Warrior Class

The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

He felt stupid at first, with everyone watching. The place was packed, and most of the people looked as if they had nothing better to do than to watch him. Or was it just because he was here to face the music, and he thought everyone here knew it?

The nearly six-hundred-acre Pentagon Reservation was like a little city unto itself, so it was generally easy to hide among the over twenty-six thousand military and civilian Department of Defense employees and three thousand staff persons there. You automatically felt anonymous when you walked into the place. The Pentagon building itself was an impressive, imposing structure encompassing thirty-four acres and almost four million square feet of office space, making it one of the largest office buildings in the world. Built in just sixteen months at the beginning of World War II over a former garbage dump and swamp, it was said that the building was designed so efficiently that anyone could walk from one end of it to the other in less than ten minutes (although it could take as long as thirty minutes just to walk in from the parking lot). If you were one of the thousands of persons walking into the North Parking entrance, you could easily feel insignificant indeed, like a tiny ant climbing into a huge anthill.

Even at Six A.M., the Pentagon Officers Athletic Club at the end of Corridor Eight was nearly full. Patrick McLanahan would have liked to use a treadmill or a recumbent bicycle — since there were so many of them, lined up three deep practically the entire width of the complex, he would have felt a lot less conspicuous. But every one of the dozens of machines was already taken, so he had to go with his trusty weight machines. Besides, some of the soldiers on the treadmills, even the older ones, were jogging or running on them at a pace that made Patrick cringe. The POAC did not have the newer weight machines, the ones that electronically set and varied the resistance, so Patrick did it the old-fashioned way — set a weight, tried it, adjusted it, then did three sets of ten reps with heavy weights. Once he got into the rhythm, he forgot about being the only guy in the entire facility lifting weights.

His body quickly shifted to automatic workout mode, freeing his mind to work on other problems — like what was going to happen to his career and his life now.

He was gone from the High-Technology Weapons Center, dismissed for security reasons pending court-martial, after twelve occasionally turbulent, oftentimes dangerous, most times thrilling off-and-on years. When he’d arrived there in 1988, HAWC — known then simply as Groom Lake Test Range — had been little more than a collection of old weather-beaten Atomic Energy Commission wooden shacks and bird’s-nest-infested hangars surrounding an old World War U runway built on, then hidden on, the dry lake bed, with a few high-tech security updates added by Lieutenant-General Brad Elliott, its first full-time commander, in order to attract the attention of military scientists and Pentagon program managers. Over the years, under Brad Elliott, Dreamland had grown, expanded, modernized, and then finally taken the lead in futuristic weapons and aircraft research and development. Patrick had been there to see most of it.

With Brad gone, Patrick had hoped that he might someday take over the reins at Dreamland and take it to the next level of innovation and leadership. A command assignment at Dreamland was considered a sure ticket to a four-star billet. That was almost certainly true — if you could adapt to the strict security and compartmentalization and ignore the fact that for the entire time you were there and for some time after you departed, you became virtually invisible, even dead to the rest of the world. You quickly had to learn to live with the fact that being part of the future of the U.S. military would forever alter your life.

Patrick had accepted that fact, and even learned to enjoy it. Having a wife who used to work there helped considerably. But it took a special mind-set to work at Dreamland, just as it surely took a special mind-set to work at the Five-Sided Potomac Puzzle Palace. Patrick preferred the hot, dry, wide-open skies of Groom Lake to the stifling, confining, prisonlike feel of this place.

In between sets, he was able to peek at the televisions throughout the POAC. They were filled with news stories about the recently declared war between Albania and Macedonia, the unraveling of the Dayton Peace Accords and the cease-fire in Kosovo, and the expansion of German and Russian peacekeeping forces in the Balkans to try to maintain order, on the heels of a rapid American withdrawal from the region. But mostly, the stories were about the dismantling of the American military and the American loss of prestige as the protector of world democracy.

Maybe it was good that I’m getting out now, Patrick thought grimly, as he started working on lat pull-downs. The U.S. military looked as if it was in the midst of a complete cultural and ideological meltdown — thanks to the new hippie president and his eighteenth-century ideas. They just had no place in the twenty-first century. Unfortunately, the United States was about to find this out the hard way.

More folks were looking at him again, and Patrick realized he was pumping away at the weight machines like a maniac. The more he watched the rapid, shocking dismantling and denigration of the military in which he had spent most of his adult life, the angrier he became. The workout was supposed to relax him before he went on to his Pentagon appointments, but they were unfortunately having the opposite effect. It was time to go and face his future.

Screw ‘em, Patrick told himself. If they want to take my stars or court-martial me, let them try. I’ll fight them every last step of the way. The military is worth a fight … at least, the old military, the one Patrick thought he knew, was worth it.

He showered, then dressed in his Class A uniform. For the first time in many years, he studied himself in a full-length mirror. It wasn’t often he wore Class A’s, and the blue cotton-polyester outfit was shiny and oddly creased from disuse and improper storage. The single silver stars, given to him by the former president of the United States Kevin Martindale, and the shiny command navigator wings given to him by Brad Elliott, looked awfully good, but everything else seemed extraordinarily plain. Only two rows of ribbons, the same as he’d had as a junior captain — Brad Elliott didn’t believe in awards and decorations and prohibited the release of any information whatsoever from Dreamland that might reveal something about its activities.

A rather plain uniform, he thought. Like his uniform, maybe his career in the Air Force really didn’t amount to anything after all. Even though he had done a lot of very cool, very exciting things, in the end maybe it didn’t matter, any more than he did among all the superstar military men and women in the Pentagon.

As he put the uniform on and prepared for his meetings, Patrick realized with surprise that it would possibly be the last time he would ever wear this uniform — except perhaps at his court-martial.

After dressing, Patrick went right to the H. H. “Hap” Arnold Executive Corridor and the Secretary of the Air Force’s and Air Staff offices. Although HAWC was “overtly” run by Headquarters Air Force Research Laboratory, Air Force Materiel Command, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base near Dayton, Ohio (the actual chain of command was classified, but if anyone did any checking that’s what they would find), the work at HAWC was so classified that the Secretary of the Air Force himself, Steven C. Bryant, oversaw most matters dealing with HAWC.

Patrick’s appointments stemmed from his court-martial — as Terrill Samson promised, formal charges against him and David Luger had been preferred at the close of business the day of their meeting — so his first stop was the offices of the Air Staff. At first the chief Area Defense Counsel from Air Force Materiel Command headquarters, a full colonel, had been assigned to his case, and he had been given all the preliminary briefings and paperwork. That was all window dressing, of course, because none of this would ever go through the normal legal channels. The matter stayed at Wright-Pat for less than twenty-four hours before being referred directly to the two-star Air Force Judge Advocate General (TJAG) at the Pentagon.

His 0730 appointment with TJAG lasted five minutes. The two-star’s recommendation: request early retirement at current rank and time in service and end this thing with an honorable discharge and an unblemished record. All the paperwork was ready, the chief Air Force Area Defense Counsel, a one-star general, standing by to answer any questions. The Area Defense Counsels were the Air Force’s “defense attorneys,” answerable to no one but the chief of staff of the Air Force, General Victor Hayes. He, too, recommended he request early retirement; he had reviewed the memoranda from the Secretary of Defense and found the offer of a clear record, full time in grade and service, and an honorable discharge complete and acceptable, even generous considering the seriousness of the charges.

Patrick’s simple answer: “No, sir.”

Patrick’s next stop was the office of the three-star Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel. Again behind closed doors, he was notified that his security clearance had been taken away, he no longer had a nuclear weapons security or surety authorization, was no longer authorized to fly as a crew member in military aircraft, and could not handle or employ any kinds of weapons, from an airborne laser all the way down to a handgun. Patrick was also notified that his Air Force Specialty Code had been changed from an XO, Commander and Director, to OX, or “Other”—“other” in this case meaning a defendant in a court-martial case, an officer with no specialty, no responsibilities, no unit, no team. The change in AFSC would be entered into his official personnel records for everyone to see, virtually guaranteeing that he would never be selected for another assignment, never selected for promotion, and never be given any awards or decorations. That record could also be made public, so any future employers would see it, too, guaranteeing that he would never be chosen to sit on a board of directors or be hired for any position, either home or abroad, that required a security clearance.

Each time Patrick was told of some new surprise, he was required to sign a form notifying him that he understood everything that had been said and all of the possible consequences of what was happening. At the same time, each time he was warned of some dire consequence or advised about some new potentially embarrassing or stressful step in the court-martial process, he was offered another chance to voluntarily retire with full rank, time in service, his records expunged, and a completely honorable discharge — definitely “carrot and stick” tactics. Each time, his answer was the same: “No, sir.”

By the time he’d finished, Patrick felt like a gang of thugs had beaten him. His briefcase was stuffed with dozens of copies of all of the forms, letters, memos, and directives outlining the beginning of the end of his seventeen-year Air Force career.

When Patrick emerged from the meeting with the DCS/ Personnel office, a lieutenant colonel with gold piping on his shoulder was waiting just outside the door: “Sir, General Hayes would like to have a word with you,” he said simply, and led the way out. Well, Patrick thought, he couldn’t get it any worse from the Chief of Staff than from all the other Air Staff officers he had already encountered. Might as well get it over with.

General Victor “Jester” Hayes’s office was large, with a twelve-person triangular videoconference table setup and a comfortable casual conversation pit in front of his desk, but it was simply decorated, with pictures and items celebrating the history and advancements of the U.S. Air Force rather than celebrating his own career. Although Jester’s undergraduate degree had been in engineering from the Air Force Academy, his first love was twentieth-century American history, especially as it related to aviation. His office was like a small aviation museum: a copy of the Wright brothers’ patent for the first powered airplane; a machine gun from a Curtis-Jenny biplane flown during World War 1; a Norden bomb sight; a control stick from his beloved F-15 Eagle; and photographs galore of aviation pioneers, aces, and Air Force Medal of Honor recipients.

