Threat Level Black

Chapter 1

Faud Daraghmeh closed the book and got up from the small table where he had been reading. He could hear his landlady’s television downstairs as he went to the kitchen. The old woman would be dozing in her chair by now, no doubt dreaming of the grandchildren she never saw. She talked of them often to him, with the fondness that he thought his great-aunt must use when she spoke of him.

It was a weakness, one of many. Faud took the teapot from the stove and began to fill it. The imam had warned him; the worst temptations were the subtle ones, the almost silent callings of slothfulness and indecision.

But his path was set. He had completed the most difficult job more than a month earlier. Now he only waited for the next set of instructions. Whatever they were, he would be ready. Faith must win out over temptation.

He turned off the water and placed the teapot on the stove.

Chapter 2

In the aftermath of an operation, there are always several perspectives on its conduct and outcome. Often there is an inverse relationship between proximity to the operation and the opinion thereof: While those who had been at the scene might consider that things had gone decently under the circumstances, those several times removed might opine that lousy was a more appropriate adjective.

And then there was the opinion of Fisher’s boss.

“A fiasco. Utter and complete.”

“I wouldn’t call it utter,” said Fisher, speaking from the protection of the American embassy in Ukraine, where he’d been spirited after the fallout from the operation.

“What would you call it?”

“Something other than utter. I’ve never really understood what utter meant.”

“You’re a screwup, Fisher. Whatever you touch screws up. You’re lucky the ambassador got you out of Moscow; I’d drop a dime on you myself.”

Fisher hadn’t heard the expression drop a dime since his days as a nugget agent investigating the Mob. It had a nostalgic feel which he couldn’t help but admire.

According to both the NSA and the CIA, the Russians believed that they had broken up a robbery by a group of mafiya, a story supported by the versions of the incident supplied by Dr. Park and his security agent bodyguard. The Korean government had apparently accepted that explanation. But Fisher wasn’t about to point that out to Hunter, who clearly wasn’t in the mood to accept anything short of ritual suicide as an apology for the mission’s failure. For some reason known only to Hunter, the fact that the CIA had taken over the project failed to mollify him; he considered a screwup a screwup. Fisher thought this an unusually altruistic opinion for one so committed to advancing in government service.

“You’re off the case, Fisher,” said Hunter.

“What a shock,” said Fisher.

“I’m not putting up with your sarcastic back talk any longer.”

“Does that mean I can hang up?”

Hunter was silent. Fisher thought he heard him murmuring to himself. It sounded as if he was counting to ten, though Fisher knew for a fact that Hunter couldn’t count that high.

“Homeland Security has requested you be assigned to them,” said Hunter finally. “I’m granting their request.”

“What?”

“Work with Macklin on his task force.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t kid, Fisher.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to report?”

“Macklin is up in New York somewhere. Use your alleged detecting skills and find him,” said Hunter. “I swear, Fisher, if it were up to me, you’d be on a Coast Guard cutter in the Bering Strait, guarding icebergs.”

Roughly twenty hours later Fisher arrived at National Airport in Washington, D.C., bedraggled, grouchy, and in need of a shave — pretty much top form for any special agent. Technically he was off duty, en route to the special Homeland Security-DIA task force in the New York Metropolitan area. But Justice took no holiday. So he wasn’t surprised to find her screaming when he walked through the lobby at National Airport.

“Fisher. FBI,” he said, flashing his credentials at the two airport cops holding Justice by the arms. “What’s up?”

“We caught her smoking,” said one of the officers. “Then she went ballistic.”

“I did not. You grabbed me—”

Fisher pointed at her. “You got cigarettes?”

“That’s a federal offense?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” said Fisher. He turned to locals. “You have an interview room, right?”

“Well, uh, yeah, but usually we just give a citation and confiscate the smokes.” He held up an entire carton of cigarettes.

“I’ll take them as evidence,” said Fisher. He recalled now that the interview room was down the corridor behind the plain white door marked Private to his right, and took a step toward it.

“I’m not going with you,” said the woman.

Fisher turned and looked at her. He knew her type well; all he had to do was squint slightly and hold up the carton of Salem Lights — no accounting for taste in a felon — and she shut up. The airport cops, however, began burbling about procedures.

“Not a problem. It’s my case,” said Fisher as he nudged the suspect along, heading down the corridor and into the interview room.

Where he pulled out a chair, sat down, and lit up one of his own cigarettes.

“You really have to watch yourself,” he told Justice, whose full name was Maureen Justice and whom Fisher knew, albeit vaguely, as the traffic helicopter pilot for WKDC, a local AM radio station. “ Salem Lights? People have been shot for less.”

“At National Airport?”

“Damn straight. I mean, granted, most of the people around here who have guns are federal employees, so odds are that they wouldn’t hit you even if they emptied their magazines, but you never know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Maureen. She took the carton and removed the top pack, which she’d opened earlier. “I owe you one, huh?”

“Big time,” said Fisher. “And don’t think I won’t collect.”

“Anytime, Andy,” she said, blowing a perfect circle into the air. “Anytime.”

Chapter 3

Blitz had somehow managed to forget that he had invited Howe to have lunch with him Monday until the Secret Service people called up to his office. He decided to have him come up, even though going out for lunch would be impossible: The NSC had scheduled a meeting on Korea at one, and he was supposed to go over to the Intelligence Council immediately afterward. And he was just about to take part in a phone conference with the head of the CIA and the field agent who had managed to botch the snatch of the E-bomb scientist in Moscow.

In fact, he was deep in conversation with the CIA people when Howe walked into the office.

“Sit, sit,” he told him, waving him into a nearby chair as he listened to a report of the botched mission. “Mozelle will have something sent in.”

Howe shrugged and sat down.

“He was attending the sort of conferences that you would attend if you were interested in disabling electrical systems on a wide-scale basis,” said Madison, the CIA officer in charge of the operation. He’d been asked whether the scientist was really in a position to know about E-bombs. “We have some blanks on his background, but he could have helped design a weapon. Whether he would know about its distribution or not is an open question. And we haven’t turned up anything on delivery systems related to this.”

One of the CIA desk officers picked up Madison ’s thread, recounting NSA intercepts related to the scientist. The North Koreans had accepted the Russian explanation that a rogue mafiya group had tried to hold up the foreigners and the local militsiya had saved the day, thanks to a phone tip from the restaurant, which the Korean bodyguard claimed to have made but which the U.S. had been unable to trace. Nonetheless, there were sure to be repercussions for the scientist as well as the security people.

“What about the DIA reports?” asked Blitz. “Do we have anything new?”

He glanced over at Howe on the chair nearby. The colonel was wearing the same suit he’d worn the week before. More than likely it was the only suit he owned.

“We’re working on a new batch of intercepts,” one of the NSA people said over the conference line. “We should have them in time for the afternoon NSC session.”

“But we’re agreed there’s a threat?” said Blitz.

“There is a threat. The question is how severe.”

“Where would they use the weapon?” he asked.

“Drop it over Seoul and the place goes dark for six months,” said one of the CIA experts.

“And if they can smuggle it over here?” asked Blitz.

“Same thing. But we have nothing to indicate that they have, beyond the DIA’s suspicions.”

Blitz frowned and leaned back in the seat.

Howe shifted uneasily, waiting for Blitz to get off the phone and consciously willing himself not to listen to the conversation.

He’d made up his mind Sunday that he wasn’t taking the job. And it had nothing to do with the money.

He’d taken a long walk around the National Mall on Saturday. Nearly deserted because of the late-winter cold, it had helped remind him of the importance of what happened in Washington. The memorials to Lincoln and Jefferson, the stark Washington Monument, the FDR Memorial, the sleek sadness of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial-duty had a somber weight here, an importance beyond the lunches and VIP tours.

Standing in front of the Reflecting Pool, gazing at the Lincoln Memorial, he had asked himself why he was hesitating to make a decision. Ordinarily he made decisions quickly and firmly. It was partly natural inclination, partly training as a pilot. You set your course and then proceeded.

And yet, he had hesitated over this. He had to admit it: Even though he knew he didn’t want the job, the lure of the money and the trappings of power were enticing.

As was the sense of duty.

Howe watched Blitz on the phone. The national security advisor alternated between frowning and nodding his head, until finally he signed off from the conversation.

“Very well,” said Blitz. “Get back to me then.”

Blitz swiveled around and slapped the button on the panel behind his desk, killing the connection. Then he jumped up and extended his hand to Howe. The effect was comical, and Howe felt himself smiling despite his best effort to maintain a serious demeanor.

“How are you, Colonel? Have a good weekend?”

“It’s been fine,” said Howe. “How about yourself?”

“Going crazy,” said Blitz. “ Korea has us shaking our heads. One second it looks as if it’s going to implode; the next it seems ready to launch World War III. We’re trying to stay on top of the situation.” He paused, and Howe thought he had decided he’d said too much. But then he continued: “The question is how much risk to take in retrieving information. How to make it proportional to the payoff.”

“Sure,” said Howe, though he didn’t understand precisely what Blitz was referring to.

“Colonel Howe,” boomed the President’s voice from the open doorway. “Take the job yet?”

Howe felt the blood rush from his head as he jumped to his feet. President D’Amici took his discomfort in stride, patting the side of his arm and then pointing with his other hand at Blitz.

“Listen, Professor, I want a briefing on that incident in Moscow,” the President said.

“From me or Anthony?”

“Just you,” said the President. “Before our other meetings.”

“Not a problem.”

“I have to go,” said the President as one of his aides appeared in the doorway behind him. “We’ll talk. Good to see you, Colonel.”

Howe nodded, then turned back to Blitz.

“That was completely off the record,” said Blitz.

Howe, who had no idea what it was anyway, nodded. “I’ve come to a decision about NADT. I’m not going to take the job. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Blitz’s expression went from serious to pained. “Don’t make a final decision yet. Wait to hear from the board of directors. They haven’t even made you an offer.”

“It’s okay. My mind’s made up.” Howe suddenly felt tremendously relieved. “You know what, I don’t really feel like lunch. Is that all right? I’m not insulting you or anything?”

“Well, no-uh.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” said Howe, and pulled his suit jacket forward on his shoulders and walked from the room.

“Damn it,” said Blitz after Howe was gone.

As he sat down the phone buzzed; he looked at the handset a second, then picked it up.

It was the CIA director again.

“Charlie Weber and Jack Hunter are here with a new e-mail from the Korean scientist,” Anthony told Blitz. “You’re going to want to see it.”

Chapter 4

Dr. Park had not been able to eat since coming back from Moscow, nor had he slept. The hours stretched forward like the sheet of a bed pulled taut, then tauter still. He began to hear buzzing in his ear; he thought he heard whisperings behind his back.

And yet, the director and higher authorities seemed to have accepted the Russian explanation for the incident: that it was a robbery or perhaps intended kidnapping. Dr. Park had agreed with Chin Yop’s version of the attack, which had the security agent fending off several thugs before the police arrived. The men who questioned him seemed skeptical, but Dr. Park stuck to the story, as Chin Yop had advised. To change it would only guarantee disaster.

When he returned to work, no one questioned him and, surprisingly, the director did not send for him. But this provided no relief for Dr. Park. On the contrary, his dread grew. His breath shortened. His palms were so sweaty that he could not hold a pencil, and his fingers jittered when he tapped at the keyboard of his computer. He saw shadows at the periphery of his vision. They disappeared when he turned his head, only to return when he looked straight ahead.

There were moments when Dr. Park managed to step back from himself, or at least from his fears; he wondered when he had become such a different person, wondered at why he had risked so much to get away in the first place. And then inevitably he would answer to himself that he hadn’t risked anything at all: His life here had always been forfeit. The few luxuries he enjoyed — a better bed than most, a better roof, certainly more food — those were the Great Leader’s luxuries, and could be taken away at his pleasure.

Dr. Park knew that the regime was dying; he could see the signs of chaos slowly building around him. Soldiers on the street did not answer the commands of their superiors; this fact in itself was a shock, nearly outside the realm of possibilities, yet it was happening all the time.

When the regime fell, so would he. The only hope was to escape to the foreigners.

That was logical, and logic was supposed to be a scientist’s solace. And yet, these thoughts did not comfort him; fear and dread grew until at every sound he could not think, at every question from a coworker he nearly confessed to his treason.

