Quicksilver
by
JUDITH & GARFIELD REEVES-STEVENS

Other books BY JUDITH & GARFIELD REEVES-STEVENS

POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the authors' imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the
Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright 1999 by Softwind, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address
Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-02853-7

First Pocket Books hardcover printing May 1999

10 987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster
Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

For Suzanne Reeves and
Richard Baldwin. The only real Americans in the bunch.

There will one day spring from the brain of science a machine or force
so fearful in its potentialities, so absolutely terrifying, that even
man, the fighter, who will dare torture and death in order to inflict
torture and death, will be appalled, and so abandon war forever.

--thomas alva edison

It is a fundamental law of defense that you always have to use the most
powerful weapon you can produce.

--major general james henry burns

ORGANIZATIONS

ACLU American Civil Liberties Union

CIA Central Intelligence Agency

CONDEFCOM Continental Defense Command

DELTA FORCE United States Army 1st
Special Operations Detachment,

counterterrorist response unit

DIA Defense Intelligence Agency

DPS Defense Protective Service

FBI Federal Bureau of Investigation

FEMA Federal Emergency Management Agency

GAI Global Atmospherics, Inc.

GSG-9 Grenzschutzgruppe 9, German police counterterrorist unit

HMX-1 Marine Aviation Squadron 1

KSK Kommando Spezialkrafte, German Army Special Forces

MIT Massachusetts Institute of Technology

NASA National Aeronautics and Space
Administration

NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organization

NIA National Infrastructure Agency

NIMA National Imagery and Mapping Agency NOAA National Oceanic &
Atmospheric Agency

NRO National Reconnaissance Office

NSA National Security Agency

NSC National Security Council

SAS Special Air Service, British commando force SEAL U.S. Navy Special
Operations Forces
(Sea, Air, Land)

USA SC United States Army Signal Command USNA United States Naval
Academy USSPACECOM United States Space Command

TERMS

AFB Air Force Base

A.W.O.L. Absent Without Leave

BDA Bomb Damage Assessment

BDU Battle Dress Uniform

C3I Command, Control, Communications,

and Intelligence CINC Commander in Chief DGZ-1 Desired Ground Zero DSO
Defensive Systems Operator

EMP Electromagnetic Pulse

ETA Estimated Time of Arrival football see Technology under CAT HRP
Heating and Refrigeration Plant

MARINE ONE Call sign of Marine helicopter carrying the President
mid/mids midshipman/midshipmen OSO Offensive Systems Operator RLF
Remote Loading Facility SAM Surface-to-Air Missile SECDEF Secretary of
Defense SERE Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape SIOC Strategic
Information and Operations

Center, FBI

SOP Standard Operating Procedure THREAT CON Threat Condition

TECHNOLOGY

ADEOS-II Advanced Earth Observation

Satellite II

CAT Command Authority Terminal FCG Flux Compression Generator FORTE
Fast On-orbit Recording of Transient

Events satellite

H&K Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun HARM High-speed Antiradiation
Radar Missile HUMVEE High-Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled

Vehicle JSAMS Joint Service Automated Messaging

System

LCD Liquid Crystal Display MAJIC Multiple Aperture, Joint Imaging

Capability

MDF Magnetic Direction Finding

MIR Micro Impulse Radar

NALDN North American Lightning Detection

Network

PAVE LOW III Sikorsky MH-53 helicopter proxcard proximity card SLAM-11
Selectable Lightweight Attack

Munition, Mark II STS-75 Seventy-fifth flight of the Space

Transport System (Space Shuttle Columbia,

February 22 to March 9, 1996) TSS-R1 Tethered Satellite System Reflight
1 UAV Unmanned Aerial Vehicle VH-3D Executive transport version of
Sikorsky
S-61 helicopter

THE PENTAGON

RING ABC

Washington BUILDING CIRCULAR No. WHS 04-02

SUBJECT: THREAT CON (Threat Condition

In order to provide building occupants with timely ir Pentagon the
Defense Protective Service (DPS) wil police desks at all Pentagon
building entrances for terrorist threat condition (as described below)
at a give on existing intelligence and other information