The history buff was right now seated at the base of the triangular conference table, facing the triangle’s apex and a bank of large video monitors along the wall. Seated beside him, Patrick recognized, was the deputy chief of staff, General Tom “Turbo” Muskoka, and the deputy chief of staff for operations, Lieutenant-General Wayne “Wombat” Falke. They were all three seated before computer terminals, making notes and reading e-mail messages and computer reports. Muskoka and Falke looked angrily at McLanahan as he was led over to them; Hayes did not look at him, but was studying the monitors and talking on the telephone.

As were most televisions in every military installation Patrick had ever visited in the last ten years, one of the large monitors on the wall was tuned to CNN. The “Breaking News” logo was all over the screen. It looked like a videotape archive of wreckage from a plane crash; then he gulped as he saw the caption “Near Moscow, Russian Federation.” Patrick McLanahan had to struggle not to look at the big screen as he stood at attention before the conference table and the three Air Staff generals.

Hayes barked something into the phone, practically threw the receiver on its cradle, took a gulp of coffee, and then glanced at Patrick. “We found your Vampire, General,” he growled. He hit the ENTER button on his computer terminal with an angry stab to issue his directives, then motioned toward the screen. “Stand at ease. Take a look. Recognize anything?”

“Yes, sir. That’s Vampire One.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Patrick went over to the large-screen monitor and hit the digital replay button — most televisions now had the capability of digitally recording the last two hours of a broadcast — until he came to the shot he’d seen when he’d first come in. “I saw the shot of the tail section. Our planes don’t have a very tall vertical stabilizer, and Vampire One didn’t have a horizontal stabilizer — it used adaptive wing technology for pitch control.”

“What’s that?” General Falke asked.

“We found that we don’t need to use conventional flight control surfaces on planes anymore, sir — all we need to do is change the nature of the air flowing over any surface of an aircraft,” Patrick explained. “We use tiny hydraulic devices to bend the aircraft skin, all controlled by air data computers. A change too small to be seen by the naked eye can make any surface create lift or drag. We’re experimenting with the possibility of building a B-1 bomber with twice the speed and efficiency with wings half the normal size — we can turn the entire fuselage into a wing. We can make a brick fly like a paper airplane with this technology.” The three generals looked apprehensively at McLanahan.

“The Russians could’ve sawed off sections of the tail to make it look like one of yours,” General Muskoka mumbled.

“How would they know what it looked like, sir — and why would they bother?” Patrick asked. He scrolled through the images. “Here’s definite proof, sir: a LADAR array. The Vampire used six of these laser radars for targeting, terrain following, aircraft warning, missile tracking, intercepts, station keeping, surveillance, everything. It could see fifty miles in any direction, even into space. The design of that array was one of our most closely guarded secrets.”

“And now the Russians have it — and they’re trotting out their prize for everyone to see,” Muskoka said acidly. “If your Captain Dewey had followed orders, McLanahan, this never would’ve happened.”

“If given the opportunity to do so, sir, I’d authorize her to do it again,” Patrick said.

“That attitude, mister, is why you’re here today!” Muskoka snapped. “That’s how come you almost got shot down, why your friend Terrill Samson entered charges against you, and that’s why your career is going to come to an abrupt, unfortunate end. You don’t seem to grasp what’s going on here.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“I advise you to keep your mouth shut, General,” Muskoka said.

“Same here,” General Hayes said. “But speak your mind if you want.”

“Major Deverill and Captain Dewey did an outstanding job rescuing Madcap Magician and Siren,” Patrick said. “Siren had valuable information on Russian activities that are right now threatening to disrupt all of Europe. We got definite proof that the experimental Russian fighter-bomber from the Metyor Aerospace plant at Zhukovsky bombed that Albanian village—”

“The ends do not justify the means, Patrick,” Hayes said. “I would’ve thought after seventeen years in the Air Force and twelve years watching Brad Elliott get slapped down by Washington, you’d understand that. Unfortunately, you’re going to find out the hard way.”

“My God, look at that,” Falke breathed. Patrick looked. CNN was now showing actual civilian satellite photos of Elliott Air Force Base. The resolution showed a lot of detail — he could easily count the aboveground hangars and buildings, and he could see the mobile control tower that was out only for a launch, which meant the photo had been taken just before or just after a rare daytime flight test. The captions identified the image as the top-secret Air Force research base north of Las Vegas that was the home base of the B-1 bomber that the Russians had shot down. Other amateur photos taken by “UFO hunters” that sneaked out to Dreamland — some several years old — showed ground-level details of some of the larger buildings; superimposed graphics showed where the runway in Groom Lake was located. They were pretty dam accurate, Patrick thought, except the real runway was much longer and wider.

“How in hell did they know the plane came from Dreamland?” Falke asked.

“Because the President told them, sir,” Patrick replied.

“What?”

“He’s right,” General Hayes said. “The President told Russian president Sen’kov everything when he called them asking that our guys not get shot down.” He looked at his staff officers, then at Patrick, and added, “But it was supposed to be kept secret. That was the deal — we don’t tell what we knew about the Metyor-179, and they don’t tell about our Vampires overflying Russia.”

“That’s what the CIC gets for making a deal like that with the Russians,” Muskoka said bitterly. “So what do we recommend to the JCS and SecDef?”

“First, we’ll need a list of all the classified subsystems on that plane,” Hayes said. “What else will the Russians find out about along with LADAR?”

“I can brief you on all the subsystems of the Vampire — I’ve worked on it for several years,” Patrick said. Hayes just glared at him. He knew he was the best choice to get the information for them quickly, but he also did not want to have to rely on a man they were possibly about to court-martial.

“What about destroying the wreckage?” Falke suggested. “Have a special ops team go in and destroy the classified gear?”

“It may not be necessary, sir,” Patrick said. “The best the Russians or anyone else will be able to do is reverse-engineer the basic design. If the Russians tried to put a current through any component after a crash, the firmware is designed to dump fake computer code and viruses into the detection-and-analysis machines they use. If the computers they use are networked — and the systems are designed to wait until they encounter a networked computer — the viruses will spread through the entire network in milliseconds. We may want to consider sending in a team to make the Russians think we want to destroy the equipment — have the team get intercepted just before they go in and pull them out, make the Russians think they stopped us. But it may not be worth risking a team penetrating a Russian intelligence laboratory for real.”

Hayes looked at McLanahan closely, studying him. He appeared as if he was impressed and disappointed all at the same time. “Good point — and good planning on your part, General,” he said.

“The question remains, sir — what about the Russian stealth bomber?” McLanahan asked.

“What about it?” Muskoka asked.

“It’s still out there, and it’s a major threat,” McLanahan maintained. “We’ve proven that it committed that attack on that factory in Albania, we’ve put it in the exact vicinity of the NATO AWACS plane that was shot down over Macedonia, and we have credible evidence that it was involved in the raid on Albanian and Macedonian border forces that started the war. If the President made a deal not to reveal the existence of the stealth bomber, the Russians broke that agreement. We should not only spill the beans about the Russian stealth bomber, but we should be going after it.”

“‘Go after it,’ “ Muskoka breathed. “That seems to be your answer for everything, McLanahan — just ‘go after it.’ Bomb the crap out of everything in sight.”

“How do you propose we ‘go after it’?” Hayes asked.

“We have to find a way to draw it into a fight.”

“How do we do that? Bomb a Russian air base hoping to hit it? Bomb Moscow until Sen’kov coughs it up to us?”

“President Sen’kov may not know anything about the plane,” Patrick said. “We know the plane was activated shortly after the death of Colonel Kazakov in Kosovo. We know that Kazakov’s son Pavel owns the factory that makes the plane. The stealth fighter was in storage until Kazakov came to see Fursenko at Zhukovsky. After that, the plane was launched and hasn’t been seen since — and at the same time, all these attacks in the Balkans have taken place.”

“I’m not following you, McLanahan,” Hayes said. “What makes you think the Russian government doesn’t know about the stealth fighter?”

“They could know about it, but not be in control of it,” Patrick said. “The stealth fighter at Metyor was never delivered to the Russian or Soviet air force. The only pilots ever to fly it worked for Metyor, not the air force.”

“Or this could be some elaborate fantasy of yours,” Muskoka said. “I don’t believe anyone — not the Russians, not Kazakov, no one — would be crazy enough to fly a stealth bomber all over eastern Europe and attack military and civilian targets without proper authorization from the highest levels in government. The political and military consequences would be enormous. He’d be playing with fire.”

Patrick looked directly at General Muskoka and said with a slight — Hayes would have said “evil”—grin: “I did it, sir.”

Muskoka looked angry enough to bite through the conference table. “And look what’s happening to you, McLanahan — you’re about to be shit-canned.”

“Sir, do you think a gangster like Pavel Kazakov is worried about being ‘shit-canned’?”

“I think you’d better worry about yourself McLanahan,” Muskoka said.

“That’s enough,” General Hayes said, after seeing that neither Muskoka nor McLanahan were going to back down from this argument. He stood and stepped away from the conference table toward the door to his office, motioning for Patrick to follow him. He then stepped toward him and in a low voice said, “You and your teams have done some good work, McLanahan, good stuff.”

“Sir, someone has got to do something about that stealth fighter,” Patrick maintained. “I know it’s the key to everything that’s happening in the Balkans right now.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes, Patrick,” Hayes said. “We’re dealing with you now.” Patrick looked deflated, disappointed that his efforts were all in vain. “I’m told you didn’t agree to put in your papers and punch out. Why?”