And so when the director sent for him he felt relieved. Finally he would find resolution. He did not welcome death, much less the torture he assumed would proceed it. But he hated the anxiety roiling inside him even more. He got up and followed the messenger, walking quickly through the black tunnel that surrounded him.

“You are here,” said the director as he was shown inside.

Dr. Park bent his head. He began to tremble, for though he welcomed resolution he was not a brave man.

“Well, after the excitement in Moscow, I am glad to see that you are in good health,” said the director.

He kept his head bowed. It was possible that he would be shot in the lot outside. This had happened some years before to an engineer, or at least was rumored to have occurred; Dr. Park himself had not seen it.

Would the bullets hurt his head, or would death come so quickly that he would not feel it?

A tingling sensation flared at the base of Dr. Park’s shoulders, spreading upward like the licking flames from the bottom of a pile of leaves. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he thought he could feel the bullets that would kill him, striking at the very center of his skull.

“The camp at Dae Ring Son is a good one, though bare,” said the director. “There are not many troops there, no more than a dozen at this time of year. But your needs will be met and the tests will not last long…”

What exactly was the director saying?

Dr. Park could not hear the words through the cloud of pain and fear covering his head.

Tests?

Dae Ring Son? That was a small camp near an abandoned airfield to the north, not a prison.

“You will leave immediately?” said the director. He phrased it as a question.

Slowly, Dr. Park forced his eyes open.

His treachery had not been discovered.

His treachery would never be discovered.

“Dr. Park? Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir,” he managed. “Of course. I can leave at whatever instant is desirable.”

The director smiled indulgently. “Go and gather your things. A driver will accompany you. You are our representative. Remember, your behavior is our honor.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Dr. Park bowed deeply.

“You honored us in Moscow,” the director added.

“I did my best.”

Dr. Park could manage to push nothing else from his mouth, and instead retreated from the office.

Chapter 5

“The NSA has a good read on the e-mails,” CIA director Jack Anthony told the President. “We’ve verified that Dr. Park is at the complex. It’s possible that there is a bomb there, or at the airfield two miles away. Getting him and the weapon would be an intelligence bonanza.”

“It would be an important break,” said Thomas Brukowski, the Homeland Security secretary. “Because, from the intelligence we’ve been getting on this E-bomb plot, something’s going to shake out within a week to ten days.”

Blitz closed his eyes. Brukowski was always saying that something was always going to “shake out” within a week to ten days. Blitz had seen the same intelligence that he had, and the prediction was absolutely not justified. In fact, the DIA and Homeland Security team investigating it had been spinning its wheels for more than a week without coming up with anything new.

Now that he had been belatedly informed of the scientist and his offer to deliver an E-bomb — the latest promise — Brukowski naturally assumed that North Korea was the source of the weapon his people were hunting for. He was by far the most gung-ho member of the cabinet, which the President had gathered to discuss the National Security Council’s unanimous vote that the scientist be “rescued.”

“I don’t think that scientist is worth the risk involved in trying to get him out,” said Myron Pierce, the secretary of defense. “Too many lives would be on the line, and the potential for blowback is just too huge over there right now.”

“We have a plan that minimizes the risk,” said Anthony. “We may need some logistical backing, but it would be minimal. We’d use two CIA paramilitary agents, with some Special Forces backup. That’s it.”

“ Korea is way too volatile,” said Pierce.

“I concur,” said Wordsworth Cook, the secretary of state. “We can’t do anything to upset the Korean teeter-totter.”

“What did you have in mind, Jack?” Blitz prompted, trying to get off the negative track.

“Infiltration from the coast. If we could deposit them via a submarine…”

Pierce scowled. “They’ll be picked up before they get a mile from the coast.”

“We have infiltrated agents before,” said Anthony. “The only downside is how long it will take them to get to the target area. I’d prefer using an airdrop, but, given the defenses, it doesn’t seem practical.”

“And how do they get out?” asked Pierce.

“They march back to the coast.”

“You think the scientist can walk that far?”

“No way of knowing unless we try.”

While Blitz was tentatively backing Anthony’s plan as a fallback, he preferred a more direct approach and had already put some feelers out to the military command responsible for Special Operations, as well as to some of the staff people who worked for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He saw his opportunity now to push for a more aggressive plan.

“The location in Korea makes the planning problematic,” Blitz admitted, rising from his chair and leaning over the large table in the cabinet room. He glanced to his right, looking at D’Amici. The President wore his best poker face. “But the time sensitivity argues for an aggressive plan.”

“What time sensitivity?” said Pierce. “There’s no imminent threat here. This is just one more weapon — which they may not even have.”

“The situation in North Korea is deteriorating rapidly,” said Blitz.

“If we start a war, it’ll deteriorate even faster.”

“I’m not advocating a preemptive strike, or anything of that nature,” said Blitz.

“There are time constraints on our side,” said Brukowski. “They’ve given the weapon to terrorists. I’m sure of it.”

Pierce gave Brukowski a contemptuous scowl, then asked Blitz, “You buy the contention that the weapon has been smuggled into the U.S.?”

“I don’t know,” said Blitz, hedging; he actually didn’t. “The situation in Korea is such that a well-designed operation, be it Special Forces or CIA, should be able to retrieve our scientist. I think it would be worth the risk. The North Koreans have been making outrageous claims about intrusions by our forces for months without basis; even if they see something now, who will believe them?”

“The Japanese,” said Cook.

“Special Operations can put something together,” said General Grant Richards, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “It would make sense.”

“Helicopters, even Ospreys, aren’t going to make it over the border from the south, given their present alert status,” said Pierce. “And they’d be pushing beyond their range. If we put an aircraft carrier or an assault ship — hell, even a destroyer — close to the Korean coast, the Chinese are going to be upset.”

“And we shouldn’t be upset that the Koreans are building terrorist weapons and giving them to murderers?” said Brukowski.

“My point is, a large operation is going to be noticed,” said Pierce. “Whatever you do. You use a ship to get close to the coast and use Ospreys or helicopters to land at the complex where he is, or you send a C-130 to the airfield. Either way, you’ll be seen. This is North Korea we’re talking about. There are only a limited number of ways to get by their radars and air defenses, and each one of them is very risky. As for getting a bomb out, forget it: It’s a pipe dream. I bet this guy isn’t even real.”

“I think the situation calls for finesse,” said Anthony. “I have a plan drawn up. I only need minimal help.”

“If he’s worth getting, we’re going to have to take some risks,” said Blitz.

“Let’s see what those risks are,” said the President. “Draw up some plans. I want to see your option, and I want to see what the Army thinks. By tonight.”

“You want to review the plans yourself?” Blitz asked. While he wanted it to proceed, he understood the need for the President to stand aloof in case something went wrong.

“I want to see the outlines, not all of the specifics,” said the President. “I don’t need to know how many gallons of fuel we’re using or how many clips of ammunition we’re carrying. In the end I’m going to get blamed no matter what happens,” he added. “I might as well deserve some of it.”

Chapter 6

Seeing New York City from the air always filled Fisher with a certain indescribable sensation. Fortunately, he had come prepared, and so, with the help of four or five industrial-strength antacids and an Alka-Seltzer tablet he found in the seat cushion, the FBI agent made it off the plane in reasonably good shape. He was just starting to feel the light tingle of a nascent nicotine fit when he spotted Karl Grinberg of the New York office prowling the JFK reception hall. Fearing the worst, he turned right, hoping to make his escape — only to run into Kowalski’s extended arms.

“You better let me go or read me my rights,” said Fisher.

“Even with jet lag, you’re a pistol,” said Kowalski.

“I don’t have jet lag. I need a cigarette,” said Fisher, edging toward the door.

“Fisher. Your boss wants to talk to you,” said Grinberg, marching up.

“Which boss?” tried Fisher, though he knew it was no use.

“Hunter.”

“I work for Homeland Security now.”

“Yeah,” said Kowalski. “He’s going to swab the deck on a Coast Guard cutter.”

“You better stay away from their recruiters, Kowalski,” Fisher said. “I hear they have a tugboat shortage.”

“Yuk, yuk, yuk. Come on. Make your call and let’s get going.”

“You came for me?”

“That and the pizza. Macklin says it’s good here.”

“One question, Fisher,” said Hunter when Fisher called him from Grinberg’s car.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Is the scientist legitimate?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was this scientist real?”

“Seemed to be breathing.”

“You know what I mean,” said Hunter. “Were they trying to snatch our gal, or was this guy really trying to defect?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“No screwing around here, Fisher. The President wants to know.”

“I’m not sure,” said Fisher. “If I didn’t think he was real, I wouldn’t have gone in the first place.” He blew a smoke ring toward the car dashboard.

“People’s lives are on the line here,” said Hunter. “And my reputation.”

“Is that another question?”

“I’m asking you again: Was he real?”

“I think so. But maybe you ought to tell me what answer you want so I get it right.”

Hunter hung up.

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Howe celebrated his decision by walking against a brisk late-winter wind to Washington’s Chinatown section and having lunch. He even gamely tried eating with chopsticks, though he soon gave that up in favor of tried-and-true Western utensils. After lunch he headed back across the mall to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, studying the World War I — era aircraft and just wandering in general through the vast halls of the museum. A new computer simulation booth had been set up, allowing visitors to practice their skill in simulated World War II dogfights. Howe blasted a Focke-Wulf 190 out of the sky with a Hurricane — no mean feat — but had a much harder time against the V-1 buzz bombs, pilotless terror weapons used by Germany at the end of the war. The trick was to fly next to them, then tip them off course with your wing. Howe gave up his spot to a twelve-year-old after several unsuccessful tries; the kid upended the V-1 on the first try.

The visit to aviation’s past made him feel as if he had let go of his own, and he arrived back at his hotel in good spirits, deciding to have one last meal in town at an expensive restaurant before leaving in the morning. He got into the elevator and held it open for a young mother and her child; the doors had nearly closed when a man in a blue pin-striped suit stuck his hand in, leveraging them back. The man leaned over and punched the button for Howe’s floor — seventeen — even though it was lit.

The child in the elevator looked to be about two. Spit dribbled from his mouth. As his mother bent to wipe it, Howe noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. For a moment he fantasized about striking up a conversation and inviting her to dinner.

The elevator stopped before he could think of anything to say. Howe reached to hold the door open for her; his gallantry earned him a smile from the woman, but he remained tongue-tied as the doors closed.

“Pretty,” said the other man.

“Oh, yeah,” said Howe.

“Instant family, though. Not for you.”

Howe turned to him.

“My name is Jake Elder. I’m with the Pentagon,” said the man. “Some people with the chief of staff want to talk to you about an aircraft you’re familiar with, and they sent me to get you.”

“What aircraft?” said Howe.

“Actually, I don’t know,” said Elder. “I think the nature of what they want to talk to you about requires compartmentalization. An Army major by the name of Tyler sent me,” added Elder. “He said you’d know him.”

The door to the elevator opened on Howe’s floor. Neither man moved to get out.

“He also said to make sure you knew this was strictly voluntary,” said Elder.

“All right,” Howe said. “Take me to him.”

Tyler met him in the Pentagon lobby, zipping him through security and filling him in as they walked upstairs to a suite of planning rooms.

“We were talking about Korea and your name came up,” said the major. “I thought I’d take a chance that you were still around.”

“I haven’t been in Korea since I was a lieutenant,” said Howe.

“It wasn’t really about your experience there.”

Tyler explained that he was working with a task force developing plans to target various North Korean advanced-weapons development sites in case of a war, facilities that might be difficult to bomb or worthy of study before being destroyed. The task force included CIA, DIA, and intelligence people.

“We’ve been asked to set up something special,” added Tyler. “Something a little complicated, and we have to put a plan together pretty quick.”

“I’ll help if I can,” said Howe.

A group of planners and intelligence experts, some in military uniform and some in civilian dress, were working in a large conference room Tyler led him to. Most had laptops open and sat around a pair of large round conference tables pushed awkwardly together, a large map at the center. The map was of North Korea. There were satellite photos and diagrams of a small airstrip known as Pong Yan and an adjacent installation.

“We want to pick someone up from this base,” said Tyler. “It’s in the northwest, fairly isolated, but a good distance from the coast.”

“And where does Cyclops come in?” asked Howe.

“Cyclops?”

“The airborne laser. That’s why I’m here, right? Because I helped develop it?”

“Not exactly,” said Tyler. “Let me explain.”