"1 THREAT CON NORMAL

No threat of terrorist activity is present

THREAT CON ALPHA

There is a general threat of possible terrorist activity against
installations, building locations, and/or personnel, the nature and
extent of which are unpredictable

THREAT CON BRAVO

There is an increased and more predictable threat of terrorist activity
even though no particular target has been identified

THREAT CON DELTA

A terrorist attack has occured or intelligence has been received that
action against a specific location is likely

Ret Operation CLOUDY OFFICE

>N BUILDING

D E

*

Quarters Services Date: 10/05/02 Expiration: Indefmiti

Information regarding the THREAT CON level at the I be placing THREAT
CON level information on the EAT CON is a DoD process that sets the
level for a in location (in this case the Pentagon) and is based

THREAT CON CHARLIE

An incident has occured or mtellignce has been received indicating that
some form of terrorist action is imminent

SCI LEVELS

THREAT CON ECHO

A terrorist force occupies a specific location, initiating a series of
countermeasures to protect hostages and limit the ability of the
terrorist force to resist a counterattack

THREAT CON X-RAY

A terrorist force occupies a specific location which cannot be
reclaimed, initiating a series of actions to deny the location and its
assets to the terrorist force

Ret Operation CLOUDBURST, Operation ATLANTIS RISING

GR

QUICKSILVER

ARCTIC SHADE

SIX YEARS FROM NOW

Five miles from the QUICKSILVER target site, on the starboard
observation deck of the USS Valley Forge, United States Army Major
Margaret Sinclair took a deep breath of the clean, sea-scented breeze,
stared up into brilliant blue sky, and waited for the world to change.

Even as she enjoyed the warmth of the intense equatorial sunshine, she
was aware of Air Force Major General Milo Vanovich beside her. Ashen
with nausea and thrown off-balance by the slow rise and fall and
rhythmic roll of the deck, he was watching her and not the sea.

"Ten more minutes, General. Then we'll have the answer." Though Margaret
spoke reassuringly, she knew that after so many years of working
together, he'd know exactly what she was really thinking.

But as if to deny himself he felt any trace of apprehension, Vanovich
patted the victory cigar he carried in the pocket of his pale blue, long
sleeved service shirt. "Forget about it, Major. It's going to work."

The deck heaved again and Margaret saw Vanovich pull himself close to
the gray-metal railing and heard the small moan that escaped him.

She knew how much her old friend hated the ocean, how much he wanted to
be back in his office at the Pentagon, the floor solid beneath his feet,
away from what he called the creeping stink of diesel fuel and the dying
stench of the ocean. And that was on his good days. Only his need to
oversee today's test in person had made it possible for him to endure
the past three weeks at sea. As it was, he'd been even sicker on this
trip than during any of their other naval operations.

In stark contrast, Margaret relished the wild pitch of the waves. In her
twelve years in the Army, she'd learned that the wilder the ride, the
better she liked it. Which was precisely why, she knew, the general had
invited her to join America's newest and most highly classified
intelligence agency--the obscurely titled National Infrastructure
Agency. As the first director of the NIA, Vanovich made the case to the
Secretary of Defense that because his new agency would be involved in
activities no one had even contemplated before, he absolutely required
operatives experienced in doing what had never been done before.
Margaret had been first on his list of operational appointments, and her
accelerated promotion to major had quickly followed.

As the deck began to rise again, Margaret discreetly put a hand on the
general's elbow to momentarily steady him. She was confident that he
would not resent her action. He had never made her feel self conscious
about her gender or her physical appearance.

At thirty-two, Margaret still trained rigorously, running and lifting
weights to maintain her compact and athletic build--the habits of her
first years in the Army impossible to abandon. She knew her fit
appearance was not unappreciated by her male colleagues, but,
fortunately, there'd only been a few quickly crushed incidents of
attempted fraternization, and only in her first two years of service.