“Because I’ve still got a lot of work to do, sir,” Patrick said. “I’ve got a unit to train and a center to run, and there’s a Russian warplane out there trying to set Europe on fire while we twiddle our thumbs and toes and pretend it doesn’t matter to us anymore. I’m ready to get back to work.”

“That’s not going to happen, McLanahan,” Hayes said seriously. “SecDef and the JCS left the question about what to do with you up to the Air Force, and SecAF left it up to me. I’ve thought about it long and hard. You’ve done a lot of extraordinary things for the United States and the Air Force, McLanahan. You deserve a whole lot better.

“But Terrill Samson is one of our finest officers as well. If I thought there was one milligram of malice in these charges, I’d dismiss them in the blink of an eye. I’ve spoken with Terrill a half-dozen times in the past two days, and so has most of my staff, and we all agree: the charges are real, and so are the crimes. I’m sorry, McLanahan.

“I’m going to repeat what you’ve heard today a dozen times at least: request early retirement and you’ll get it, with full rank and time in service, an honorable discharge, and all traces of these charges completely expunged. Fight it, talk to the press, or file a countersuit, and you’ll end up in Leavenworth for seven years, a Big Chicken Dinner, reduction in grade, and fines.” The “Big Chicken Dinner,” as Patrick knew too well now, meant a Bad Conduct Discharge — the kiss of death for any ex-military officer seeking a civilian job much above short-order cook. Jester could see the hesitation in McLanahan’s face. “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you, McLanahan?”

“No, I don’t, sir,” Patrick replied.

“Then I’m sure you’ve been in Dreamland too long,” the chief of staff said. “Because if any other crewdog did this to his wing commander, he’d be court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and you know it. If one of your officers did it to you, you’d see to it that they were grounded permanently. Am I wrong?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. Hayes’s eyes were wide with surprise, then narrowed in anger and suspicion. “Sir, in my world, we reward airmen that show creativity, initiative, and courage. In the flight test world, we build a game plan, and we go out and fly the plan — but we leave it up to the crew to decide whether or not it’s time to push the envelope a little. All of our crews are tough, smart, and highly skilled operators. If we tell them to try a launch at Mach one point two and they get there and they think the plane and the weapon can handle one point five, they’ll take it to one point five. We don’t punish them for breaking with the program.”

“But you weren’t flying a test mission, McLanahan…”

“Sir, every mission for us is the same — our job is to get the mission done, no matter what it takes. We at Dreamland are not just program managers or engineers. Our job is to test the new generation of aircraft and weapons in every conceivable way. If we do our job, some crewdog in a line unit may not get his ass shot down because he thought he had to slow down or climb to employ his weapons or get out of a hostile situation.”

“I say again, McLanahan — you weren’t in a flight test situation,” Hayes emphasized. “You were on a support mission that depended on stealth and strict adherence to the rules at all times.”

“Sir, if you wanted strict rule-following, you shouldn’t have asked us to do the job,” Patrick said.

“That’s bullshit, McLanahan,” Hayes retorted. “I expect discipline and professionalism in all of my combat-coded units, or they are history! You play by the rules, or you’re out.”

“HAWC doesn’t play by the rules, sir,” Patrick argued. “We never have. The brass hated General Elliott — they cringed whenever his name was brought up. But I also realized that his name kept on coming up for one good reason — he was effective. He did the job he was asked to do, no matter how impossible it was. He wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t a team player — but he was the best. Men like Terrill Samson play by the rules.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Patrick,” Hayes said, the disappointment and frustration evident in his face and voice. “I like you. You speak your mind, you stick to your beliefs, and you get the job done. You have a lot of potential. But your loyalty to Brad Elliott and his twisted brand of warfighting is turning you into a loose cannon. Terrill Samson was right: you are dangerous, and you don’t fit in.

“I’ve taken the matter out of your hands and out of the UCMJ, Patrick.” The UCMJ, or Uniform Code of Military Justice, was the separate set of federal laws governing conduct and responsibilities of military men and women. “I’ve recommended that you be involuntarily retired if you didn’t agree to request early retirement, the Secretary of Defense agreed, and it was done. SecDef doesn’t want a court-martial, and personally I don’t want to see you hauled up in front of one. You were retired as of oh eight hundred hours this morning. Your service is at an end.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to see you go, General.”

Patrick was about to shake his hand when a very distinctive phone rang in the outer office. “Batphone,” someone called out, but it was picked up before the second ring. At the same instant, Hayes’s pager went off — he acknowledged it, but didn’t need to read the message. Moments later, an aide came to the door: “Meeting in the Gold Room in fifteen minutes, sir.” The Gold Room was the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference room. This was an unscheduled meeting — Patrick knew something was happening.

Hayes knew it, too. “Thank you.” He turned to General Falke: “Wombat, I need an intel dump right now.”

Falke had already been on the phone as soon as he heard the “Batphone,” the direct line between the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s office and the chief of staff of the Air Force. “It’s on its way, sir,” he said. “I’ll have an aide drop it off for you ASAP.” A few moments later, an aide stepped into Hayes’s office with a folder marked “Top Secret”—the “intel dump,” the latest intelligence summaries for the entire world updated minute-by-minute, and the “force dump,” the latest force status reports from the eight Air Force major commands. A moment later, another aide came rushing in with the latest force status reports for the Single Integrated Operations Plan (SIOP) and non-SIOP nuclear forces. Although, technically, the American nuclear forces were under the combat command of the U.S. Strategic Command, a unified military command, in day-today operations the nuclear-capable bombers, land-launched intercontinental ballistic missiles, and their warheads were under Air Force control until gained by Strategic Command.

Hayes was putting on his Class A blouse and getting ready to hurry off to the “Tank,” what most everyone in the Pentagon called the Gold Room. He nodded to Patrick as he hurried to the door. “I’ll be seeing you, McLanahan. Good luck.” An aide rushed into the Chief’s office to hand him another folder, and then he hurried off, followed by his deputy and his chief of operations.

“I have a message for you, sir,” the aide said to Patrick. “Your civilian attorney is waiting for you at the Mall Entrance right now.”

“My civilian attorney?” Patrick asked. “I don’t have a civilian attorney.” The aide shrugged his shoulders and departed, leaving him alone in the big office.

It was a long, lonely walk to the Mall Entrance, and an even longer walk outdoors into the hazy sunshine. Patrick felt as if he should take off his hat, remove his jacket with his stars and ribbons on it. He felt strange, having junior officers salute him, like he was some sort of spy in a military costume trying to infiltrate the place. He had been kicked out of the Air Force almost the entire time he’d been in that building, and he hadn’t even known it. The Pentagon now seemed alien to him. A few hours earlier, he’d walked into this place apprehensively, but feeling very much a part of what this place was all about. Now all that had been taken away from him.

Patrick didn’t see anyone at the entrance who looked like he was looking for him. But he didn’t need to talk with an attorney anyway: there was going to be no court-martial, no appearance in court, no opportunity to fight the charges brought against him. He was out, just like that.

There was a big stretch limousine parked fight in front of the Mall Entrance in a “No Parking” zone, with a Secret Service-looking agent, a female, in a long dark coat and sunglasses standing beside it, and he thought that had to be for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense so they could be whisked off to the White House.

This was indeed a very exciting place to be, Patrick thought. He certainly had had a very exciting, very unusual career. He thought back about all the missions and all the situations he had found himself involved in over the past twelve years: thought about how many times he had made that “Batphone” ring, how many times the chief of staff of the Air Force had stood before the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or the Secretary of Defense or even the President and had been unable to explain what was going on because Brad Elliott hadn’t informed him or anyone else what he was going to do before he did it. How many frantic limo fides had he been responsible for? How many sleepless nights, tirades, memos, confused phone calls, and lost careers had he and HAWC caused because of their own brand of warfighting?

No matter — it was all over now.

But as Patrick approached the limousine on his way to the taxi stand that would take him to his hotel, the Secret Service-looking agent approached him. “Excuse me. General McLanahan?”

“Yes?”

She removed her dark glasses and smiled at him. “I’m not wearing a disguise this time, Patrick.”

He stared at her harder, his mind finally returning to the here and now. “Marcia? Marcia Preston?” He shook her hand warmly, then gave her a hug. “You have this thing for always popping up unexpectedly, Marcia.” Marcia Preston had been one of the first U.S. Marine Corps combat fighter pilots, but she’d seen only limited duty in that capacity. Her knowledge and expertise in military affairs, foreign military capabilities, tactics, and both land and aerial combat had led her to be chosen as an advisor and aide to two successive National Security Advisors to the President. Patrick glanced into the limo’s windows, but of course could not see anything. “Who are you working for now, Colonel? Last I knew, you were working for General Freeman in the National Security Advisor’s office.”

“It’s not Colonel anymore, Patrick,” Marcia said. “And my new boss wants to speak with you. He’s waiting for you.”

“He’s waiting for me? In there?”

“Hey, General!” Patrick turned toward the familiar voice and was surprised to see none other than Hal Briggs emerging from the limousine.

“Hal? What are you doing here?”

Hal Briggs waved him over to the car so they could talk discreetly. “I got a deal I couldn’t refuse, sir.”

“I’m not a ‘sir’ anymore, Hal. Just Patrick.”

“That’s okay, because I’m just ‘Hal’ now, too,” he said with a smile. “Early retirement, same as you.

“How did you know that?” Patrick asked. “And why in hell did you accept early retirement? You haven’t done anything wrong — in fact, after that rescue in Russia, you’re a genuine hero. I’m the one who screwed the pooch. You didn’t punch out because of me, did you?”

“With all due respect, old buddy,” Hal said, with a broad smile, “I don’t do shit for no one unless they give me some serious money or some serious humma-humma, if you catch my drift. But if I was going to trash my career for anyone, it would be for you. How’s that?”