Their “target” was currently at the base, but had said he could make it to the airstrip. Two plans had been worked out. Both involved infiltrating Special Operations forces into the area. The first called for a force of two A teams — twenty-four men — to land at a point roughly fifty miles to the northwest. They would proceed overland — basically across mountains — meet the man at a prearranged spot near the camp, and then go back. The drawback was the fifty-mile trip: It was anything but an easy march, and while the soldiers could be expected to make it, the target was unlikely to be in very good shape.

“We’d probably end up carrying him out on a litter,” said Tyler, still speaking as if he led a Special Forces A team, which as a major he would not.

“Why don’t you use the airstrip?” asked Howe.

“That would be easier, but the goal is to make the rescue completely covert,” Tyler explained. He pointed at the map. “We don’t want the Koreans to know anything. And the problem here is that there are radars in this area that would catch anything approaching, and a barracks here and here. They would hear an aircraft or a helicopter.”

And possibly shoot it down, Howe realized, though Tyler didn’t say that.

“What about a Korean plane?” asked Howe.

“That’s plan two,” said Tyler. “Though there are some problems with it.”

Problem one was the fact that Korean aircraft were always strictly accounted for, and one suddenly appearing overhead would instantly arouse suspicions. Problem two was that the field at Pong Yan was short, which limited the aircraft that could land — and, more importantly, take off — there. What they needed was an airplane that belonged there, with reasonable range to get in and out while still operating on a short strip. At the same time it would be nice if it had decent speed and maybe the ability to defend itself against Korean SAMs and MiGs.

“Like a Korean cross between an MC-130 and an F-22,” said one of the civilian analysts.

“If you find a plane like that,” said Howe, “let me know.”

“Actually, NADT has something that might be useful,” said the man. “And it happens to look like a Russian aircraft that’s been operating over the country.”

The Berkut, thought Howe, finally understanding why they had called him.

“We’d still have people on the ground,” Tyler told him. “The team would go in and be prepared to secure the area if anything went wrong.”

“I don’t know if that plane can land there,” said Howe, leaning over the satellite photo.

“The engineers say it can.”

“NADT made it available?” Howe asked.

“That won’t be a problem,” said one of the civilians.

The Berkut was the NADT-built S-37/B, the two-seat American version of the Russian-made S-37 Sukhoi Howe had seen tarped in the hangar the other day. The American knockoff had several advantages over the real S-37, most notably in its payload and range, which could be extended with fuel tanks and an in-air refueling. Even so, the craft would have just enough fuel to make it from Japan, touch down, and then get out over the Sea of Japan for a refuel.

It had some drawbacks compared to the real thing, which was still in development. The American S-37/B was fitted with a Russian 30mm GSh-301 cannon, the same weapon used in the Sukhoi Su-27 series the original type was based on. This was a decent weapon, though of use only in a very short-range engagement. Because it had been built primarily to gain information about the Russian model’s capabilities, the NADT plane had only two working hard points, or spots where missiles or bombs could be attached. These points had also been plumbed for drop tanks — and would have to be used to complete the mission. Which meant it would be flying for a long time over hostile territory without much of a defense.

Howe suggested a pair of F/A-22Vs as long-range, stealthy escorts. While an excellent idea in theory, there were only three Velociraptors in existence and all were currently involved in a suspended NADT test program in Montana; obtaining the planes and making sure they were ready would take more than a week. A squadron of regular F/A-22s were envisioned as standby escorts, operating off the coast and only getting involved if needed. The planners believed — and Howe agreed — that the Berkut would have a better chance of reaching its target area and returning undetected if it flew alone; even if it was seen, the initial reaction would be that it was a Russian aircraft, and radio transmissions could be made to reinforce that. The Raptors, while stealthy, were not quite invisible, and some of the long-range radars the North Koreans used had a reasonable chance of finding them.

“We know it’s a long shot,” said Tyler. “The question is, is it possible?”

Howe folded his arms, realizing that the real question wasn’t whether it could be done or not: It could be. The question was whether he would do it. There were no other American pilots familiar with the plane. It would take several weeks to find another pilot and then train him to fly the aircraft.

“I can do it,” he said. “When do we go?”

Tyler smiled. “Choice isn’t ours, Colonel. We have to take the plan over to the White House in an hour and a half.”

“Well, let’s work out the details, then,” said Howe, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Chapter 9

The evidence fit on a single sheet of lined yellow paper: two calls from a cell phone in New York City to New York addresses, and an e-mail message that, when decrypted, read: Friends in NY Thursday. Both the cell phone and the e-mail account had been paid with a credit card associated with a member of a terrorist group called Caliph’s Sons, one of nearly a hundred on the CIA and FBI watch lists. The check used to pay for the credit card was drawn on a bank account that had paid for another e-mail account, this one with two messages about the potency of E-bombs. The messages were in clear text but were vaguely worded, with no indication that the sender or recipient had access to such a weapon. There was as yet no connection to North Korea.

As for Caliph’s Sons, little was known about the group beyond its name and the fact that one of its members had blown himself up accidentally in Queens six months before, and that the same man had used the Internet to find out information about high-power microwave (HPM) bombs: weapons that attacked gigahertz-band frequencies, commonly known as E-bombs.

“So, what do you think?” asked Macklin.

“You got the case nailed here, Michael, I have to say.”

“Come on, Fisher. Be serious.”

Fisher looked over at Macklin. The task force had set up its headquarters in Scramdale-on-Hudson, roughly twenty minutes by train from midtown Manhattan. The compound had been seized from a drug dealer some months before; it included a six-car garage, heated swimming pool, and access to the Hudson River over the nearby railroad tracks, no doubt convenient for disposing of troublesome business associates. The heart of the operation was a low-slung contemporary house with more bathrooms than bedrooms. Most of its furniture was still in the house, including the 1970s-style waterbed in the master bedroom suite. Apparently the dealers had had a thing about animal skins: The couch and chairs in the living room were made of stretched tiger fur, a bearskin rug sat between them, and what looked like a gutted ocelot gazed from the wall opposite the fireplace. If the drug charges didn’t hold, the U.S. attorney could easily obtain a conviction for poaching.

“Maybe a sauna will help you think,” suggested Macklin. “Want me to stoke it up?”

“As a general rule, I try to sweat as little as possible, especially when I’m working.” Fisher stood up and walked over to the massive fieldstone fireplace, squatting down to sit on the slate ledge in front of the hearth. He shook a Camel out and contemplated it, considering the alignment of the tobacco.

“You’ve staked out the places where the calls were received?” he asked.

“Around the clock.”

“You couldn’t run down the address on the e-mail?”

“Only that it was sent from overseas.”

Fisher turned the cigarette over in his hand. Who was the first person to figure out that you could use a machine to pack tobacco? he wondered. Truly he had made a valuable contribution to the human race, and yet, he had been forgotten.

The way of the world.

“This reminds me of that case we had in Detroit that time,” said Macklin. “Where we tapped the phone to find that kidnapped girl. Remember? We tracked those two bozos who were AWOL from the Army?”

Fisher lit up. “The mother killed the girl, Michael. How is this like that?”

“It just reminds me of that.”

“Let’s go see where that cell call was made from.”

“I told you, it’s, like, a ten-block radius at least,” said Macklin.

“Good. There ought to be a decent place to get coffee in there somewhere.”

Chapter 10

The FBI sent the new e-mail directly to Blitz, and he was just reading it when Hunter called to tell him about it. Blitz thanked him, then sat back at his desk, pondering the meaning of the short message.

Clearly, the scientist was getting antsy. Clearly, he had to be retrieved. But even Blitz was starting to worry now about the state of the country he was in. The latest estimate reported several army units in open rebellion.

Blitz had seen the Pentagon proposals for the operation. The planners clearly favored Force One, which called for an MC-130s to land at the airfield and secure it while another dropped several A teams into the camp a few miles away. There they would retrieve the scientist, by force if necessary.

The alternative, called Tacit Ivan, was admittedly more imaginative and was much more likely to remain secret. It was, however, even more risky, calling for a jet with minimal weapons to fly to the air base while the Korean scientist proceeded there on his own. The only man available to fly the plane, it appeared, was Colonel William Howe.

Reason enough in Blitz’s mind to kill it.

“President is calling for you,” said Mozelle, appearing over Blitz’s computer. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room already.”

Blitz looked up at his assistant. She had a strained look on her face.

“What?” he asked.

“That tie really doesn’t go with that jacket,” she said.

Tyler felt sweat creeping down the joints of his fingers to his palms as he stood against the wall in the Oval Office.

I’m nervous, he thought to himself. Wow.

And he was. Tyler had seen combat both with the Rangers and Special Forces. As far as he could remember, his hands had never sweat on him.

That was different somehow — which was odd really, because no matter what happened here, he wasn’t going to get shot at, let alone killed.

On the other hand, that was the President of the United States sitting a few feet away, joking with the secretary of defense about college basketball.

The President of the United States.

Tyler looked around the room, trying to memorize the scene: It was part of history, and he was right in the middle of it.

He was also the only black man in the room, he realized.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Blitz, coming in. The national security advisor seemed to wear a perpetual frown above his thin goatee; occasionally he tried to smile, which made his expression appear ten times grimmer.

“Now that we’re here, let’s have a brief summary of the plans,” said President D’Amici, leaning back in his chair. “Pentagon first.”

Colonel Victor Thos, who headed the special targeting task force, ran down the highlights of the plans with the help of a PowerPoint presentation. Force One, which had several options, was by far the preferred plan, and this came through in the presentation. Thos also outlined a more conventional plan with a force to knock out the radars and take over Pong Yan, the airfield near the camp.

“If we do that, we’ll start a war with them,” said Blitz. “If we can’t do this covertly, we can’t do it. Period.”

Thos grimaced and then outlined Tacit Ivan, the plan involving the Berkut. For some reason the plan sounded much more reasonable now than it had earlier when they’d gone over the presentation, though Tyler decided he still preferred Force One.

“I have one question,” said the President when he finished. “Would you put your life on the line for any of these plans?”

“Yes, sir, I would,” snapped Tyler.

The words had come out automatically, and Tyler realized belatedly that the President had actually asked the question of Thos. All eyes in the room stared at him.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“That’s quite all right,” said the President. He turned to Thos. “I assume you feel the same way.”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, of course,” said Blitz. “That’s not the question.”

Tyler knew from the meetings he had observed that the President didn’t mind candid exchanges and even arguments, but Blitz seemed almost belligerent. The national security advisor began arguing about the need for alacrity — he used the word several times — because of the deteriorating situation. To Tyler, it seemed as if he was criticizing the plan.

“We can have people on the ground there within twenty-four hours,” Tyler said finally when Thos didn’t speak up in its defense. “I guarantee it.”

The secretary of defense and the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff glared at him. Tyler felt his jaw set; what the hell did they expect? Of course the job could be done. Otherwise they wouldn’t have brought it here.

“Are you volunteering to take command of the mission, Ken?” asked the President.

Was he?

“Sir, I would in a heartbeat. Absolutely. I want to lead it.”

The President smiled. Tyler sensed that he was coming off like some sort of cowboy gunslinger, which to him was the exact opposite of what he felt: He was here as a professional with a carefully considered, albeit risky, lineup of plans. He wouldn’t have proposed them if he didn’t believe in them.

Were the others testing him? Thos started to say something — either to change the subject or perhaps point out that the unit officers would be expected to command and would be more than qualified to do so — but the President raised his hand.

“I think Major Tyler would be an excellent choice. I have full confidence in him. And in Colonel Howe. I want a plan that has a chance to remain covert but can move ahead quicker than the CIA plan. That’s Tacit Ivan. Get it under way immediately.”

Chapter 11

“You figure terrorists are big on irony?” asked Fisher.

“How so?”

“Battery Park. Energy. E-bomb. Get it?”

Macklin’s blank stare went well with his haircut, which looked as if it had started as a fade and veered toward Mohawk. Fisher walked past the museum building out toward the edge of the water. On a clear day you could see the Statue of Liberty from there — but this wasn’t a clear day. A low bank of clouds loomed beyond the thin mist, and the sky above furled with an impending snowstorm.

Though the more optimistic weathermen were calling for sleet.

“You think he called from the middle of Battery Park?” asked Macklin.

“We sure it’s a ‘he’?” asked Fisher. The cell tower that had picked up the call was located on the top of a nearby building, but the fog was so thick Fisher couldn’t see it.

“Good point.”

“No other call, huh?”

“None,” said Macklin.

“Why do you figure that is?”

