an hour.

The bow of the container carrier had slipped just about to its gunwale in the water, but the rest of the craft showed a surprising reluctance to sink any farther. It was likely that there was just enough buoyancy in the ship to keep it afloat. In any event, it would shortly be someone else’s problem: once the McCain arrived, the Navy would take physical custody of both ships. The destroyer captain was optimistic that his people could put out the fires and salvage the rest of the ship. Two other Navy vessels, both salvage craft, were on their way to help.

So for now, Danny decided he could devote himself to more pressing matters: the island where the UAVs had launched from.

“Saddle up, Whiplash!” he shouted as the Osprey lowered itself toward the tugboat. “Last man aboard buys the beer tonight. Last man besides me,” he added, realizing he was bound by duty and custom to be the last man in the aircraft.

33

Turk was sweating so badly he practically swam in his flight suit as he raced to catch the Sabre on Cowboy’s tail. The other UAV was somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t worry about it now — he had to do what he could to save his friend.

“Now!” he yelled. “ECMs off!”

The computer complied, as did Cowboy.

The Sabre didn’t react. Turk was hopeful that meant it was now under his control, but a half second later he saw something puff on Cowboy’s wing. The Sabre was firing.

“Break right, break right,” Turk told him.

Cowboy managed to do so, temporarily breaking the lock. Turk fired several shots, even though he wasn’t lined up properly.

The Sabre ignored it.

“Left, left,” he told Cowboy.

This time the F-35’s maneuver brought the Sabre close enough to Turk’s line of sight for him to put a few slugs in its path. They didn’t hit, but the aircraft did break off.

Turk took that as a cue and veered right — barely ducking Sabre Two as it came up behind him.

Keep it up, keep it up, he told himself.

Rubeo’s voice came over the radio. “Turk, I need you to broadcast a command to the Sabres. It’s a code. It’s going to sound… ridiculous. But do it.”

“Go!”

“Give it as the command sequence.”

“All right. What?”

“‘Jennifer is your mother.’”

There was no time to argue. Turk keyed the mike, switching to the Sabre’s command channel.

“All Sabres, Command sequence: Jennifer is your mother.”

A legend flashed onto his screen.

SABRES REQUEST: RECONNECT AND SAFETY?

“Computer reconnect!” he said, his voice even louder than before. “Reconnect. Safety! Safety! Sabres knock it off. Sabres knock it off. Free flight pattern two! On my back.”

The UAVs abruptly began to climb. They were back under his control.

“They’re ours,” Turk told Cowboy. “They are ours! Let’s go home before they change their minds.”

34

From the moment the two Sabres turned west rather than following the course he had programmed, Braxton knew he had lost them.

It was bitter. Years of work, and now failure.

Nonetheless, he had to think of the long term. He had to complete his getaway.

The Dreamland people were certainly watching the island by now. But that was just fine with him. Talbot was still with the Chinese, but he was of little value — muscle mostly, he couldn’t tell them anything important, certainly not about the long-term plans.

Braxton had lost today. Tomorrow he and the movement would be victorious. They had the force of history on their side.

He pushed the button to set the timer, then left for the west side of the island.

35

When Danny saw the black column of smoke in the distance as the Osprey approached the island, he leaned forward into the cockpit and asked if the pilots could get the Chinese PT boat commander back on the radio. A few seconds later he was greeted by the captain’s strained but polite English.

“What was the explosion?” Danny asked.

“We have lost several men,” said the commander. “The enemy appears to have blown himself and his installation up.”

That sounds pretty convenient, thought Danny.

“I have received orders to cooperate with you,” said the captain.

“As have I,” said Danny. “We have a common enemy.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll search the place as soon as we get there,” Danny told the captain. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“A little closer to ten, Colonel,” said the pilot.

“They’ll wait, I’m sure.”

Turk had never refueled the Tigershark off an Osprey’s “buddy pack” system, but the basic procedure was the same as refueling from a regular tanker, assuming you adjusted for the speed, the lack of director lights, the turbulence, the strange looking gear, and most of all, the corny Marine jokes.

“Come on, Air Force, you can do it,” laughed Greenstreet. Depending on your point of view, he was either directing the refuel or harassing Turk from a short distance away.

“If a Marine can do it, I can do it,” answered Turk.

“Hell, if Cowboy can do it, anybody can do it,” answered Greenstreet.

“He just puts it on automatic and lets the computer do the flying,” said Cowboy.

“I wish.”