“Sounds like bullshit to me. What is going on, Hal? How did you know where I was? How did you know what happened to me? I just found out ten minutes ago.”

“My new employer knows everything, Patrick,” Hal said. “He wants to talk with you, too.”

Patrick’s warning antennae were tingling like crazy. Having trusted friends like Marcia and Hal together helped, but this strong feeling of caution couldn’t be ignored. “You know this guy, Hal?” he asked. “Did you check him out first?”

“No.”

“No? You stepped into a car with a guy you don’t know and you didn’t check him out first?”

“I said I didn’t check him out, and I’ve never met him — I know of him. But you definitely know him.”

Patrick looked at Hal suspiciously, but with a gleam of interest in his eyes now. Hal noticed it, stepped aside, and let him peek inside. He saw Chris Wohl inside, also in civilian clothes, looking moody and inconvenienced as always, and he wondered if the Marine Corps veteran had retired also. Then he looked in the very front of the passenger compartment — and his chin dropped open in sheer surprise.

“C’mon in, General McLanahan,” the man said, with a broad smile. “We need to talk.”

The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, D.C.

“The Joint Chiefs are meeting right now at the Pentagon,” Secretary of Defense Robert Goff said, as he was ushered into the Oval Office. “They’ll be ready with some recommendations for you shortly. It’s pretty clear what happened: someone in Russia leaked the information about the downed bomber to the world press. The State Department tells me several world leaders have already called our embassies asking for an explanation. The press is going nuts. Every bit of information they’ve ever had about Dreamland is being trotted out and fitted together with the information the Russians are publicizing, and it’s all coming together. Dreamland has been blown wide open.”

President Thomas Thorn put down the papers he was looking at, motioned to the sofa, and nodded. Goff took his usual place on the sofa; the President continued to pace the floor, looking thoughtful if not concerned. “It’ll still be a classified installation,” the President said. “Only now, everyone will know it’s classified.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Thomas, I’d say you were just trying to make a funny,” Goff said. He knew, of course, that he wasn’t. “Thomas?” Goff prompted, the concern evident in his voice. “What are we going to do?”

“Admit to it, of course,” Thorn replied. “Admit that it was our bomber, our aircraft, on a spy mission inside Russia. We were trying to rescue a spy that had valuable information for us. We’re going to do exactly what I told Sen’kov I’d do — go in front of the American people, in front of the world, and admit everything.”

“I disagree. I think we shouldn’t say anything,” Goff said. “The Russians trumped us. Anything we say now will sound like we’re making excuses.”

“We’re not making excuses — we’re offering explanations,” the President said. “We can’t deny any of it, Bob. We knew we were working off borrowed time anyway. Expecting the Russians to sit on the intelligence bonanza of the decade was too much to hope for. We had to face the music eventually. I’m surprised the Russians waited this long.”

“Then why in hell didn’t we do something more?” Goff snapped.

“Because our objective always was to get our men and women back home,” the President said. “The Russians had their hands on two American aviators from a top-secret weapons research facility. They could have had the other bomber, too — they almost did. They could have sent a hundred planes after them. We made them hesitate with a half-baked threat that shouldn’t have worked but did. All we needed was enough hesitation to get our people clear. I expected Sen’kov to renege on the deal the next morning. Nobody won, but the important thing was, we didn’t lose.” He punctuated the last sentence with an angry glare.

“Congress is going to roast us,” Goff said. “The media is going to chew on us for weeks, maybe months.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Goff asked incredulously. “Don’t you get it, Thomas? Don’t you understand? Congress, the American people, the world will think we are completely inept. They’ll think we don’t care about our allies, that we’re afraid, that we can’t protect ourselves. If we can’t protect our own people, how can we protect our friends and allies?”

“Our job is not to protect the rest of the world, Bob,” Thorn said. “We are not the defenders of freedom. We are one nation among hundreds of other nations around the planet.”

“Are you joking, Thomas?” Goff asked. “You are the president of the United States. You are the leader of the free world. This office is the center of hope, freedom, and democracy for billions of people around the globe—”

“I don’t buy any of that, Robert — I never did, and you know it,” the President said. “This office stands for one thing and one thing only: the executive branch of the United States, one of three branches of the American government. The Constitution specifies exactly what this office is and what my responsibilities are, and I’m quite certain the Constitution does not authorize me to be the leader of the free world, defender of liberty, truth, justice, or of anything else except to faithfully uphold and defend the Constitution. I am the president, that’s it.”

“It’s not a Constitutional thing, Thomas. It’s … it’s symbolic,” Goff said uncomfortably, irritated that he had to explain this concept to his friend. “The president of the United States is a symbol of democracy and freedom. It’s not legislated or conferred upon you — you’ve got it because people have come to believe it.”

“So I don’t have a choice? That’s nonsense. I have a choice, and I choose not to be a symbol of something like that.” But it was obvious he wanted to change the subject — and besides, he didn’t like arguing with his friend.

Thorn motioned to the reports on the EB-1C aircraft coming in from intelligence analysts and experts. “All this stuff about how our country has been compromised by the Russians revealing information on the bomber? It’s all nonsense. These analysts put all that gloom-and-doom stuff in their report simply because if they underestimated the impact of the news, they’d be judged unreliable in their estimates. They’d rather be known for predicting the worst and hoping for the best than the other way around. The information reveals nothing, Robert. It’s a sensational episode that in the end affects nothing.”

Robert Goff stared disbelievingly at his old friend, then shook his head. “What’s happened to you, Thomas?” he breathed.

“I was wondering the same about you, Robert,” Thorn said, angry that he had decided not to engage his friend in a half-philosophical, half-personal argument, but that Goff had come back wanting more anyway. “I thought we both believed in the same things — smaller government, fewer foreign entanglements, less reliance on military power. America first, foremost, and always — that was our vision. The office — yours and mine — seems to have diverted your attention.”

Goff ignored Thorn’s observations. He chuckled and gave him a wry smile. “I remember when you got back from Desert Storm, when I brought Amelia to Dover to be there when you got off that plane with your unit. There you were, with your ‘chocolate chip’ battle-dress uniform, beret, desert combat boots, still with your web gear on like you were getting ready to go into battle again. You looked like John Wayne and Superman rolled into one. You had several dozen confirmed kills to your credit, and regular folks treated you like the second coming of Elvis — twenty years earlier, they would have spit on you if they even thought you were military. You cried when those people cheered for you. You cried when the band started playing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ and the crowds broke through the barricades and surrounded you.” Thorn had stopped his pacing and was staring off into space as if reliving that moment.

“You were proud of your men and the Army,” Goff went on. “You went back and thanked every one of your men for their service. You got down on your knees on the tarmac and thanked the ones who didn’t come back. You were a proud man, Thomas.”

“I’m still proud of our soldiers,” he shot back, almost defensively. “I’m proud enough of them that I refuse to send them away from home just so they can be ‘trip wires’ or so we can maintain a ‘presence’ in some foreign country. Soldiers are meant to fight and kill to defend their country, not to fight and die for someone else’s country, or for the latest slogan or jingle or buzzword, or so we can police a country whose people want nothing more than to kill one another, or because the media saturates our senses with scenes of downtrodden people supposedly in need of liberation. I won’t follow the pattern of past leaders and send troops overseas just because we can, or because someone believes we should because we’re the leaders of the free world.”

Goff’s half-smile was vanishing rapidly. “Now you’ve turned into a cynical reactionary. It’s like you hate everything you were back then, and you’re driven to see it all destroyed.”

“Not destroyed — changed,” Thorn said. “Changed into what it was meant to be. Changed into what the Founding Fathers wanted it to be.”

“That was then, Thomas,” Goff argued. “That was the eighteenth-century world, where time was as much a barrier as a mountain range or an ocean. Now information travels at the speed of light into almost every home on the planet. The world is a far more dangerous place than ever before, and we need every advantage we can take.”

“You can’t convince me, Robert,” Thorn said. “I’m not going to change my philosophy of how to run this government simply because a military plane gets shot down, an espionage operation is uncovered and exposed, or some country thinks they can get away with invading and occupying a smaller, weaker nation.”

“‘Think they can get away with it, Thomas?” Goff asked. Thomas, they’ve already ‘gotten away with it.’ It’s a done deal. Russia has sent over twenty thousand troops into the Balkans in the past two weeks alone. None of those nations can do or say anything against them. How are we going to deal with Russia now? They’ve taken over Macedonia, they are staging massive resupply missions and setting up huge hardware and ammunition depots in Bulgaria and Serbia, and they’re conducting cross-border raids into Albania that look suspiciously like another invasion operation — the Germans are virtually stepping aside, letting them cruise anywhere in the Balkans. We’ve implicated them in mass murder, surprise attacks, and even genocide. Someone has to stop them.”

“We’re not going to deal militarily with Russia,” the President said.

“What?”

“If the Balkan countries want Russia to occupy them, let them go ahead and do so,” Thorn said.

“What do you mean, ‘if they want them to occupy them?” Goff asked. “Why would any country want Russia to occupy them?”

“Robert, have you heard of any opposition to Russia’s new peacekeeping role in Macedonia?”

“We get briefings and see video of anti-Russian protests every day.”

“But there’s no opposition from the government, the Macedonian parliament is still in session, there’s no government in exile, and the Macedonian army is still intact,” the President observed. “Yes, we’ve heard from opposition leaders in their government asking for American troops to counterbalance the Russian troops, and we’ve heard dire predictions of a Russian invasion of Greece and Turkey. But it’s all background noise, Robert.”

“‘Background noise.’” Goff’s voice was intentionally monotone, as if he was too stunned to even react.

“It’s all rumor and possibility and threats and panic,” the President said. “It’s opposition groups in every country in Europe vying for position. It’s ethnic and religious groups in this country vying for press and donations and influence. It’s congressional representatives vying for votes and donations. Everyone’s got an agenda, Robert, including you and me. But their agendas don’t have to influence my thinking.