“Reprogrammed it or used a different cell phone.”

“Could be.” Fisher turned around and looked out at the water. “Maybe he threw it in the water.”

“You want to drag the harbor?”

“Even I’m not that crazy,” said Fisher.

“They use the phones once or twice, they reprogram the chips,” said Macklin. “I was at a seminar a few weeks back explaining how it’s done. So you think he was in the park?” added the Homeland Security agent.

“Maybe,” said Fisher. “Or on the water.”

“What, swimming?”

“Could have been in a boat.”

“Well, sure,” said Macklin.

A ferry loomed in the distance. There were ferry slips at the very southern tip of the island; you could get to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as well as Staten Island.

“Should we look for a boat?” asked Macklin.

“Probably not.”

“Did they case out the Statue of Liberty, maybe?”

“Could be.”

“ ‘Could be’?” said Macklin.

“Could be a lot of things, Michael. That’s the problem.”

“Well, what the hell are we looking for?” asked Macklin.

“Damned if I know,” said Fisher. “But a good cup of coffee would sure hit the spot.”

“We have to figure this out, Andy. We have to. America ’s counting on us.”

The wind was too strong for Fisher to risk rolling his eyes. Instead he asked, “Where are those apartments?”

“One’s in Washington Heights, the other’s in Queens. They’re under surveillance.”

“Okay,” said Fisher, starting to his left.

“Where are we going?”

“To get some coffee.”

“Andy—”

“Then we’re going to take a subway ride.”

Chapter 12

“You can’t command the force,” Colonel Thos told Tyler as they walked downstairs.

“The President told me to do it,” replied Tyler.

“He didn’t tell you to go on the mission.”

As originally drawn up, the ground commander would be an A Team captain working with men already in Korea and the Asia theater. Tyler interpreted the President’s order to mean that he should go along personally and the captain would answer to him. Thos pointed out that the President hadn’t specifically said that. Not only would it be contrary to normal procedure, from a logistical point of view, getting from Washington to Korea in time to be on the raid would be extremely difficult.

Tyler wasn’t going to argue with Thos. As far as he was concerned, the President’s order meant that he was to be there himself personally. Period.

Period.

Tyler replayed the meeting in his mind. Some of the others were looking at him with contempt, but the President hadn’t. The President — his eyes had said something to him.

I need someone I can trust. Can I trust you?

There was no way Tyler was backing out. And screw anybody who suggested he do so.

If he were white, no one would say anything, Tyler thought.

That wasn’t fair, not really, and certainly not in Thos’s case. The colonel was from a mixed background himself: Malaysian as well as European. His argument was based on command structure and the normal rules and procedures the Army followed.

But it did make sense for Tyler to take command of the mission. He sure as hell had the experience and expertise: He’d only recently been an A Team captain and had been in Korea; he undoubtedly knew many of the men who would be on the mission. He had planned it and so knew the details intimately. He knew Howe as well. The only problem was getting over to Korea.

“Look, Tyler, you’ll never make it in time,” said Thos as they reached their car.

“I will,” said Tyler. “And I think we can shave twenty-four hours off the timetable. You have to let me go, Vic. You owe it to me.”

“I owe it to you? Bullshit on that.” Thos frowned. “That’s not the way it works.”

“Well, it should be,” said Tyler. “And I’m going whether you like it or not. The President told me to.”

Chapter 13

Howe had been around enough military planners to realize that the Berkut plan was being developed as the weak sister to make the other options look better. Still, he agreed to hang around Washington, D.C., just in case the President green-lighted the operation. And so he found himself back at the hotel with nothing to do except sit in his hotel room and watch the last of the first-round games of the NCAAs. It was Auburn against St. John’s, and for some reason he found himself rooting for Auburn, which of course was a mistake. While St. John’s was no powerhouse, it had Auburn put away by halftime, and a few minutes into the second half Howe decided he’d go out for a walk.

It was warm for March, and Howe found he didn’t need to zip his jacket.

He’d volunteered for the mission without question. More than that, he wanted to do it.

Maybe leaving the Air Force had been the wrong thing to do. But if he were still in the Air Force, he’d be queuing up for a general’s slot down at the Pentagon, kissing as many butts as he could find.

An exaggeration. And surely he’d have a choice of commands. His star was rising. Had been rising.

Not that Howe didn’t have detractors. He’d been having an affair with a woman who was known to be a traitor, and there were undoubtedly rumors about that.

More than an affair: She’d been the love of his life. What did that say about his judgment?

A few kids were taking advantage of the almost spring-like weather to cut school and ride their skateboards down the back steps of an office building. Howe stopped and watched them through a chain-link fence as they tried to ride down the railing. Neither of the kids made it without falling as he watched, and while they were wearing helmets and pads, the lumps had to hurt. But they kept bounding up from the ground, eager to try again.

As Howe walked back to the hotel, he decided that he’d call Tyler and tell him he was heading home. It was time to get on with the next part of his life, move on.

But Elder, the Pentagon messenger, was waiting for him in the lobby, holding his suitcase.

“I took the liberty of settling your bill,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. They’re pretty anxious to have you get to Andrews as soon as possible.”

Chapter 14

You could take the 1 or 9 subway up the west side of Manhattan from Battery Park to Washington Heights, and get out two blocks from the apartment the DIA and Homeland Security task force was watching. What an endorsement for mass transit, thought Fisher. Even the terrorists take the train.

During the American Revolution, Washington Heights had been the site of a needless fiasco for the American rebels, and its history had gone downhill from there. It never was much of an area for farming, and after it was developed it quickly became choked with refugees from less fortunate areas of the city, who found the cold-water walk-ups somewhat more hospitable than the crammed tenements farther downtown. There were a few upward bumps of progress here; for a few weeks during the 1940s, it was even considered a nice place to live, a way station to the greener pastures of suburban New Jersey across the way. Urban renewal and the construction of the highway network related to the George Washington Bridge, along with the grand plans of Robert Moses, razed some of the worst buildings in the early sixties, replacing them with structures whose main asset was their height. In the course of time, Irish immigrants were replaced by Puerto Rican immigrants who were replaced by Caribbean immigrants. Crack replaced bootleg whiskey.

In sum, it was exactly the sort of New York community Fisher felt at home in. But it didn’t give him much of a grip on the terrorists.

“Corner apartment — there,” said an NYPD officer named Paesano tasked to the team keeping the place under surveillance. The city had supplied about a dozen officers and support personnel to help with the nitty-gritty work. “Couple of ragheads have the lease, but there’s at least five people live there.”

“ ‘Ragheads’?” said Macklin.

“We’re among friends, right?” said the cop, who was in plainclothes. They had taken an apartment above a store across the street from the three-story building the call had been made to. “They worship, if you can call it that, at a storefront mosque down the street. Got this imam in there who rolls his eyes backwards in his head and says ‘kill the infidels.’ ”

“ ‘The only good infidel is a dead infidel,’ ” said Fisher.

“Yeah, except we’re the infidels,” said Paesano.

They’d passed the mosque on the way up; it looked more like the abandoned five-and-dime it had been than a house of worship. Metal grates and thick plywood covered all but one of the large plate-glass window areas, and the surviving glass was covered with advertisements and handbills. A piece of cardboard in the corner gave a lecture schedule; anyone interested in services was presumed to know when they were. According to the surveillance team, there were two guards at all times just inside the doorway.

“Theory is, these guys are connected with the mosque. They worship there. Two of ’em have jobs at that shoe store on the corner,” continued the cop.

He was a smoker, but he preferred Newport menthols, which to Fisher made no sense at all. Why screw up good tobacco with a candy flavor? You wanted mint, buy some Tic Tacs.

“Maybe it’s a front or something, but they do business,” said the cop, referring to the shoe store. “We sent somebody in to check it out. They have used shoes and repairs. One of the DIA guys bugged the place.”

“What’d they find?” asked Fisher.

“That it’s hard to get EE width.”

“Usual DIA efficiency,” said Fisher. “Probably reviewing it at the Pentagon right now.”

“I heard that, Andy,” said Kowalski from the hallway. He and one of his lackeys came into the room.

“Good to see you, too, Kowalski.”

“Yeah, I’m real emotional about it. But at least you’re on the right team now. Maybe later on you can tell us how you screwed up in Moscow,” added the DIA agent, never one to miss a chance to twist the knife.

“It was easy,” said Fisher. “I just asked myself what you would do in my situation.”

“As I was saying,” continued Paesano, “ragheads stay in during the day, most days. They’re all there now.”

“Fire escape’s clear,” said Fisher.

“That significant?” asked the cop.

“Only if there’s a fire.” Fisher pushed the window open, trying to escape the odor of cat piss that had been left by the last tenants. The odor of rotten eggs and overcooked cabbage wafted into the room. It was a decided improvement.

“You shouldn’t make yourself conspicuous,” said Macklin.

“You think a bunch of white guys wearing suits in this neighborhood isn’t conspicuous?” asked Fisher. He leaned out the window, casing the block. It seemed neatly divided between the man selling crack from the back of an old Toyota at the corner on the left and the two Rastafarians selling loose joints on the right. The Jamaicans seemed to be in a time warp: Most of the dealing in this area had been taken over by Nigerians long before.

“We have a warrant, and we have backup manpower,” said Kowalski. “We can go in whenever we want.”

“How about now?” asked Fisher.

“You think it’s worth raiding the place?” asked Macklin.

“No,” said Fisher. “But at least if you raid it you can close down this surveillance operation. Then Paesano can get the cat smell out of his clothes.”

“Amen to that,” said the cop.

It took several hours to set up the operation; in the meantime, Fisher and one of the city cops went down to the shoe store. The owner of the store spoke Spanish with a Puerto Rican accent, which gave him away as a longtime resident of the area. He was also nearly blind and partly deaf, though he did give Fisher a good deal on a new heel.

The shoe was fixed just in time for the FBI agent to join in the raid, which began with two large police vans from the city’s emergency response unit blocking off the street. As they moved in, members from the SWAT team tossed military-style flash-bang grenades into the apartment window, then blew in through the windows and front door.

“Too bad we couldn’t have been with the first wave,” said Fisher wistfully as he walked up the steps with Paesano after the apartment had been secured. “I always wanted to do a Tarzan swing into a New York City apartment.”

“Maybe next time,” said the cop.

“Sure you don’t want a Camel?” asked Fisher.

“No, thanks.”

Cat piss seemed to be the odor du jour; it was stronger here than across the street. But at least in the Arabs’ apartment it mixed with the scent of strong coffee and human excrement — the latter undoubtedly caused by the SWAT team’s sudden arrival. Among those joining in the operation were two members of an Immigration and Naturalization Service task force: Three of the four men here had student visas that had expired.

There was a small amount of pot in one of the two rooms used as bedrooms. While under ordinary circumstances it might have drawn the equivalent of a parking ticket, the marijuana inspired creative thinking on the part of Paesano, who found grounds for a dozen related charges. Just the processing alone could keep them tied down for weeks.

The men were led downstairs under heavy guard; in the meantime, Macklin’s people had begun interviewing neighbors for information.

“Nice computers,” said Paesano.

And they were: three brand new Dells, all lined up on the kitchen table. Wires snaked off the cracked Formica top of the table across a chair to a router; there was a DSL modem strapped to a shelf on the wall where a phone had once hung.

“Hey, don’t touch!” shouted Macklin as Fisher went to tap one of the keyboards. “They may have them rigged to erase the contents of the drives, or maybe explode.”

“You think?”

“Fisher!”

“I’m just seeing what they were doing before the screen savers went on,” said Fisher. “Relax.”

One of the computers had not been on. The second had a word processing program active; it looked as though the user had been typing a letter home to Mom.

The third had a game called Red Rogue on the screen. A terrorist with a gas mask pointed a souped-up Mac 11 point-blank at the viewer.

“Computer guy is on his way,” said Macklin. “We’ll have everything analyzed. Don’t screw with it.”

“We’ll wrap all this stuff up, get the crime scene guys in, dust around for prints,” added Kowalski. “Very good operation. Very good.”

“Why would you dust for prints?” asked Fisher.

“We don’t know who else might have been here.”

“You’ve had the apartment under surveillance for almost a week,” said Fisher. “You know who was here.”

“Yeah, but I want to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. Right, Macklin?”

The Homeland Security agent nodded but then looked at Fisher. “Don’t we?”