At five foot two, she barely exceeded the minimum height for women in
the Army, but she'd been able to turn the possible disadvantage into an
asset. Spared the "Amazon" label so frequently applied to taller women
in the forces, she'd become convinced over the years that her size, more
than any other factor, explained why she was so often underestimated as
a potential competitor. Those who were unaware of her background saw her
as just another administrator in Army intelligence. And since she was
not permitted to wear all the ribbons to which she was entitled, her
real history was inaccessible to coworkers without sufficient clearance.

Margaret was comfortable with the subterfuge. She preferred to have the
enemy underestimate her abilities and be surprised in defeat than know
her strengths and be prepared to deny her victory.

The general, though, knew almost everything about her. Ten years ago,
before the NIA, when she'd been a second lieutenant and he a colonel,
there'd been a time she worried that his early, admiring encouragement
might hide other, more troublesome emotions. But she'd soon realized his
interest was that of a mentor, and then, as their working relationship
matured, of a friend, even if his friendly attempts at guiding her life
hadn't always worked out.

As friends, Margaret was aware that she and the general made an odd
pairing, as different in physical makeup as they were in their
seaworthiness. Solidly built and balding, Vanovich had a good twenty
five years and half a foot on her, with one of those bullet-shaped heads
that rose straight from his shoulders on a neck whose circumference
seemed the equal of his skull's. To those who didn't know him,
Vanovich's powerful appearance was as deceptive as hers. To those who
did, it was obvious that the Air Force hadn't given the gentle general
his second star because he was a fierce warrior. They were rewarding his
fierce intellect. And they were wise to do so, Margaret thought. A mind
like the general's would be priceless on the open market. Perhaps even
dangerous.

For a moment, the warm wind lessened and the translucent green swells
flattened. As the deck steadied, Margaret saw General Vanovich brighten
with relief.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "You're going to be glad you were here. I
know it's difficult being away at Christmas ..."

But Margaret shook her head. She had long ago reconciled herself to the
sacrifices an Army career entailed. Fortunately, the few people she
remained close to understood. "It's not difficult, sir. I'm proud to be
here." She waved a free hand at the other eight officers on the "J deck,
three from the Navy, three Air Force, one each from the Army and Marine
Corps, all liaison officers to the NIA. Most were intently peering
through their binoculars at the target vessel. "We all are. a she added,
"you should be, too." She knew Vanovich believed ' that serving one's
country was privilege enough. But surely a little bit of pride never
hurt anyone.

The ship's public-address system crackled behind her: "At T minus eight
minutes, the platform has successfully completed the second , stage of
its Hohmann transfer and is now on final approach to Alpha Range."

Reflexively, Margaret looked up to the northwest, into a magically "

peaceful and undisturbed tropical sky, with only a distant front of pure
white billowing clouds tracing the horizon. Unseen, 2,400 miles up range
in silent, inexorable orbit 200 miles above the Earth, General
Vanovich's project was approaching, code name: QUICKSILVER. Patiently
waiting for the commands that would bring it to life.

Margaret closed her eyes to picture that approach, remembering her first
sight of the QUICKSILVER flight model in its hangar at Vanden burg.
Excluding its winglike solar panels, the main body was eight feet wide,
forty-three feet long. It had a mass of 10,000 pounds, and * was
completely sheathed in faceted black carbon-fiber panels doped ^ with
metal particles to scatter and absorb radar beams as effectively as the
skin of a Stealth fighter. A large jagged bell of similar material
masked the platform's main thruster to hide its infrared signature
during firing maneuvers.

QUICKSILVER wasn't just invisible to the naked eye at its altitude.

It was invisible across the entire electromagnetic spectrum. For this
initial test, the orbital platform's precise location was known only
because it was in constant two-way communication, via the MIL STAR
satellite system, with Arctic Shade ground control in Site J, the
Pentagon's most secure command-and-control facility.

The PA clicked back to life: "At T minus seven minutes, USS Shilo
reports all AEGIS systems are good to go."