“That goes double when it comes to deploying the armed forces of the United States,” the President went on. “I refuse to use the military as a hammer against anyone who happens to have thoughts, actions, or policies contrary to ours, no matter how horrific or dangerous they seem to be.”

“Then you’re willing to sacrifice the peace, security, and freedom of every one of the democratic nations in Europe, just like that, in order to preserve your way of thinking?” Goff asked incredulously. “Even if Russia takes the Balkans, breaks up NATO, reoccupies the Baltic States, and re-erects the Iron Curtain, you’re still willing to stand aside and watch it all happen?”

“You are living in a fantasy world of someone else’s making, Robert,” the President retorted. “You’re starting to believe all the hype in the press. Yes, I believe Russia has hostile intentions toward the Balkans, and possibly elsewhere in Europe. But what’s the solution, Robert? Send troops to Macedonia or Albania or Bulgaria? Send in the Sixth Fleet? Then we’d be the invaders. We’d turn the Balkans into a battleground, just like before the start of World War One—”

“To preserve freedom and democracy in Europe, I damn well think it’s worth our sacrifice!” Goff retorted. “Would you have stood aside and let Hitler take Europe or the British Isles, or let Mussolini take Greece? Would you have let the Japanese island-hop their way to California without opposing them? Would you have let Israel defend itself against Egypt and Syria? Would you have allowed Saddam Hussein to keep Kuwait and then take Saudi Arabia?”

“I’m not going there, Robert,” Thorn snapped. “I’m not going to rewrite history, for you or for anyone else. I’m only concerned about what I’m going to do here and now—”

“Which is nothing? Turn your back on our friends and allies?”

“I’m not going to engage Russia or China or any other nation unless the very existence of the United States of America is at stake. And I don’t mean losing a few markets for wheat or soybeans or soda pop — I mean threaten our shores, threaten our national security.”

“You’re going to unravel decades of alliances, friendship, and trust between the free nations of the world, Thomas.”

“Am I? Do you think the German chancellor had this discussion when he decided to divide the Balkans between themselves and Russia? Did the Germans care about NATO? Did Russia care about maintaining years of mutual trust and friendship between us and them? Or do you think they were motivated by self-interest to do what they felt was right for their countries?”

“Or maybe they’re just in it for the money.”

“So what if they are?” the President argued. “What if Sen’kov is really getting billions of dollars from that Russian gangster Kazakov to invade the Balkans just so he can put up his pipeline? Do you think the Russian people will stand idly by and watch him do this? Do you think the Russian military will happily march into Albania and risk another Afghanistan or Chechnya debacle just so Sen’kov can get rich and retire wealthy to the Caribbean?”

“Maybe they can’t do anything about it.”

“Boris Yeltsin proved that even a nobody can stand up to the power of the Red Army if he has the strength of his convictions,” Thorn said. “History is full of stories of successful visionaries.”

“And dead martyrs,” Goff added.

“I don’t intend on becoming a martyr, Bob,” the President said. “But I am going to fight for my beliefs. The American people elected me for one simple reason: to form a government with my vision, my ideals. They wanted less interference in foreign affairs, to bring our troops home from endless, pointless peacekeeping missions, to downsize government, improve our quality of life without raising taxes or polarizing our people, and to make America strong by putting America first. If they don’t like what I’m doing, there’s a way to get rid of me without my becoming a martyr, too — impeach me. But it won’t happen, and for one simple reason — because I follow the rulebook: the Constitution of the United States.”

Secretary of Defense Goff shook his head, not knowing exactly how to respond to his friend. He was either a true visionary, he thought, or he was going insane. “So you’re going to let Russia and Germany march into the Balkans unopposed,” he said after a long, frustrating pause. “You’re going to let them carve up the Balkans, followed shortly by Eastern Europe, then perhaps by Western Europe. We lose all our trading partners and allies in Europe. Then a spark ignites a third world war, and we either sit on the sidelines and watch Europe go up in flames, or we have to send another thirty-five million men and women into combat to restore the peace, like we did in World War Two.”

“When the combined Russian and German tanks roll through Buckingham Palace, Robert, you can tell me you told me so,” the President said. “I don’t think it’s going to happen, at least not on my watch.”

“You’re betting the peace and security of the entire world on this, Thomas.”

“If the world wants peace or the world wants war, Robert, they’ll get whichever they choose,” Thorn said. “My job is to protect and defend the United States. I’m going to make America the shining example of a strong, peaceful, democratic nation, and invite others to join us. I’m not going to send our armies out to enforce our ideas of what kind of society or government they should live under.”

Robert Goff shook his head and looked down, and looked at his hands, then at papers on the President’s desk — anywhere but into his friend’s eyes. He was not convinced one bit that the President was right, but he knew that arguing with him was not going to help or change his mind. That’s why he was surprised when the President clasped him on the shoulder. “You okay, Bob?” he asked softly.

Only then did Goff look into the President’s eyes. He responded, “Yes, Mr. President.”

Thorn’s face clouded a bit in disappointment when he heard those words — Goff did not use them very often when they were alone — but he still smiled warmly. “You still with me?” he asked.

“I’m with you, Thomas,” Goff responded. “Even if it’s there to help pick up the pieces.” And he turned and departed the Oval Office without saying another word.

Thomas Thorn returned to his desk and shuffled some paperwork around without really noticing what they were, then retreated to his study. He fielded several phone calls and visits from his secretary, then hit the DND (Do Not Disturb) button on his phone, settled into his chair, closed his eyes, and began his deep-breathing exercises, commanding his muscles one by one to relax, and then letting his mantra echo quietly through his head until, gradually, all conscious thoughts raced away over the horizon.

Many casual practitioners called it a very intense “nap,” but meditation was much more than just a period of relaxation. The transcendental state was a span of time, in which the subconscious mind was exposed, and at the same time the conscious mind was free to expand — to roam the vast areas that were generally closed to it. It was far different from a nap — in fact, meditation was never meant to be a substitute for sleep. Quite the opposite: the transcendental process was an energizing, invigorating process, because letting the conscious mind race about in the wide-open energy field of the subconscious mind filled both the mind and the body with incredible power. It was akin to a racehorse, tied to an exercise trundle: it was fine going around in a twenty-foot circle. It was even better when allowed to run on a mile-and-a-quarter racetrack during practice or on race day. But let it out into an open field, and the horse becomes a different animal, random and tireless and almost wild. The human mind worked the very same way.

It was also a two-way exchange. Many thoughts, experiences, even realities existed in the subconscious mind, and the transcendental state allowed those waves of energy to emerge. In that sense, meditation was an educational experience, a way of reliving, preliving, or even creating a whole new lifetime in just an instant.

But like any exercise, the human mind can grow weary if left to roam too long, and through years of training and discipline, Thorn called his mind back to the conscious world and let the doorway to his subconscious mind close. It was not a sad or reluctant event at all. He knew the doorway was always there, to summon when needed, and he knew that the potential energy available to him there was limitless.

But the subconscious realm was an alternate reality he had created to explore the universe that was himself — the person, the being, the energy that was all of his pasts and all of his futures right there, in one instant, available for him to see and study and experience. He had created other realities — this one, of him as president of the United States, in the beginning of the twenty-first century, on the planet called Earth. It was time to play that role, immerse himself in that universe, and act out his part in that performance. But he could do so armed with the knowledge and experience that he had gained from his other realities, because to him they were all his realities, all pertinent, all interconnected.

He picked up his phone and punched a button. “Yes, Mr. President?” his vice president, Les Busick, responded.

“Your friend, the one you mentioned the other day? Is he in town?”

“Yes. “I’d like to talk with him. Today. Right now.”

Busick hesitated for a moment. Ever since he had learned his “friend” was coming to town with a radical, dangerous proposal, he knew the President should meet with him. Every time he had brought it up, the President had turned him down. He might have been tempted to give him an “I told you so,” but Busick knew that things had to be pretty serious for the President to want to talk with him now. “Where?”

“In the residence.” Every place in the entire building — in the entire District, for that matter — was open to dozens of prying eyes, except for the residence itself; and as many presidents soon learned, there were many very discreet ways of getting inside the President’s private residence without half of Washington finding out. “As soon as possible.”

“Would you like me there, too?”

“It might be better if you weren’t.”

“I see.” English translation: I might be doing something you might have to deny. Finally, Busick thought, Thomas Thorn is doing something like a real president. “I’ll buzz you when they arrive.”

“This place is so neat and organized,” the visitor said, with a smile. “Was I that big of a slob?”

President Thomas Thorn watched his visitor with a mixture of apprehension and irritation. They were seated in the President’s study in the private residence in the White House, far from the prying eyes of the media, Congress — and, he hated to admit, some members of his own Cabinet. But now he had this gentleman to contend with. Somehow he had the feeling he was in the process of making a deal with the devil, and he hated the prospect of doing so. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” President Thorn prompted.

“Whatever you say, Tom,” former president Kevin Martindale responded, casually concluding his distracted little tour of the residence and returning to the seat offered him. Since losing the White House to Thomas Thorn in the last election, Martindale seemed much thinner and had let his hair grow longer. It was just as wavy as before, with the “photographer’s dream”—the two long curly silver locks that seemed to drop down across his forehead whenever he got mad or excited — still present, but now the rest of his mane was very nearly the same shade of silver. He wore a short, thin, partially gray beard, too.

“This is a different look for you, isn’t it?” Thorn asked.

“I’m not in front of the public every day,” Martindale replied. He regarded the President with a half-amused, half-accusing expression. “But then, neither are you.”

“Maybe that’s how you always wanted to look,” Thorn offered.