“Sure.” Fisher lit a fresh cigarette. If they wanted to waste their time, who was he to argue? Besides, crime scene guys usually got paid by the hour, and most of them could probably use the overtime.

There was a pile of computer games on the floor. Fisher bent to examine the boxes.

“Have these computer games checked out, too,” he said, “since you’re dusting for prints. Then give them to geeks and see if anything else is on them.”

“Think there’s something there?” asked Macklin.

“Probably not,” said Fisher. “But they’re bootlegs. I just want to make sure that’s all they are.”

“How do you know they’re bootlegs?” asked Kowalski.

“No holograms,” said Fisher, pointing at the boxes. “You know. Those shiny things.”

“I know what a hologram is,” said Kowalski.

“They could have messages, right? I’ve heard of that,” said Macklin.

“Yeah,” said Kowalski. “We’ll ship them over to the NSA, get them decoded.”

Fisher squatted down in front of the screen, examining Red Rogue. “One thing I always wondered…”

“What’s that?” asked Macklin.

“Why would someone put a high-power scope on an Ingram Mac 11? I mean, isn’t that kind of beside the point?”

Chapter 15

Just over twenty-four hours had passed since the President had set the plan in motion. In that time, the situation in North Korea had deteriorated to the point that neither the CIA nor South Korean intelligence knew where Kim Jong Il or his family were. Two armored units, each with about two dozen tanks, were guarding roads to the capital, though it was not clear who beyond themselves they were loyal to.

American troops were now on high alert, not just in Korea, but throughout the world. Two aircraft carriers and their assorted escorts were offshore, and two more were quietly but quickly steaming toward the peninsula. No less than six submarines with Tomahawk missiles and several surface ships were prepared to launch against North Korean targets on the President’s command. The Air Force had round-the-clock patrols and a host of contingency plans: With a single word from the President, an attack could be launched that would make the opening salvos of Gulf War II look like nothing more than a few rounds of target practice.

President D’Amici had ruled out the use of nuclear weapons, even as a retaliatory measure. He saw no point: America ’s awesome conventional capacity could level the country, and nuclear weapons would only complicate the aftermath, endangering the Americans and South Koreans who by necessity would have to pick up the pieces.

“If Truman didn’t use them, I’m not going to,” the President told Blitz as they strode downstairs to the White House situation room, actually a suite of rooms with secure links and access to intelligence gathering around the globe.

Under other circumstances Blitz might have asked the President if he thought Truman should have used the weapons. But this was not the time for what-if scenarios.

The demise of the North Korean dictatorship — however much that was a good thing for the world — meant considerable uncertainty and danger for the South Koreans, the Japanese, and the Americans. Blitz was overwhelmed with estimates, questions, reports, bulletins: Tacit Ivan seemed almost small potatoes in the context of the situation.

Almost.

Homeland Security, the FBI, and local police had raided a New York City apartment the day before, following up leads on the E-bomb situation. The raid had not yielded anything beyond what the specially prepared eyes-only summary declared “potential leads.” But the NSA had picked up several offshore cell phone conversations over the past ten days that used the words black out. One of the interceptions had been traced to a phone connected to a credit card believed to be used by Caliph’s Sons. The information remained maddeningly vague, the connections convoluted, and the evidence elusive. True intelligence analysis required time and perspective; neither was available nor likely to be in the coming days.

When they reached the wood-paneled conference room at the heart of the suite, the President walked over to a cluster of Air Force officers to discuss the latest target list that had been developed for the B-2 bombers stationed in South Korea. The Air Force was shuttling bombers into the air around the clock to maintain coverage of critical targets. The two warheads that the American forces knew about were triple-targeted; both of those weapons would be destroyed within ten minutes of the President’s direct and specific order to do so. Cruise missiles and air-to-ground weapons aboard other fighters would be aimed at nearly one hundred additional top-priority sites, including the suspected additional nuclear warhead missile sites. Missiles that managed to get off despite this would be handled by one of two airborne laser Cyclops aircraft, one over South Korea and one off the coast. An additional line of Patriot antimissile and aircraft batteries protected Seoul.

Twenty minutes for everything to be hit, one of the intelligence officers had said to Blitz. Minuscule in the history of warfare; an eternity if you were in the enemy’s crosshairs.

The President hunched over the shoulder of one of the military analysts going over the latest satellite photos showing North Korean troop movements. There were positive signs: One division near the border seemed to have mutinied and its vehicles were heading away from the demilitarized zone. They could see men following on the roads in the dust, and the sharpest-eyed analysts said a few had thrown away their guns.

“So, Professor, do we move ahead with Tacit Ivan or not?” asked the President.

“Yes, of course,” said Blitz. He put more confidence in his voice than he felt; somehow the atmosphere of the Pentagon always did that to him.

“Even in the face of a coup and mutiny?”

“That’s the best argument to proceed,” said Blitz.

“I agree.”

The President’s face changed momentarily, the heavy mask of responsibility melting. He smiled in a way that reminded Blitz of their much earlier days, ancient history now, spent discussing geopolitics in the dark days after Vietnam. Oddly, he could no longer remember the substance of the talks, but he could remember where they’d taken place: several watching the Orioles, a whole host in Syracuse, where the President spent a brief period as a college professor before running for Congress.

“You’re worried about Howe,” said the President.

“Yes, of course.”

“There’s no question he’s the right man for the job,” said the President. “It comes down to the people on the line. He’s the right man.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Blitz.

“Besides, this will remind him of how important duty is.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’ll take your job,” said the President.

“That’s the least of my worries right now.”

The smile flickered as the mask of command once more took over the President’s face. “Are we set, then?”

“Everything’s in place,” said Blitz. He looked across the room to Colonel Thos and nodded.

“They’re waiting to hear from you at the Pentagon, Mr. President,” said Thos.

Chapter 16

The MC-130 banked hard to the right, its wingtips coming within a few meters of the hillside. Turbulence off the rift in the earth pushed the aircraft downward, threatening disaster; the pilot had only a few feet to work with as he slipped the big four-engined craft through a hole in the North Korean air defenses. All the high-tech radar detectors and GPS locators in the world couldn’t overcome the basic laws of gravity and motion, and as the Hercules came through the narrow mountain pass the success of the mission and the lives of two dozen passengers and crew came down to the reflexes of the man at the helm, a veteran Air Force pilot who had passed up a parcel of supposedly better assignments to stay with the Herky birds and the Special Operations soldiers who relied on them.

Back in the cargo hold of the plane, Tyler waited with his team members as the plane stuttered over the terrain. He checked his watch. They had about ten more minutes of flying time before they would reach the drop zone. He knew from experience those would be among the longest minutes of his life.

And the shortest.

He’d been right to insist on the assignment, and lucky to get it.

Of course, if they augered in right now, he’d be neither. The plane’s nose bucked downward and the entire craft seemed to shift to the right, leaving Tyler temporarily hovering in space. His momentum caught up with that of the plane’s a second later, and he felt his boots slap against the metal decking. His stomach sloshed up somewhere around his gallbladder, then pressed against his lungs.

He’d made the right choice. Definitely.

“Almost there!” he shouted confidently to the rest of the team. “Almost there.”

The canopy exploded above him, its cells ripped open by the rushing wind. Tyler fought not so much to control the parachute but to control himself: He had a tendency to pull too sharply on the steering togs.

He could see the others nearby. Good chutes.

He wanted the ground but couldn’t see it. He waited, the hardest thing.

Where the hell was it?

The plane had to crisscross back overhead, flying an extremely narrow corridor where the North Koreans couldn’t find it on radar. A mile either way and not only would it be shot down but Duke and the twenty-two people who’d come out with him would be hung out to dry.

So where the hell was the ground already?

Tyler saw shadows and braced himself, trying simultaneously to relax and brace for the landing at the same time.

It didn’t come. It wouldn’t.

Too fucking long. A lot of guys wanted the jump to go on forever, or so they said; he was always anxious for it to end.

He was off balance now, unsure what the hell was going on.

More shadows. He braced again.

Nothing.

And then the ruck thumped behind him. His right leg touched down a millisecond before the left; he screwed it up, lost his balance, fell to the right instead of walking off like a champ. If this were a training film he’d be the shitful example, tumbling onto the ground, the idiot who did everything wrong, got his head messed up, doubted the equipment, dragged along on the ground as the chute inflated with the wind.

His fingers fumbled against the restraint snaps.

He was eating dirt. His face bashed against the rocks.

Three months in Washington and I’m this far out of it?

Tyler ignored the bumps and bruises, rolling up his chute and trying to hide the damage to his ego.

The team leaders quickly gathered their men together. Besides eighteen Army Special Forces soldiers — one and a half A teams — they’d taken along two Air Force air commandos with special training so they could refuel the aircraft if necessary. They also had two CIA people with them, a female officer and a native Korean agent, who could provide assistance as well. The agent had some familiarity with the terrain and would be useful in case things went very wrong; had the CIA version of the plan been approved, they’d have been here alone.

Tyler wasn’t the only one who had trouble landing. One of the soldiers had broken his arm but insisted he could travel. Tyler ’s first call was whether to let him or not.

An easy call: The man could still walk.

“You’re with us,” said the major. “All right, let’s move out.”

He checked his AK-47. The team had been equipped with Korean weapons and uniforms; most of the men had Asian backgrounds and they might be able to at least temporarily fool an enemy patrol.

Temporarily.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” repeated Tyler. “We have twenty miles to travel tonight.”

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

From the outside, the Berkut looked like a Sukhoi with its wings on backward.

From the inside, it felt like a splinter that could change directions in the wink of God’s eye.

The other man who had flown the plane compared it to a lighter, longer F/A-18; one of the engineers who’d been in the backseat thought it closer to an ancient F-104 Starfighter that could maneuver like an A-10A Warthog. Howe had flown the F/A-18 only once (it was a Navy plane) and had never sat in the cockpit of the Starfighter, which was retired long before he had joined the service. He’d also never flown an A-10A. His main comparison was therefore the heavily modified F-16 that he’d used to familiarize himself with the Berkut before strapping himself inside; the S-37/B was slightly faster and so twisty that it was easy for the plane to get ahead of the pilot during high-g maneuvers, becoming essentially uncontrollable. The nose of the plane had a tendency to shoot up during a hard turn, and despite all of the engineering it remained at least theoretically possible to jam the Berkut so tightly at high speed that the divergent forces of lift, gravity, and momentum would snap off the forward winglets.

Master those forces, however, and the plane form had a great deal of potential. The Russians were trying to sell their version, somewhat tamed down, as a multitasking fighter-bomber. As a ground-pounder the plane carried more armor — a lot more armor — which not only increased its survivability but took just enough of the maneuverability away to make it safer to fly.

Though much less fun.

Howe wasn’t particularly concerned with the fun factor or even his version’s ultramaneuverability as he took off from Misawa Air Base in northern Japan. As the crow flew, he was roughly eight hundred miles from his destination, but he wasn’t a crow and he wasn’t going in a straight line. After a refuel over the Sea of Japan and a rendezvous with a pair of flight groups providing cover in case anyone was tracking him, Howe would tuck toward the waves and begin his weave over the border of Russia and down into North Korea. His flight path led through a poorly covered defense zone, well north of a cluster of radar units that would be scanning for an American intrusion. Flying along the northern border of the country, he would have to watch for Chinese as well as Korean air patrols, but this ought to be relatively easy, as neither country was in the habit of flying many nighttime sorties in the vicinity. Once past the border town of Hyesan, he would cut southwest through Yanggang Province for about fifty miles before zagging through the hills and landing at the air base.

Ten minutes before he touched down, Howe would make a transmission in Russian indicating that he was experiencing engine problems. The SF team on the ground would hear the broadcast and relay a go/no-go via the satellite communications system to a mission coordinator orbiting far off the coast in an RC-135.

There were three options, the call to be made by the ground team, which by now should be ringing the airfield and observing the nearby camp where the scientist was staying.

The first plan, and the preferred option, had Howe landing and taxiing to the far end of the runway. The scientist would be waiting. Howe would help him aboard and then take off. They would fly out to the Sea of Japan, where he would meet a refueling jet. The Special Forces troops, meanwhile, would proceed back to a landing area near where they had parachuted; a pair of Ospreys would sneak through the radar-free corridor and pick them up two nights later. This was the preferred plan, and they would use it if the scientist left the camp where he was staying and went to the airport, as he had agreed to do via coded e-mail.