In fact, Turk could do that, and would have on a standard refuel. But he didn’t feel like taking any chances with computers at the moment, not even the Tigershark’s.

Sabre One and Two had just enough fuel to make it back to the airport; he would fly them there, and then land himself, if Danny’s search of the island didn’t turn up anything.

He thought about Cowboy as he unhooked from the Osprey. The mission had turned the tables on Turk — while he hadn’t ordered anyone to actually kill Cowboy, he’d certainly put him into very grave danger to accomplish the mission. It was different, he told himself, very different.

And yet in a sense it wasn’t. Because he knew that if getting the Sabres back meant killing Cowboy, he would have at least considered it.

Rejected it, probably. Definitely. But thought of it.

Breanna had sent him to near-certain death in Iran because he was the only person in the world who could have accomplished the mission. And it was her job to send him.

Actually, no: he’d volunteered. Just as Cowboy had. They had told him about the risks. He just hadn’t completely believed them.

When things went bad, Breanna did the only thing she could do: send someone after him.

Maybe saving him had been more of an option than Stoner had said. Maybe that was the real reason she’d sent Stoner: without a doubt, Stoner was the only person who could have pulled off that mission and gotten him back alive.

Or maybe not, Turk thought. The bottom line was the mission. It was Breanna’s job to think about it, to put it above her own wishes — and above his own life.

He still felt… not quite the same as he had felt about Breanna before. But he understood. In his heart, he understood.

“Hey, leave some for the rest of us,” said Greenstreet. “I’m into my reserves myself.”

“Roger that,” said Turk.

He dropped down from the Osprey.

“See you guys in town tonight,” he told the Marines. “We’ll settle up on who owes what beers.”

“Fine with me,” said Greenstreet. “As long as I have the first round.”

36

The President checked her watch, then got up from her desk.

“I’m going to go take a nap,” she told her scheduling secretary. “We have a bit of a lull.”

Her secretary looked shocked, as did the handful of aides standing nearby. Mary Christine Todd never took a nap in the middle of the day.

“It’s a new thing I’m trying,” she told them cheerfully. “I’ve been reading this book by Dr. Wayne Muransky on power naps. We’ll see if it works. Hold my calls.”

A succession of Yes, ma’ams followed her as she made her way to the residence. Her husband was waiting, as were her guests.

“There you all are,” she told the doctors and their two nurses. “I’m sorry I’m late. We had a bit of a… situation.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Chambers. “Are you ready to talk about the procedure?”

“Let’s have a little coffee first,” said Todd’s husband. She noticed that he looked worried. It was the first time in years — probably since the night she told him she was going to go ahead and run.

There was a good reason why — she’d already decided against the treatment, which had a minuscule chance of saving her life. The only reason she was taking the meeting was because he’d insisted.

Begged, really.

“Who wants coffee and who wants tea?” he asked. They’d dismissed the staff for the meeting.

“I’d love something stronger,” joked the President. “But I do have to get back to work.”

The others laughed. “Humor is a great weapon against cancer,” said Chambers.

Not really, thought Todd, going into the dining room, but it’s probably all I have.

37

Breanna nodded as Danny finished reporting on the situation at the island. The bunker had been imploded, exactly like the one they had discovered earlier. The Chinese had lost several men, including a high-level intelligence agent who had been working for well over a year trying to track Braxton.

“The PT captain doesn’t appear all that broken up about it,” added Danny. “But he’s not going out of his way to cooperate.”

“And Braxton?” asked Breanna.

“No trace of him. Presumably he’s in the bunker somewhere. But…”

“But?”

“There are some bodies aboveground,” said Danny. “Possibly he escaped. I just don’t know.”

“All right. The Navy is sending a SEAL team to secure the island. As soon as they arrive, you can come home.”

“All the way home?” asked Danny.

“We have the Sabres back. We have the technology from the tugboat and the other base. Our mission is accomplished.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Breanna smiled at him. Danny was tired — as tired as she’d ever seen him. But she suspected it was a good tired, the sort that came at the end of a job well done.

She signed off, momentarily basking in her own sense of accomplishment — they had gotten the Sabres back and closed down a powerful if quixotic conspiracy.

And her organization had been exonerated.

There was much work to be done — on business and personal matters.

She turned and walked back up the steps, looking for her father.

He wasn’t there. Ray Rubeo met her instead.

“Where—” she started to ask.

“He’s gone,” said Rubeo gently. “He’s not ready.”

“But…”

Rubeo grimaced.

Somehow, Breanna managed to keep her tears to herself until she was alone in her office.