“We’re both kids of the sixties, Tom,” Martindale said. “We learned it was okay to be different, to follow whatever our hearts told us instead of what others were telling us.”

“True.” It was still a damned unusual look for Kevin Martindale, Thorn thought, and it didn’t fit his image at all. Martindale was a career politician, and ever since he’d burst on the national political stage almost twenty years before, he’d always looked and acted the part of a savvy, smooth, well-spoken, intelligent insider. “Especially an ex-Marine — four years in the Corps, including two tours in Vietnam. State attorney-general, U.S. senator, secretary of defense briefly, then vice president, private citizen, then president.”

“Then private citizen again,” Martindale added. It didn’t impress him at all that Thorn knew details about his background — he had been in Washington a long time, and the things he’d done had definitely set a place for him in the history books. “But I guess after all those years of being straightlaced and buttoned-down, it was time for a change.” Thorn didn’t say anything right away, so Martindale went on: “Talk about your big-time changes-Rambo to Mr. Rogers, warrior to wallflower? Will the real Thomas Nathaniel Thorn please stand up?” His eyes narrowed, and his casual smile vanished. “Why’d you call me here, Thorn?”

“I heard you’ve been doing some recruiting.”

“Oh?”

“Present, former, and retired military guys, especially special ops and aviators.”

“That’s interesting,” Martindale commented. His sources would have advised him if any U.S. or foreign intelligence agencies were checking up on him, and none were. Thorn might be guessing — and then again, he might not be. “What else have you heard?”

“That guys are joining up.” Martindale shrugged and said nothing. “I just wanted to touch base, find out what you’re up to.”

“Since when, Thorn?” Martindale retorted. “Since when did you care about me? Since when did you care about anything or anyone?”

“Excuse me?” Was he trying to goad him into reacting? Thorn thought. How childish can a grown man be?

“Tradition, respect, legacy, honor — none of that stuff means anything to you,” Martindale went on, “or else you would have attended the inauguration, and you would have stepped up in front of Congress and the American people and talked about your vision of the future of our nation in your first State of the Union.” Thorn looked like he was going to say something, but Martindale interrupted him with an upraised hand. “Hey, I’ve heard your reasons before. ‘It’s not in the Constitution.’ Well, the United States and the American people are much more than the Constitution.”

“I know exactly what our country is, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “I know the United States is embodied in the Constitution and our laws. I was elected because I believe that, and the American people believe it, too.”

“You got elected because me and the Democrats were too busy hammering away at each other to notice you slipping up behind us.”

“That’s one good reason,” Thorn said. “The military questions, especially the attacks on Taiwan, Guam, and the Independence, killed it for you.” Martindale scowled. “Tell me, Mr. President — why didn’t you retaliate?”

“Against whom?” Martindale asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than he wanted. “China? Everyone said China was the ‘obvious’ attacker. But we still don’t know exactly who planted the nuke on the Indy to this day, only that there were no nuclear weapons on the ship. I had no authority to attack China in retaliation for attacking Taiwan. As far as the attack on Guam — well, I had other players waiting to go to work. They did the job, and I didn’t have to be the first American president since Truman to use nuclear weapons in anger.”

“‘Other players,’ “ Thorn repeated. “You mean HAWC and Madcap Magician.”

“I see you’re familiar with them,” Martindale said. “They’re good troops — at least, they were until you sold them out. Now they’re useless. What was the purpose of telling Sen’kov who they were?”

“It put Sen’kov off guard, it bought us time, and it allowed our troops to get out safely,” Thorn replied.

“And it shot to hell almost twenty years of weapons development and all future covert-action capability from Dreamland,” Martindale pointed out. “Why? So you can soothe your conscience? So you didn’t have to get into a fight with the Russians? I think you’ve heard this before, ‘Mom, but let me tell you again in case you’ve forgotten: the Russians like to fight. They like to argue, they like to deceive, they like to confront and challenge. And they don’t respect anyone who doesn’t argue, fight, deceive, confront, or challenge in return. I’m sure your national security advisor briefed you on basic historical tactics for dealing with the Russians.” But before Thorn could answer, Martindale snapped his fingers and added, “Oh yeah, that’s right—you don’t have a national security advisor! What in hell is up with that? You’re surrendering a valuable advisor and critical White House staff organization just to save a few bucks?”

“Robert Goff is a good man.”

“He’s the best,” Martindale said. “But his job is to run the Department of Defense, to keep the American military, such as it is, running smoothly. His job is not to help you formulate policy — his job is to carry out your orders. He’s overworked and understaffed, and it’ll hurt your military effectiveness.”

“My military force structure and my staff of advisors is exactly what I’m supposed to have — no more, no less.”

“That’s true — if you were living in the eighteenth century,” Martindale said. “But you’re actually in the twenty-first century — maybe not mentally, but physically. You understaff the White House and force the Pentagon to do more work, which understaffs them, and all the shit rolls downhill — it screws everybody up. Just because Thomas Jefferson didn’t have a national security advisor. Well, I’m sure if he had thought of it, he would’ve gotten one. Wise up, Thorn.”

“Fortunately, I don’t have to justify or explain my budget or staffing strategies to you.”

“I’m a citizen of the United States, a taxpayer, and a voter, not just your predecessor,” Martindale reminded him sternly. “You sure as hell do have to explain that stuff to me.”

“Maybe later, then,” Thorn said irritably. “Right now, what I want to know is: why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you so afraid of using the military?”

“I wasn’t afraid of jackshit, Thorn.”

“Then why didn’t you use the military more often? Conflicts all over the world, nuclear weapons flying, threats to peace and security almost every year — and yet you never once started any massive deployments, never called up the Reserves or Guard. You massed a few carriers, put a few bombers back on nuclear alert, but never made any real attempt to prepare the nation for the possibility of a general war, even though you were clearly authorized and expected to do so. Why?”

“Read it in my memoirs,” Martindale snapped.

Thomas Thorn spread his hands in a symbol of surrender. “Mr. President … Kevin,” he said. “I really want to know.”

“Why? Because you’re scared that your precious, righteous philosophy of disengagement and isolationism from world affairs isn’t working?” Martindale shot back, angrier than ever. “That after a year of slamming me during the campaign about my ineptitude over how I handled crises around the world, you’re discovering that maybe it’s not so easy to do nothing?”

Thorn couldn’t be goaded into firing back. “Because I need to know, Kevin,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t do nothing. But why did you do what you did? Why didn’t you just use the immense power we have to solve these crises?”

Martindale fell silent, then shrugged his shoulders, as if not caring if Thorn knew his reasoning or not. “Plain and simple: I hate the idea of losing,” Martindale finally replied. “Spending weeks or even months mobilizing an army, then sending them across the globe to fight and die in a war, just doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds like a wasteful, inefficient, risky thing.”

“So if you send in HAWC or Madcap Magician,” Thorn summarized, “and they get beat, you think you haven’t lost?”

“No, I’ve lost, all right — but I’ve lost a scrimmage, not the real game,” Martindale explained. “And both those units have been pretty dam good in their scrimmages — sometimes they beat the bad guys so badly that there is no game afterward. In any case, the secret units were fast, efficient, highly motivated, they reported directly to me, and their funding and support were buried in black programs with minimal congressional oversight. That is, until now.”

“I see,” Thorn said. He looked at Martindale carefully — then, to Martindale’s surprise, he smiled and nodded. “Very well. Thank you for your time, Mr. President.”

“That’s it? That’s all?” Martindale asked incredulously. “No threats, no warnings, no condemnation?”

“Of what?”

“Of—” Then Martindale stopped. He smiled, wagged a finger at Thorn, then stood up to leave. “I see. Very clever. You shove me around a bit so I’ll reveal some information, then simply leave me to fend for myself”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kevin,” Thorn said. “I just wanted to ask you about some of the aspects of your tenure as president. I think I have a pretty good idea now.”

“Let’s stop playing games, Thorn,” Martindale said angrily”You called me in here for a reason. Spit it out.”

“Very well, Mr. President—”

“And stop with the ‘Mr. President’ shit,” Martindale interjected. “I’m not the president — you are. You have about as much respect for me as I have for you.”

“All I have to say is this, Kevin: what you’re planning to do is dangerous — maybe not to you, but to the men and women you’re recruiting to work with you,” Thorn said. “Executive privilege won’t protect you, and the Geneva Conventions won’t protect them. No matter what you do, no matter whom or how it benefits, the United States won’t come to your rescue. As they said in the old TV shows, we’ll disavow any knowledge of your actions. You’ll be nothing more than high-tech vigilantes.”

“Then do something yourself,” Martindale said, all traces of bravado gone for now. “Sponsor us. Underwrite us. We’ll take the risk, but we’ll do it under your direction. We’ll keep ourselves out of the spotlight, follow the spirit of the law, cooperate as much as possible with domestic and foreign governments. But this isolationist, laissez-faire policy of yours will drag this country down, and someone has to act to protect our vital interests.”

“You want to follow the law, Kevin? Drop this crazy scheme,” the President said. “You’ve done enough damage as it is already.”

“We haven’t even begun to fight, Tom,” Martindale said. “You are not going to be able to stop us. You might as well work with us.”

“Who else is involved in this, Kevin?” Thorn asked. “Who in my administration? Which active-duty officers? Which retired officers?”

“You expect me just to give you a roster?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” Martindale replied. “Of course, if you’d agree to join us, or even not to interfere and to pass us some intelligence information every now and then, perhaps I’d be convinced that you could be trusted.”

“I’m not going to spar with you, Kevin,” Thorn said. “I’ll assume you have some sort of ultraminiature recording device on you. It doesn’t matter. I’ll say this plainly: I’ll oppose anyone who wants to conduct their own foreign or military policy. I don’t know if what you’re doing is illegal or not — that’s a question for the Justice Department. But if you give me the names of all your members, and if Justice deems your operation illegal, which I think they will—”

“Of course they will. The Attorney General works for the President,” Martindale interjected. “I know how that works, Thorn, remember? I played that game. The Justice Department doesn’t stand for ‘justice’—it stands for whatever the White House stands for. Justice’s job is to make the laws fit the wishes of the White House.”