Option two called for the Special Forces unit to attack the camp, locate the scientist, and proceed with him to the airfield. Howe would take off with the scientist; the SF team would then either make their way to the place they’d been dropped or go via a second route to the coast.

Option three also called for an attack on the camp but involved a rescue package of MC-130s landing at the air base after Howe took off. In that case Howe would peel off west, covered by the escorts that came north with the cargo craft, and head to a South Korean base.

In the pilot’s opinion, the choice was only between one and three: Shoot up anything on the ground and there was no way they were going to sneak out of North Korea.

The Berkut would be visible on radar for about two minutes before he landed and after he took off, but in his opinion the real hassle was his fuel management, which was going to be tighter than tight. The refueling option at the base had been discarded because the scientist warned there was no source of jet fuel there.

Howe checked his fuel state against the matrix and notes he’d prepared on his flight board. He seemed to be doing slightly better than anticipated, consuming less fuel than he’d used getting across the United States. The specially built GE engines were considerably more efficient than the Russian Saturn Al-31Fs, standard equipment on the Su-27. (Contrary to published reports, the Sukhoi’s power plants were used rather than Aviadvigatel D30-F6s from the MiG-31 Foxhound.) Still, there was no confusing the Berkut with the F/A-22V, which could fly halfway around the world and back on a tank of gas. The plane’s thin wings might help maneuvering, but they left little space for jet fuel. The fuselage on the American plane was actually a little bigger than the Russian model and added a bit more capacity, but the plane’s ferry range only topped two thousand miles with a good tailwind. So refueling was a necessity.

Howe’s tanker was an ancient beast, a military version of Boeing’s venerable 707 that lumbered ahead, director lights glowing like the sign on a 7-Eleven as Howe ambled in for a Big Gulp. The Berkut’s fly-by-wire yoke-like the F-16 and F/A-22, it was a sidestick, mounted at the side of the pilot’s seat-sat easy in his hand as he moved into position behind the flying gas station. A pair of F-15s checked in over the horizon, playing their role in the elaborate game of cat and mouse concocted to keep Howe’s mission from being known.

“Ivan One, you read us?”

“Roger that, Rogue Flight.”

“Juice up and let’s have at it,” said the F-15 pilot.

Under other circumstances, the jocks might have exchanged some good-natured banter, but the normally loquacious Eagle pilots were under instructions to keep radio traffic to a minimum. The situation in Korea had the Eagles’ unit at its highest alert, and even though the men didn’t know what Howe’s mission was, they surely guessed at his destination.

Even with all that, the flight leader couldn’t resist a whistle when he spotted Howe’s plane in the last rays of sunlight as he climbed through thirty thousand feet.

“At you,” said Howe, initiating the mock encounter. He put the plane on its wing as the F-15s crisscrossed above him, one pursuing while the other orbited west. The brief tangle was over inside of two minutes — about as long as a real furball might have lasted. The two F-15s rocketed back and forth as Howe hit the deck outside of easy radar coverage. Within a few minutes they were headed toward Misawa Air Base. Their radio calls now referred to three flights, as would the landing instructions.

A flight of F/A-22s made a radio call to an AWACS. Orbiting to the south of Howe’s course about seventy-five miles from the Korean coast, the interceptors were both decoys and emergency guard dogs: They and an AWACS plane operating to the east would watch for North Korean fighter action and would sprint to Howe’s aid if necessary.

Howe, meanwhile, had nosed down below one hundred feet, clipping along close enough to sniff the foam from the waves. He checked his fuel — still doing good — checked the rest of his instruments, studied the radar warning receiver or RWR, reviewed his course. Everything was in the green.

Nothing to do now but fly into the gathering darkness. And so he did.

Thirty-two minutes later Howe slid over the Russian coast, ducking past the blunt fingers of an early-warning radar and pushing into North Korean territory. While most of the North Korean radar system was aimed at Seoul and the coast, there were radars and some SAMs here and they couldn’t be ignored. Howe’s course had been painstakingly worked out to run through the gaps, but he had to fly very low, hiding the sharp corners of his aircraft in the clutter of radar returns thrown off by the ground. While Howe’s plane carried electronic countermeasures that could confuse the radars, using the jammers would be like turning a flashlight on in a darkened room: The Koreans would know he was there. And so he threaded a crooked needle as he flew, staying low and near mountainsides. The need to follow a precise course and the danger that he was in were a blessing in a way: They focused his thoughts entirely on his ship and what was around him. While immensely fatiguing, in another way the sheer concentration and immersion in what he was doing relaxed him. His muscles moved in an unconscious way, his eyes gathering data without conscious thought, his body and soul funneled into the moment. Waypoint after waypoint, Howe moved inextricably toward his goal. Nothing outside of the tense cocoon of his plane and the surrounding defenses disturbed him; the world consisted only of the Berkut and the people who would destroy it if they could.

And then he was fifty miles from his destination, just under ten minutes from putting down.

Howe checked the radio unit and broadcast the Russian message, which had been prerecorded on a special CD. Then he turned up the volume and double-checked that the radio was locked into the command frequency, ready to receive the signal on what to do.

Chapter 19

Dr. Park got up from the chair and went to the window, bending his head to look up at the sky past the nearby mountainside. A few faint stars glimmered in the darkness; he thought of the folktale about the cowherd and the weaver, the constellations separated by a father’s jealousy.

Why was he here? The unit Dr. Park had been told he would help had not arrived; in fact, there were no more than a dozen men all told, if that. The camp seemed as forlorn as any Dr. Park had ever seen. The airfield a few miles away where the tests were supposed to be held was emptier still, abandoned for months if not years. The open hangar at the far end of the runway area held two small aircraft, the remains of a UAV project that until now Dr. Park had only heard rumors about, but the crews who cared for the planes, as well as the men who had developed them, were absent. The other buildings there were falling in on themselves.

The buildings here were not much better. The rooms in his small bungalow smelled of mildew. A cook made meals only once a day; the rest of the time Dr. Park had to forage for food in the large kitchen in the administrative building, apparently as the others did. The few men he had contact with were young soldiers who answered questions with shrugs.

Had he been sent here as punishment for Moscow?

He did not think this could be so, for surely punishment would be more severe. It seemed more that he had simply been forgotten. He was free to wander back and forth and spend his hours playing one-man Ping-Pong against the folded side of a game table. A soldier or two was never far away — one had gone with him to the airfield the other day, and down the road for a walk the day before — but none ever stopped him.

Most likely the situation was a product of the growing disarray in the country, the confusion between different branches and departments. Even in this isolated place Dr. Park saw it: A dignitary had arrived yesterday and yet received no official greeting; his car had swung in the gate and gone up to the main administration building, and if the man had even gotten out, let alone taken a tour of the place, Dr. Park did not know about it.

Dr. Park decided he would take a walk. He began thinking of the folktale again, the cleverness of coming up with an earthly story to explain the movement of the heavens. Dr. Park had always been interested in the stars; he saw it as an extension of his interest in science and math. He had vaguely hoped that if he was successful in leaving for America, he would be able to pursue those interests somehow. Perhaps there was a space project he might be assigned to, or some department dealing with the study of the stars. But the failure in Moscow — his own failure, he knew — had sealed his fate. He would live out his days as an engineer for the state, as preordained.

He walked around the perimeter of the camp, admiring the stars. Tomorrow he would find the camp director or someone else in authority and make inquiries, he decided. If he was not needed, perhaps it would be possible to visit his mother’s cousin in Dao; she was his last claim on family, though it was doubtful she even knew that he was there.

Dr. Park took one last look at the stars before going back inside his hut. Now he thought about his grandmother when she had told him the folktale of the stars that could meet only once a year. He felt again her warm embrace, the only memory he had now of the day his mother and father died together.

The memory lingered as he crossed the threshold of the hut. It stayed with him even as the thick blade of a hatchet smacked into the back corner of his skull, sending the life from his body.

Chapter 20

Tyler leaned across the rock, training the nightscope on the runway. The airfield was practically unguarded, with only two men watching the road at the south. It seemed to have been used as a storage area but had been abandoned sometime before. The army camp where their contact was living was two miles away. At one time a cross between an army base and a factory, it, too, seemed almost abandoned: There were skeleton posts around the perimeter, with no more than a dozen guards. A three-man team had already scouted it; they had a way in if their man didn’t show. Another team was sitting near the field itself, ready to intervene if the pilot needed help.

The communications man tapped him. Tyler cupped his hand over his ear and then clicked into the circuit, talking into the miniature boom mike that extended near his collar.

“Etha bleekah,” he said. It was a transliteration of 3mo 6u3ko, Russian for It’s nearby. While the odds against the radio signal being intercepted were practically nil, they had decided to use Russian code words unless there was a problem. The phrase was arbitrary, intended to tell the controller that everything was clear but that the Korean had not yet arrived.

“Da,” responded the controller. Yes.

Howe was on schedule. All they needed was their package.

The communications man tapped him, then held up two fingers.

Team Two had the Korean in sight.

Tyler moved across the rise to a spot overlooking the road, careful not to stand upright where he would risk being silhouetted in the moonlight.

The man was alone, riding a bike.

He went back to the communications sergeant, who was handling the team’s twenty-pound radio, a modern version of the Raytheon AN/PSC-5(V). The radioman could select satellite, line-of-sight, UHF, and VHF frequencies.

“Eh-ehta harasho,” Tyler said into the mike, stuttering as he tried to pronounce the words Это хорошо: It’s all right, we’re cool, let’s kick butt, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

He pulled off his headset, straining to hear the hum of a jet in the distance.

Chapter 21

Howe stood on the brakes as he touched down, the aircraft like a fully loaded tractor-trailer trying to grab the last spot in the Wal-Mart parking lot fresh off the Interstate. Short-landing characteristics were one thing; fitting yourself onto a postage stamp was something else again. The aircraft drifted to the right as he rode down the hard-packed runway; he pushed his whole body gently as he worked the stick, centering the aircraft with as much an act of will as muscle. Shadows flicked across his path; the g forces pinning him back to the seat suddenly eased, and one of the hangar buildings loomed on the left.

And then he saw the battery-powered lights the Air Force special operators had set to mark the edge of the runway.

He was in.

In.

Howe had just enough room and momentum to turn the S-37/B around at the end of the runway. As he did so, he popped the double canopy open and stared back at the shadows near the buildings. The lights told him that the air commandos and their Army brethren were all around him; all he had to do was sit and wait.

He had a pistol in his survival vest. He reached for it, pulling it out: It was a Makarov, in keeping with his cover, bulky and somewhat awkward, especially compared to his service Beretta, but it was reassuring nonetheless. He put the gun into his lap, holding it there, not wanting to scare the Korean off but not wanting to be caught unarmed either.

Belatedly, Howe pushed the timer button on his wristwatch, counting down his idle time. The buzzer would ring after ten minutes, but he’d already decided he would wait now as long as it took.

Four minutes had drained from the face of the clock when a figure appeared less than ten yards from the front of the plane. He had a gun in his hand; Howe involuntarily winced, bringing his own pistol up.

“American?” shouted the figure.

He ran to the side of the plane as Howe got out of the cockpit. The gun he held was a pistol — a revolver, Howe thought, from the shadow of the long barrel.

“American?” the man repeated. The accent had the hip-hop sound of a native Asian speaker, where tonal variations played an important role in meaning. “American?”

He pointed the pistol at Howe. Howe realized he was pointing back.

They had not set a password: How many jets would be appearing at this base; how many lone men would just happen to be close to it?

“American?” asked the man again.

“Yeah,” said Howe.

By now the Korean was looking for a handhold. Howe reached down and pulled the man onto the front winglet. The Korean threw a small bag into the backseat, then reached to climb in.

“The bomb,” yelled Howe. “Is the bomb here?”

“No bomb,” shouted the Korean.

“Where is it?”

The man said something, but between the sound of the jet engines beneath them and the man’s accent, it was impossible to understand.

“Snap on your restraints,” said Howe. The Korean fumbled with the helmet; Howe pushed it over his ears, then made the connections. He checked the seat restraints and started back for his cockpit when he thought of something else.

“Your gun,” he told the Korean, though there was no way the man could hear with the helmet on.

Howe reached over and grabbed for it; the man slapped his hand on Howe’s.

“No,” said Howe, shaking his head. “I get it.”

The Korean didn’t let go. Howe reached and took his own weapon; he thought of threatening the Korean but then thought of something better: He threw it down toward the ground.

Finally the Korean let go of his hand. Howe tossed the weapon down.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, going forward and climbing in.

Chapter 22

Tyler saw the vehicle before anyone else did.

“Take him,” he said over the discrete-burst short-range com system that connected him with the men guarding the approach.

As he gave the order, the jet engines kicked up several notches on the field below, the plane roaring from the runway.

Belatedly, Tyler realized he had made a mistake. The truck was too far away to see the plane.

“Wait!” he yelled.

But it was too late: A Russian-made RPG grenade fired by one of his men blew through the windshield of the truck and exploded. A second later the rest of the team peppered its occupants with fire from their AK-47s.

“Shit,” said Tyler.

“Major?” asked the warrant officer in charge of the team that had just destroyed the truck.

“My fuckup,” said Tyler. “Make sure they’re dead, then let’s see what we can do about getting rid of the truck.”

Chapter 23

Like the Russian design it had been based on, the S-37/B had special rough-field grates that helped keep debris and other nasties from shredding the engines on takeoff. Something big cracked against one of them as the Berkut built speed; Howe felt the shock but pressed on, committed to taking off both by momentum and situation. He had his nose up but his wheels still on the ground: Air-speed wasn’t building quite as fast as he expected. Something rumbled to his right and he held on, more Newton ’s passenger than his own.

The Berkut stuttered, then lifted freely.

He cleaned his gear and felt another rumble.

He was losing the right engine.

Howe’s hands flew around the cockpit even as his mind sorted out the situation. Something had smacked against one of the louvers and sent bits of metal or debris into the right power plant. It couldn’t have been much — the engine still wanted to work — but he could see the oil pressure shooting toward red and the power plant’s output sliding.

Like most jets, the Berkut had been designed to operate on one engine, and now that he was off the field with a relatively light load, he’d dodged the worst of the situation. Even so, flying with one engine meant changing his flight plan. The nap-of-the-earth route out required good reserve thrust; there were several points where he’d have to pull the nose up and make like a pole vaulter, squeaking over obstacles, just not doable on one engine.

He could go directly south, but that path bordered on suicide. Better to take it higher and round off some of the edges. He had the Russian ID gear, darkness, and, if all else failed, the cannon.

“Ivan to Sky,” he said over the satcom system connecting him to the mission coordinator in the RC-135 over the Sea of Japan. “I have a situation.”

“Sky,” acknowledged the coordinator, asking Howe to detail his problem.

“Down to one engine. Am proceeding.”

“Copy that. You’re on one engine.”

“I’ll run as close to the course as possible,” added Howe.

The controller didn’t answer right away.

“Sky?”

“Roger, we copy. Godspeed.”

Howe thought of his passenger in the backseat. He flipped the interphone circuit on.

“We have a slight complication,” said Howe, pausing, as he worried that Dr. Park might not speak English well enough to understand what he said. “We’re down to one engine.”

“I understand,” replied the Korean.

His voice was so calm that Howe was sure the man didn’t know what he had said, but Howe let it go. He banked gently to the north, moving his stick gingerly as he came onto the course bearing. He did an instrument check, then broke out his paper maps and began working out his alterations to the course.

Chapter 24

One of Fisher’s ideas in raiding the Washington Heights apartment was that if it was connected to a terrorist operation, even tangentially, hitting it might shake up everyone else connected to it and get them to do something stupid. Given that they had a whole net of wiretaps working and another apartment under surveillance, the idea was not without merit. While Fisher was not by nature an optimist, he did hope that the suspect in the other apartment — home at the time — might lead them to something that would, if not blow open the case, at least crack it a bit.

The problem with that theory, however, was that it required the team watching the apartment and the suspect not to lose track of the man. Which they promptly did within five minutes of his leaving the apartment an hour after the raid. He’d gone down to park near the Triborough Bridge, headed for the drug dealers who held market on the street nearby, then jumped into a small motorboat tied up on the rocks below. The boat had, of course, disappeared.

“Shoulda shot him,” said Fisher when Macklin related the story. “Don’t you teach these guys anything?”

They kept the surveillance teams on the apartment, waiting to see if their man, Faud Daraghmeh, returned. Fisher in the meantime sorted through various leads and made the rounds of the borough’s coffee shops. He did better with the latter than the former, finding a Greek place just a few blocks from the surveillance post that managed to impart a burned taste even to the first drop of liquid from the pot. As for Caliph’s Sons, the arrest of the men in the first apartment led to a variety of leads, none of which had panned out. Fisher wasn’t sure whether this was because the DIA had been charged with running them down, though he had his suspicions.

The command post for the surveillance operation was a second-story office up the street from the apartment, located over a twenty-four-hour Laundromat. The machines rumbled constantly, and the place was so hot that one of the detectives assigned to the post theorized that the dryers were being vented through some hidden mechanism directly into the office.

A bank of televisions fed by video cams showed every possible approach to the apartment; in addition, a small radar unit and two bugs gave the detectives and agents a full picture of what was happening inside.

Which was nothing.

Fisher surveyed the feeds for a few minutes, then picked up the latest intelligence summary on the case, which ran down intercepts the NSA had made with any possible connection. That, too, was a blank, with the only mention of a blackout coming in a conversation that clearly had to do with basketball coverage.

“You missed the morning quarterback session,” said Macklin, showing up with a bag of doughnuts around eleven. “Hunter was asking for you.”

“Use any four-letter words?”

“Many.” Macklin ripped open his bag and spread it over the table at the center of the room. “I’m thinking of pulling the plug on the surveillance. I have warrants so we can go search the place. What do you think?”

Fisher took two of the doughnuts from the table. “I think it’s time to find out how good a cup of coffee Mrs. DeGarmo makes.”

“DeGarmo? The landlady?”

“Yeah,” said Fisher. He checked his watch. “Maybe if we stay long enough, she’ll invite us for lunch. Plate of cold spaghetti would really hit the spot.”

“Who’s there?”

“Andy Fisher.”

“Who’s Andy Fisher?”

“FBI.”

“Who? The plumber?”

“Yeah. You have a leaky faucet?”

The doorknob turned and the heavy door creaked open. Fisher saw a pair of eyes peering at him about chest high.

“You’re a plumber?” she asked.

“FBI.” He showed her his Bureau “creds,” a small laminated ID card.

Mrs. DeGarmo squinted at it. In the right light, the picture looked a bit like that of a dead rat.

In bad light, it was the spitting image of one.

“Where’s your tools, if you’re a plumber?”

“I have to look at the leak first,” said Fisher.

“Okay,” said the woman, pulling the door open.

Lillian DeGarmo was ninety if a day. Her biceps sagged beneath her print housedress and her upper body pitched toward the floor. She tottered slightly as she walked but soon reached the kitchen, which lay just beyond the long entry hall.

“Sauce smells good,” said Fisher.

“The faucet’s in the bathroom, around the corner,” said the old lady, pointing to the doorway at the other end of the small kitchen.

“Actually, I’m here for something else,” said Fisher. “I’m an FBI agent. Say, is that coffee warm?”

“You want coffee?”

“Well, I have doughnuts,” said Fisher, pulling the doughnuts from his pocket.

“Oh, I can’t,” said Mrs. DeGarmo. “The doctor said they’re bad for my diabetes.”

“Doctors. Probably told you not to smoke, right?”

She pursed her lips for a moment.

“I hate doctors,” said Fisher, pulling out his cigarettes.

“Me too,” said Mrs. DeGarmo, grabbing the pack.

By the second cigarette Mrs. DeGarmo had told Fisher all she knew about her tenant. Faud Daraghmeh went to St. John’s University, where he was a prelaw student. He claimed to be Egyptian — he was actually from Yemen, according to the Immigration and Naturalization Service — and greatly admired the United States. Until a few days ago he had kept a very strict schedule, always in by nine o’clock and always in bed before the eleven o’clock news, which Mrs. DeGarmo watched religiously. He got up within a few minutes of eight o’clock every morning — during the Today show — and left by noon, before the afternoon soaps (she called them her “stories”) came on.

“You can hear him above the TV?” Fisher asked.

“Big feet,” said the old lady, waving her hand. “More coffee?”

“Sure,” said Fisher. “So a couple of days ago he just stopped coming home, huh?”

“Sometimes he goes away, but usually he tells me when he’ll be back. ‘Mrs. D,’ he says, ‘I go to see friend in Florida.’ ”

“ Florida?”

“I think he said that.”

“He said that this time?”

“No. Other times. This time, eh… ragazzi.”

Technically the word ragazzi meant “boys,” though coming from the old Italian lady the word implied much more.

“He’s a nice boy,” added Mrs. DeGarmo quickly. “He’s not in trouble, I hope.”

“Might be,” said Fisher.

“He’s very nice. He helped me out.”

“How?”

“Little jobs. He could fix things. You want lunch? I have sauce on the stove: Have a little spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti’s good,” said Fisher.

Mrs. DeGarmo made her way to a pantry at the end of the hallway in the back where she kept extra groceries. The groceries were on a small bookcase in the hall; the pantry itself was occupied strictly by grocery bags. If there was ever a shortage, she could supply the city for months.

“Look at that,” she said, pointing to the floor as she took the box of Ronzoni.

“What?”

“The rats are back,” she said.

“Rats?” asked Fisher. “Rodent rats?”

“They always come back. This time at least they stayed away for weeks.”

“Good exterminator’s hard to find,” said Fisher, helping himself to another cup of coffee as they returned to the kitchen.

“Faud knows how to chase them away,” said the landlady, checking on her large pot of water.

“Really?” said Fisher.

“Oh, yes. He was very good at that. He was a very good boy.”

“He put out traps?”

“No. Fumigate.”

“Fumigate?”

“Very stinky. We had to go outside the whole day. He sealed it off. Smelled like Clorox when he was done, but there were no rats.”

“Sealed what off?”

“Downstairs. Two times, he did it.”

“Two times?”

“He was a very good boy.”

“Mind if take a look?” asked Fisher.

“First you have something to eat. Then you fix the faucet,” said Mrs. DeGarmo. “Then you take a look.”

“Can’t argue with that,” said Fisher, twirling his spaghetti.

Chapter 25

Howe was fifty miles from the coast when the radar warning receiver buzzed, picking up the two MiGs flying almost directly at him from the east at 25,000 feet. They were less than fifteen miles away, which would put them overhead in roughly sixty seconds. He pushed lower to the mountains, sliding down through 10,000 feet in hopes of avoiding their radar.

He thought he’d slid by when the RWR came up again; he’d strayed close to a ground radar. Howe held to his course anyway. There was another radar to the north closer to the coast, and maneuvering away from one would expose him to the other. The MiGs or at least their radars had disappeared.

Four minutes to the coast, then another five minutes before he’d be far enough away that nothing could stop him.

A flight of F/A-22s would be on station by now, off the coast to the south. If they scrambled north, they’d meet him over the coast, or just off it.

So, really, he only had to make it though four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds.

Long seconds.

He got a blip: the MiGs.

Howe glanced down at the map he’d unfolded across his lap and leg. He could cut farther north and hope to avoid the MiGs by legging into Russian territory, but that would take him farther from the F/A-22s presumably scrambling to his aid. It also would stretch his fuel further and leave him vulnerable to the Russians, who surely would be interested in a plane that looked like one of theirs.

He looked up at the black night in front of his cockpit, calculating which way to push his luck. There was chatter on the frequencies used by the Korean air force.

“Ivan, be advised a second flight of MiGs scrambling from Orang to check unknown contact in your vicinity,” warned the mission coordinator in Sky. “We’re tracking them now. They’re going to be in your face in zero-two minutes. SAMs are coming up.”

“Ivan,” acknowledged Howe, his grip tightening on the sidestick.

“Another flight: You’re being targeted!”

The words were drowned out by the blare of the radar warning receiver, whose fervent bleat indicated that an air-to-air radar had just locked its grip on him.

Chapter 26

The first bulletin took Blitz by surprise. He was actually staring at a feed from a U-2 flying near the Korean DMZ, and as the screen changed he didn’t immediately understand what he was seeing.

“They’re going to war!” exclaimed one of the officers standing nearby him in the situation room. “Oh, my God.”

Everyone around them jumped to their feet. The screens flashed. People started to shout.

Calmly, Blitz turned to his military aide. “Get the President on the line. Now.”