“—then I’ll give the participants you list one free pass. No judicial punishment. They’ll be allowed to go free if they keep their noses clean.”

“I’ll give you an offer in return,” Martindale said. “You continue to do whatever the hell it is you do in this place, whatever your pointed little head tells you is the will of the people. When Russia invades Turkey or Ukraine or Georgia, when China tries to invade Taiwan or take over the South China Sea again, if Iran tries to take over the Persian Gulf or Red Sea, and suddenly the bad guys mysteriously start losing ships and planes and bases, you just keep swearing that the United States isn’t doing anything. You promise to investigate the matter, then simply drop it.

“Every now and then, your folks pick up the phone and toss us some information or a few old satellite photos or EM intercepts. Nothing direct — a file carelessly left on a desk, a fax or e-mail to a wrong address, an intel package or classified situation report mysteriously delayed a few minutes on its way from the Pentagon to the White House. You continue to deny everything, chastise the press for spreading accusations and being alarmist, and continue on your merry mission of burying your head in the sand. Someone else will take care of all the messes in the world.”

“You think this is a big joke, eh, Martindale?” Thorn responded. “I assure you, this is a very serious situation. I can pick up the phone and have you arrested right now. The FBI will eventually find the rest of the members of your little gun club. You’ll be disgraced and vilified for the rest of your life. Your participants’ lives and careers will be ruined.”

“Thorn, don’t be an ass,” Martindale admonished him. “You know as well as I do that nothing will be proven. You will have arrested, harassed, and slandered a former president of the United States, and none of the accusations will be found to be true. Congress will completely abandon you — you’ll have zero chance of getting one piece of legislation passed. You’ll be even more of a laughingstock than you are now.”

“I’m giving you one last chance, Kevin,” Thorn said. “Abandon this crazy scheme. Tell me who your main officers are, and they’ll be exempt from prosecution one time only, after we sit down with them and advise them of the trouble they’re in and the punishment awaiting them if they’re found guilty.”

Martindale looked at Thorn for what seemed like a long time, then shrugged his shoulders. “It was nice talking with you, Thorn,” he said, as he extended his hand to the President. “Your naïveté is exceeded only by your dedication to your convictions. Maybe you really are the reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson, like all the weirdos claim you are.”

Thorn looked disappointed, but he shook hands with Martindale nonetheless. “It was nice talking to you, too, sir,” he said. “I don’t envy the path you’ve chosen for yourself and your misguided followers. I predict it will be long and difficult.”

“Sure,” Martindale said, as he headed for the door. “Bum some incense for me when you’re done communing with nature. Meanwhile, I’ve got work to do.”

North Las Vegas, Nevada

Duane Deverill popped open the bottle of Duckhom Merlot and poured, finishing with a flourish. “There you go,” he said proudly. “A pretty good ‘95. Should go well with dinner tonight.”

Annie Dewey had arrived a few minutes earlier, still in her flight suit. She plopped her briefcase down on the sofa table. “Sounds great,” she said distractedly, unzipping the flight suit to her waist. “What are you fixing?”

“Fixing? Me? Sorry, babe, but I called Pizza Hut. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Heck no,” she said. “Red wine and pizza are my favorites.”

He came over to her with a glass of wine, touched rims, then gave her a kiss before they drank. “Here’s to you,” he said. After he took a sip, he added rakishly, “Hey, that was nice.”

She smiled enticingly, but pushed him away. “Sorry. I need a shower first. I smell like I just got done with a week in the cockpit instead of just three hours.”

“Allow me.” He sat her down on the couch, removed her flying boots and socks, then helped her slip out of the flight suit. She wore a white T-shirt atop an athletic bra, and cotton panties. Smiling mischievously, he then started at her toes, kissing and sucking them, then moved up her leg to her waist, then her belly, then back down to her waist.

She gently but firmly lifted his head. “Shower first, okay?”

He smiled back at her, but his eyes registered his concern. “Sure.” He let her up off the couch, then watched as she collected her flying gear. “Everything okay?”

She half turned toward him and nodded. “Everything’s fine. I guess I’m just tired. Long day today.” She turned to face him and smiled wearily. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Dev said happily. He took a sip of wine and watched Annie as she headed off toward his bathroom, shedding the rest of her underwear. “Well, wine can definitely wait.” He kicked off his sandals and pulled his T-shirt off with one hand. “I’ll join you.” But at that exact moment, the doorbell rang. Dev made a big, demonstrative pantomime of disappointment, punching and kicking the air in mock animal frustration. “We’ll reheat it. Don’t worry. You go ahead and start, and I’ll be right there.” He collected cash from his wallet and went to the door, mentally calculating the amount and the tip and getting the cash ready in his hand to hurry things up as he opened the door …

… and saw Colonel David Luger standing there. He shook off the confusion and embarrassment quickly. “Hello, sir.”

“Dev.” Luger noticed that Deverill was definitely blocking not just his way but his view of his apartment, so he didn’t try to look around him. “Could you ask Annie to come out to the patio and have a few words with me?”

“Maybe,” Dev said.

“Maybe?”

Dev eyed Luger suspiciously. “We heard that you were decertified, sir,” he said. “The last we heard, you were being evaluated at Brooks for delayed stress syndrome.”

“Something like that.”

“You on medication?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sir,” Deverill said. “You’re at my house, we’re not in uniform, and Annie’s a friend and my aircraft commander. It is my business.” He looked carefully into Luger’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Luger was on antidepressants or sedatives — he looked perfectly normal — but he knew he was no expert. “Were you discharged from Brooks? Are you coming back to the Lake?”

“Ask her to come out here, please,” Luger said.

“When were you released from Brooks, Colonel?” Dev asked. “Or … were you released from Brooks?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Hostile, Colonel, very hostile,” Deverill. said. “Could it be possible you broke out of the hospital? Maybe I should call the sky cops and ask them.”

“Do what you want. Just ask Annie to come out here.”

“I don’t think so,” Deverill said. “If you’re okay and you’ve been released from Brooks, you can see Annie at the Lake tomorrow. But if not … you might be dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What the hell do you mean? What do you think you’re doing?” He saw Luger’s face and neck muscles tense up.

He went on full alert, eyes narrowed, measuring Luger up. They were of equal height; Luger was younger, but Dev had at least forty pounds on him. “I don’t think I like your tone of voice, sir. I’m asking you to leave.”

“I asked you to ask Annie to come out and talk with me,” David said evenly, controlling his temper. Dev stood his ground. He knew he had absolutely nothing to stand on — if Dev said no, that was it, unless Annie herself knew he was here. He raised his voice and peered over Dev’s left shoulder, “Annie, it’s David. Would you come talk to me?”

Dev put his hands on Luger’s chest and tried to push him away from the door. “I asked you to leave, Luger. Now I’m telling you—get out.”

Luger swept Deverill’s hands away from his chest with a speed that surprised him. “Don’t push me, Deverill.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me in my own house, Luger,” Deverill snapped.

“David?” Annie was standing behind Dev in the doorway, wearing one of Dev’s tank tops, which barely covered her bikini bathing suit bottoms. “What are you doing here?”

“Annie, I want to—”

“I told you to leave, sir,” Deverill said, quickly restoring his polite but firm, protective voice. It was too late to try to keep them apart. He turned to Annie. “The colonel is being loud and rude, and he’s not being very straightforward about his mental condition.”

“His mental condition?” Annie charged to the front door and tried to push Dev away. “Dev, move aside…”

“This is not a good idea, Heels,” Dev said. He had one more chance to break the bond that still existed between these two, and he decided in that instant to go for it. “I think he broke out of whatever medical mental exam program he was going through. I think he’s AWOL. Look at his eyes — I think he’s on drugs. He came up here looking for you and itching for a fight.”

“Screw you, Deverill.”

“Tell her, Colonel,” Deverill goaded him. “Tell her. Are you supposed to be here? Or are you AWOL?”

“Fuck you, Deverill!”

Deverill couldn’t believe it — maybe he had happened on the real reason for how Luger was here. Could it be that Luger really had escaped from Brooks? Had they had him in the loony bin, or almost there, and he’d escaped? “Which is it, sir? Are you on drugs? Did you break out of custody somewhere?”

“Dev, stop it!” Annie shouted. “What are you doing?”

“You want to take me out now, don’t you, Colonel?” Dev shouted. “You gonna take a shot at me?”

He did. It came out of nowhere, with a snap that surprised Deverill again, even though he was on full alert and he had already seen Luger move once tonight. The blow landed on the left side of Dev’s face, staggering him.

“David!” Annie cried. She helped Dev into the living room, holding his face. There was a drop of blood coming out of the corner of his left eye. “David, are you crazy?” David Luger’s face went blank, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Her face registered surprise when she realized what she’d said. “I … I didn’t mean that…” she stammered. “David…”

“I’m leaving, Annie,” he said in a low, solemn voice. The sight of her in his shirt, fresh out of the shower, from his shower, holding his face, was almost too much for him to bear. “I won’t be back.”

“D-David? Where are you going?”

“Away.”

“Where? I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand, Annie,” Luger said. “I just came here to say good-bye.”

“What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you, Annie,” he replied, the hurt obvious in his eyes. “But I’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“David, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

“Good-bye, Annie,” he said. Annie wanted to get up and follow him, but Dev grasped her wrist, and it froze her. Luger didn’t seem like he was on any kind of drugs, not agitated or wild at all-in fact, he seemed very calm. Too calm. What in hell was going on?