Chapter 27

In the end the best they could do was push the wrecked vehicle into a ravine about fifty feet below the road. They took the two men they’d killed and carried them with them for a few miles before burying them in the rocks at a pass in the hills.

You screwed up, a voice told Tyler as he set out just ahead of the tailgunners. You gave the order too soon.

The muscles in his chest tightened; they felt like bands of steel clamping him together, slightly swelled like ice cramping against the sides of a hose. He concentrated on his job, on his situation, on his men, but still the muscles in his chest failed to relax.

They had to retrace part of their path, coming in on the route they had taken. Though risky by its nature — at least in theory someone who was trailing them would have the route covered — it had seemed the only way when they were laying out the plan back in D.C. Tyler had gone over it again before they kicked off; it was the only way to get across the mountains in that area while avoiding settlements and completely impassable terrain.

He second-guessed himself now, arguing that he should go a different way. Sweat poured from his neck as he walked, and by the time he finally reached the turnoff to the path beyond the pass, Tyler felt a wave of relief.

It was short-lived. They were just starting down the hill when the com system crackled with a warning: three vehicles approaching.

Silently the soldiers moved off the road.

“We can take them,” said Warrant Officer Chris Litchfield, who was fifty yards ahead on the other side of the road.

“No,” said Tyler.

Litchfield didn’t reply. The first of the trucks came into view. It was a large canvas-backed six-wheeler, probably older than its driver. The other two were close behind; none of the three trucks had their lights on.

Tyler watched through his night optical device, or NOD, as the trucks stopped. Men began piling out of the backs of all three. They were chattering. A dozen or so went to the side of the road, climbed down a short way.

It was a piss stop, nothing more. Just a stop so a few soldiers could relieve themselves midway through a long journey.

Of all the luck.

Tyler saw what would happen a few seconds before it did.

“Get the lead truck,” he managed to say before the first Korean shouted that there was someone on the hill.

Chapter 28

The RWR screamed at Howe as he threw the Berkut into a hard turn, trying to beam the interceptor’s radar. It was too late; the Korean had launched a pair of radar-guided missiles at him.

The weapons were R-77 air-to-air missiles, known to NATO as AA-12 Adders and sometimes called AMRAAMSKIs. The Russian-made air-to-air missiles were roughly comparable to American AIM-120 AMRAAMs.

Howe hit his electronic countermeasures, or ECMs, jinking back hard and then pushing the plane through a mountain pass that loomed to his left. It was a good move: Not only did he lose the missiles but the MiG that had launched them continued on its course blithely, flying away from him. But Howe was in no position to gloat: He had two more MiGs coming hot and heavy in his face.

Had he been sitting in an F/A-22 or an F-15 Eagle, both aircraft would be dead meat: He’d punch-button the bastards to death with a pair of AMRAAMs without losing a breath. But he wasn’t. He had only the cannon and its 150 shells. And he had only one engine to work with.

Three minutes to the coast. One hundred and eighty seconds.

Howe leaned the plane on its right wing, ducking through a second break in the mountains. He had someone on his tail; he sensed it before the RWR began shouting that a fresh radar was trying to lock him down.

The S-37/B had a small stock of chaff, metal shards that confused radars and made it hard to target an aircraft. As the MiG fired its weapons, Howe unleashed his tinsel and tossed the Berkut wildly left and right in a series of zigs and zags that were nearly as disorienting to him as to the weapons tracking him. Struggling to keep his head clear, he got a fresh warning — another MiG, this one coming from the south — and jagged back to the north.

One of the missiles exploded a half-mile away, its proximity fuse confused all to hell by his zigzags. It was one of the most beautiful sights Howe had ever seen.

“Missiles in the air!” warned Sky.

Jeez, no shit, thought Howe.

Howe yanked the stick and tried to head east, stomping on the throttle as he temporarily forgot he was on one engine. The Berkut didn’t complain, but she also didn’t move any faster.

Meanwhile an SA-2 battery began tracking him near the coast. The high-altitude, long-range missiles would be more an annoyance than anything else.

The Russian-made S-300s were another matter. Only a few months old, the missiles could be considered knockoffs of the American Patriot. A battery of four sat between him and the sea.

And their radar had just turned on, trying to track him.

One hundred and twenty seconds.

A mountain peak looked ahead. Howe pulled hard on his stick, just barely clearing the rocks. As he rose, his radar caught two contacts flying about three miles ahead. His first thought was that they were the F/A-22s, come to rescue him, but within a few seconds their speed gave them away as MiGs.

The enemy planes were not quite on a parallel course, seemingly unaware of where he was — or at least their radars hadn’t locked onto his plane. He could swing behind them as they passed, then shoot them down.

One at least.

But that wasn’t his job. His mission was to get his passenger out in one piece. Stopping to take potshots was more than foolish: It was a dereliction of duty.

Howe let them go, tucking south. He could see the glow of a city to his right, knew from the shadows that the water was just the head.

A launch warning: S-300s in the air.

He gave up the last of his chaff, hit the ECMs, and waited.

One of the missiles fell off but another dogged him. Howe started a turn south, desperate to do something.

The sky flashed above him. The missile had missed by a good distance.

A Korean MiG came up off the deck, then another: The two planes had been waiting for him out over the sea.

He cleared the coast at just over 5,000 feet.

Another pair of MiGs were running down at him from the north. They may have been the planes from before, since they didn’t seem to be carrying radar missiles. In any event they were trying to close, either for a shot with a short-range heat seeker or their cannon.

There was no question of running away. Howe jerked hard to the left, then back. The red oval of a fighter jet appeared ahead.

He pushed down on the trigger. The Russian cannon spit its big slugs out. A dozen, two dozen, hit the plane. The rear of the MiG — it turned out to be an older MiG-21, scrambled without missiles — caught fire and then unfolded, a yawning mouth of death. Howe pushed right, trying to get his gun on the flight leader, but as he did, tracer rounds flashed across his windscreen: The MiG was on his tail.

Howe tucked downward momentarily, half-rolling his wings and then cutting back, making the slinky Berkut into a skyborne corkscrew. The maneuvers were far tighter than anything the MiG — a decent knife fighter itself — could manage, and within a few seconds the plane appeared above and then beyond his canopy. The MiG driver pushed right, but Howe wasn’t about to let him turn inside him; he stayed glued to his tail.

If the North Korean had just put the pedal to the metal, he probably could have escaped. But he didn’t realize Howe was working with only one leg, and as he cut back to the left in a kind of modified scissors escape, the American pilot laid on the trigger. His first shots flew wide right, but he stayed with it, nudging his nose and the stream of bullets into the starboard wing of the enemy fighter. Something flashed, and then his target disappeared.

“You going to leave some for the rest of us?” asked one of the F/A-22 pilots, finally reaching the area.

“Only if I have to,” he answered.

“Ivan, be advised Koreans are turning south. You’re clear. You’re clear.”

“Ivan acknowledges,” said Howe. “Bring that tanker up. I’m getting mighty thirsty.”

Chapter 29

The Korean troops were caught completely by surprise; the Americans destroyed their lead and rear trucks before the enemy could organize their return fire. But there were at least a dozen men in each vehicle, and two-thirds of Tyler’s people were spread out along the road well beyond the trucks, not in a position to attack.

Tyler saw two Koreans advancing with rifles and immediately shot both, catching them mid-body with bursts from his AK-47. He jumped up and ran to the roadway, covering another member of the team who was firing at the men near the last intact truck. Something hit the vehicle and it exploded, flames bursting skyward in a bright arc of yellow and orange. The light silhouetted four Korean soldiers; by the time Tyler turned his gun on them the other SF soldier had gunned them down.

Tyler ran to a large rock at the right side of the road, sweeping the ditch with gunfire and then jumping down. The position allowed him to cover the road ahead of the convoy and gave him an angle on the trucks as well. The Koreans, meanwhile, were shouting in confusion. They knew there were soldiers around them but they weren’t sure where exactly the enemy was; their return fire was disorganized, but it was return fire. A heavier weapon began firing from near the wrecked lead truck, set up by two or three of the Koreans and hidden from Tyler ’s side.

We should have taken them out when they were on the road ahead, Tyler thought to himself as he took out a Russian-made antipersonnel grenade. I fucked up again.

He pulled the pin and did a half step, whipping the grenade as if it were a baseball at the side of the truck. The grenade exploded with a loud echo because of the hills, but the machine gun continued to fire. Cursing, Tyler reached for another grenade and was just rising when another grenade, thrown by someone else from his patrol, exploded by the truck. He ducked down, then realized he’d already pulled the pin. He threw the grenade anyway, and this time saw it land behind the cab — or thought he saw it, because as it fell he tossed himself down for cover, and besides, everything around him was a blur. A stream of bullets ripped across the road in front of him, and the major found himself eating dirt, unsure for a moment where his rifle was, even though it was in his hand. Someone screamed something in English that he couldn’t understand. Tyler began crawling forward along the trench, parallel to the road. A flare went up — obviously from the Koreans — and a fusillade of bullets rained on the three trucks, which were now mere wrecks.

“All right,” said Tyler over his com system, “I’m in the ditch. I’m in the ditch on the south side of the road. Let’s get positions. Sound off.”

He got a garbled reply. Tyler leaned across the dirt, trying to puzzle out how many Koreans were left and where they were. When he couldn’t see any soldiers who were still firing, he started to crawl up from the ditch. The two men he’d shot earlier were sprawled nearby, their uniforms thick with blood. Only one man had a rifle; Tyler kicked it back toward the ditch, then continued toward the trucks. Something moved at the far end; Tyler saw the squat figure raise his weapon at him and fired a burst. The man crumpled downward, a house whose foundation had evaporated.

“All right, all right,” he heard someone say. The gun-fight was over. “All right, all right.”

He turned around, not realizing at first that he had been the one who’d spoken.

There was no way to hide this, and Tyler didn’t bother. His immediate concern was two casualties. One of the men had been shot in the shoulder; the wound was relatively light and the sergeant joked about having had bee stings that hurt more. Tyler appreciated the lie.

The other man had been shot through the face and was dead. The A team captain took his shirt off and wrapped it around the dead man’s face; Tyler thought he should have been the one to do this.

“We’ll take him out with us,” he said softly. One of the others had already begun to set up a litter.

Warrant Officer Litchfield looked at him but said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Tyler ’s orders dictated that he call in about the firefight. The reply was brief: Proceed to Pickup Zone 1 as planned.

They did.

Chapter 30

“Where are we landing?” asked his passenger about twenty minutes out of Japan.

“Misawa,” said Howe. The Korean had been so quiet, he’d almost forgotten about him.

Almost.

“Misawa. I thought it might be there. Or Okinawa.”

“ Okinawa ’s a bit far for us,” said Howe.

“Misawa will do very well.”

Howe laughed. The Korean didn’t know what he was in for. A team of debriefers was undoubtedly waiting on the tarmac, anxious to get at Dr. Park. He was going to be a very popular man for the next few days, and probably a good many months after that.

With the island in sight, Howe fought off his fatigue by concentrating on the plane. It had performed extremely well, one more example of the value of NADT and its diverse expertise. The organization was important.

So, did that mean he should take the job after all?

The strip came up wide and fat, his approach a gentle, easy glide that contrasted starkly with his landing in Korea. Howe felt his tires hit the concrete, the plane settling around him like a tired horse falling from its gallop after a hard run around the track.

It wasn’t quite home, but it would do for now.

He trundled off the runway and was met by an SUV with a blue flashing light. He popped open the canopy and breathed the fresh air, following the truck as it led him away from the main area of the airport, past a pair of hangars isolated from the others to a wide expanse of concrete near a perimeter fence. It was obviously meant as a security precaution, but there were no support vehicles in sight, not even a tractor to haul him into one of the hangars. Howe wasn’t exactly in a position to argue, though, and hell, he just wanted to get to bed.

Howe powered down. Two men, both in Japanese Self-Defense Force uniforms, got out of the SUV and trotted toward the plane. Until now, this had been a U.S.-only project, but they were in Japan and the Japanese tended to be slightly touchy over protocol. Lights approached in the distance: Obviously the U.S. Air Force team was uncharacteristically running a little behind the timetable.

Something popped behind him, an engine or something. He couldn’t hear well with his gear on.

“All right, my friend, taxi ride is over,” Howe said, removing his helmet and starting to push up from the ejection seat.

As he did, something smacked him hard on the side of the head. He caught a glimpse of a shadowy reflection in the right display. then blacked out.