“Will I ever see you again, David?” she asked. But he said nothing, only turned and walked down the stairs and out to the parking lot until he was out of sight.

Sky Wasters Inc. Corporate Headquarters, Arkansas International Jetport, Blytheville, Arkansas

Little Bradley J. McLanahan couldn’t take his eyes off the big Sky Masters Inc. DC-10, brightly illuminated by banks of ballpark lights, as the last forklifts moved away and the big portside cargo doors motored closed. He pulled on his mother’s blue jeans. “Are we going flying, Mommy?”

“Not tonight, honey,” Wendy replied. “Daddy’s going flying tonight.”

“I need to go flying,” he protested. The big cargo plane/tanker/command aircraft started up its fuselage engine. He turned to Patrick, realized he had not made his request politely, and pleaded, “Please, can I go flying with you, Daddy?”

“Not tonight, big guy,” Patrick replied. “When I get home, we’ll go fly the 210, okay?” But his son’s attention was fully riveted on the DC-10, saving Patrick’s heartstrings from his son’s earnest pleading.

“Stealing away in the middle of the night,” Wendy said to Patrick. “This can’t be right if we have to sneak away like this.”

“President Martindale said go, so we’re going,” Patrick said. “I just wish you were coming along.”

“Jon’s still got a business to run,” Wendy said. “Helen and I are it.”

“Just until things cool down.”

“Then I think you’ll be gone an awful long time,” Wendy said, “because I think things have barely begun to warm up.” She sighed, then asked, “Any idea where you’ll be?”

“Turkey or Ukraine,” Patrick replied. “We won’t make the final decision until we depart our refueling stop, either in Spain or Belgium.”

“I feel like we’re being pursued harder than the guy we’re trying to stop.”

“We are — for now,” Patrick said. “Something will happen soon. My guess is that we’ll get a sanction from the White House. Kevin will eventually make President Thorn realize we’re not a threat to him or his administration.” They heard the port engine on the DC-10 spool up, which was a signal to board. “I’d better go.” He kissed his son on the cheek, then gave Wendy a hug and a kiss.

“I wish I was coming along,” Wendy said. “No, actually, I wish we weren’t doing this. For some reason, it seems wrong.”

“I don’t know if it’s wrong or not,” Patrick said as he hugged her tightly. “I wish I knew.”

“Just be safe, then.”

“I will.” He kissed her one last time, then pulled away and headed for the airstairs. He took a seat near David Luger, Jon Masters, Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and Marcia Preston. Moments later, the starboard engine fired up, and they began taxiing for takeoff.

Patrick was just settling into his palletized passenger seat when he heard via his subcutaneous transceiver: “Patrick, this is Wendy. I see three helicopters in formation coming in low over the airport. No marking that we can see.”

At that same moment, Patrick heard on the cabin intercom: “General McLanahan, you’d better get up here.”

Patrick raced for the cockpit. Through the windscreen he saw the helicopters as they raced in at treetop level from the southwest. They broke formation, so Patrick could see only one of them.

“Who are they?” the DC-10’s copilot asked — then blanched as he heard an announcement on the emergency UHF frequency. “Oh, shit…”

The flight engineer handed Patrick a headset. “You’d better listen to this, sir,” he said.

“Attention Sky Masters DC-10 taxiing for takeoff, this is the FBI,” Patrick heard. “You are hereby ordered to stop immediately and shut down your engines. Repeat, stop and shut down immediately.”

“What do we do, sir?” the pilot asked.

“Keep going,” Patrick replied. “Take the next taxiway onto the runway, get airborne as soon as you can.”

“We’re pretty close to gross weight, sir,” the engineer said. “An intersection takeoff won’t give us enough accelerate-stop distance.”

“Just do it,” Patrick said. “If those choppers get any closer and block our path, we’ll all be in jail before you know it.” The pilot made a sudden turn onto the intersecting taxiway, and while the copilot and flight engineer frantically completed the pretakeoff checks, the pilot swung right on the runway, lining up for takeoff.

“General McLanahan, this is Earthmover.” Patrick heard Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson’s voice in his head through the implanted transceiver. “Better shut it down. The FBI is going to block the runway.”

“Terrill, what did you do?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, I told them you might be here — hard to believe, but the FBI didn’t know about Sky Masters or this facility,” Samson said.

“So you told them.”

“I cooperated with a federal investigation,” Samson retorted. “They have a warrant to search the facility and all the aircraft. You need to cooperate with them. Shut it down. Don’t continue the takeoff. You’ll kill everyone on board that plane.”

“Then I wish you were on board with me, Samson,” Patrick said bitterly. He shouted to the pilots, “Get this thing in the air!” The last thing he saw over on the parking ramp was a large group of armed FBI agents surrounding Wendy, his son Bradley, and the others. One FBI agent had an M-16 pointed at his wife and son, the muzzle just inches away. Wendy was clutching their son tightly, afraid to move.

The FBI’s Jet Ranger helicopter had just set down about three-quarters of the way down the runway. The pilot immediately realized the DC-10 wasn’t going to stop, and yanked the helicopter off the runway and quick-taxied clear. The DC-10 had started to rotate to takeoff attitude at that spot, and the wingtip vortices sent the chopper spinning and flipped it on its side.

“McLanahan,” Terrill Samson’s disembodied voice said, what has gotten into you? You may have killed that helicopter crew! Are you crazy?”

“If any harm comes to my family, I’ll be looking for you, Samson,” Patrick vowed.

“They’re taking Wendy and your son into custody,” Samson said. “She won’t be placed under arrest unless she fails to cooperate. I advise you to orbit the field and bum down fuel until you can land right back here.”

“Not one hair disturbed on either of their heads,” Patrick warned. “I hold you responsible.”

“I am not your enemy, Patrick!” Samson thundered. “Dammit, don’t you understand? The ghost of Brad Elliott has got you completely screwed up. Don’t let it affect your family as well. If you don’t give yourself up, Patrick, I can’t be responsible for what happens to them.”

It was the hardest thing Patrick ever had to do—not to give the order to turn around.

Terrill Samson walked over to check out a noise far louder than the roar of the Sky Masters DC-10 taking off or the sirens on the police and FBI cars still streaming onto the tarmac — the noise of a screaming child. An FBI SWAT officer dressed in full black combat gear and carrying an MP-5K submachine gun was trying to take Bradley James McLanahan out of Wendy McLanahan’s arms.

“Stop resisting!” the officer was shouting. Wendy was now fighting off three FBI agents. “Let the kid go!”

Samson stepped in and pulled the FBI agents away from Wendy and the boy. “Back off, Officer, back off.”

“They’re suspects, General,” one of the hooded officers said. “They need to be handcuffed until we can search the area.

“I said, back off,” Samson said. The big three-star general put his arms around Wendy McLanahan and eased her away from the armored officer. “I’ll take responsibility for these two.”

But Wendy shrugged away from him. “You get away from me, too, Samson,” she cried. “I’d rather be in an isolation cell than be near you.” But Samson continued to escort her away, the FBI agents did not protest, and Wendy turned her attention to Bradley’s screaming and did not resist further.

“Where is Patrick going, Wendy?”

“Go to hell, Samson.”

“This is an investigation only, Wendy — we have no arrest warrants,” Samson said. “But if Patrick disappears with that aircraft, he’ll be charged with interfering with a federal investigation, evidence tampering, and withholding evidence. He’ll be a fugitive. If we find evidence that anyone here conspired with McLanahan to take that plane, this whole place will be shut down and locked up and everyone will go to jail. This is serious, Wendy. You’ve got to tell me where he’s going, and tell me fast.”

“Samson, I’m not going to tell you a thing,” Wendy said, turning Bradley’s eyes away from the red flashing lights to try to soothe him. “But I will ask you one question.”

“I know, I know — you think I’m the bad guy because I won’t go along with McLanahan and help him fight his little personal war,” Samson interjected. “You’re going to ask: Where’s my loyalty? Where’s my integrity? Don’t I care about what’s going on? Why don’t I do something about it?”

“No,” Wendy McLanahan asked. “My question is: are you having fun?”

“Fun?” Samson was incredulous. The place was sheer bedlam, police were leading technicians and engineers away in handcuffs, and her son was screaming in holy terror. “Fun? Are you trying to be funny, Doctor? I see nothing fun going on here.”

“Then you’re just doing your job, is that right, General?”

Samson could not reply. Helping the FBI track down his friend and ex-deputy commander, raiding a private company, and handcuffing men and women he knew and trusted because Patrick McLanahan might be planning to stage an attack on another country was certainly not in his job description. So why was he doing this? Just because he was ordered to do it? “No, I’m not having fun, Wendy. I’m having a really terrible time.”

“I just wanted to check,” Wendy said bitterly. “Because I’m sure you’re not doing this to learn how to be a better person or help contribute to your world. Since the only other reason to do something is to have fun, and you’re obviously not having fun, I’m confused. Why are you doing this?” And Wendy took her screaming son and walked toward the police vans, where she submitted to having a policewoman take Bradley out of her arms. She was handcuffed behind her back, searched from head to foot, and seated in the front seat of the van beside the policewoman and her son.

Terrill Samson wanted to go after her, steer her and Bradley away from the confusion and lights and noise, but he could not make his feet move. His world was unraveling. First the President of the United States, then the Russians, and now the press blows the doors off his command; his deputy commander engineers a one-man war against the Russians and against a powerful Russian mafioso; now he helps the Government bust a private company accused of attacking the Russians. He had no idea what was going to happen next.

But one thing was certain: Patrick McLanahan was a fighter, a warrior, and he was continuing to fight. And so far, he was winning. Maybe not every battle, maybe not even most of them — but he was winning. Terrill Samson sure as heck couldn’t call himself a winner right now.

Somehow, he had to find a way to make himself a winner.