Margaret watched as Vanovich gingerly released his grip on the railing
to focus his binoculars on the target site. Then, brushing aside a few
strands of fair hair that the sea breeze had teased from her tightly
knotted chignon, she redirected her own image-stabilized lenses at the
horizon. At first, she could see nothing but a glimmering mosaic of
sun-topped waves. For a moment, she thought of walking barefoot on a
sun-warmed beach, the welcome image one of peaceful relaxation. Maybe
next month, she thought, when this is over.

It had been two years since her last real vacation--an intense Hawaiian
interlude with a NATO exchange officer studying NIA counterterrorist
strategies. For the first time in her life, she'd allowed herself to be
directed by her heart instead of her mind. But even then--she had to be
honest with herself--it was because she'd known all along that her
suitor's Pentagon tour would last only six months, and then he'd be gone
from her life forever. She had complications enough to deal with.

At least, she thought, I still have one regular guy in my life. She was
confident he'd jump at the chance to accompany her someplace warm in the
next month or two. And then Margaret made contact with the target.

The USS Shilo was a gray smear of shadow within the compressed
perspective of the binoculars, its hull masts, and superstructure dotted
with the shimmering points of purpose-built, high-intensity running
lights installed for this test. Like the Valley Forge, she was a
Ticonderoga-class cruiser, one of the most advanced surface combatant
ships in the world. She was 567 feet long, 55 feet in the beam, and the
top of her mainmast swayed almost 130 feet above the waves.

Both the ship's masts, main and fore, clearly established that the
vessel was a product of a new style of warfare, when battles were fought
with information as much as with more traditional weapons. To the
untrained eye, those dark masts were a confusion of bristling antennae
combined with a gray, central spherical radome and two six foot
microwave dishes on an ominous, boxlike, blank-walled forward
superstructure. The antennae, in conjunction with others clustered near
the bridge, supported the ship's AEGIS combat system, perhaps the most
complex and capable integrated threat-assessment-and-response technology
in use by the Navy.

Right now, Margaret knew, the Shilo was scanning the sea and the air
around it with such high resolution that it could track an incoming
missile the size of a football at 500 miles and automatically select an
appropriate countermeasure for it. Against air and sea targets, those
available countermeasures included 16 Tomahawk cruise missiles, 120 2MR
surface-to-air missiles, long-distance naval guns with a range of 14
miles, and the computer-controlled Phalanx Mark 15 gun system capable of
firing 3,000 53-caliber rounds out to a mile each minute.

To be certain that the Shilo was operating at the peak of its
capabilities, a third naval vessel was also taking part in the Arctic
Shade exercise. Twenty miles away, at a depth of one hundred feet, the
Los Angeles-class attack submarine Baton Rouge was using active sonar to
acquire the Shilo as a target. In response, the Shilo was towing its
Nixie AN/SLQ-25 torpedo decoy array and standing by to fire its own
torpedoes at the closing sub.

Even the Valley Forge would add to the information load that the Shilo
must contend with, in order to more intensely simulate what was called
the fog of battle--that adrenaline-charged environment of fear in which
everything happened at once, nothing worked as expected, and an instant
of indecision could cost hundreds of lives. A Valley Forge fire-control
team stood ready to launch one of the ship's newly fitted land-attack
Tomahawk missiles at T minus ten seconds. A second team had already
locked a Harpoon antiship missile on the Shilo , and would fire at T
minus five seconds. For safety purposes, both weapons carried dummy
warheads filled with sand, and their fuel supplies had been adjusted to
ensure that neither could reach their targets. The torpedoes of the
Baton Rouge and the Shilo had been similarly modified.

At the same time, the Shilo was prepared to launch its own Tomahawk,
also with a dummy warhead, at T minus ninety seconds. The locked-in
course would take the missile within one mile of the Valley Forge before
its fuel was exhausted. At T minus zero, all the target ship's
phased-array radar sensors would be engaged in active tracking, as would
the ship's surface-search and gunfire-control systems.

And, to further ensure that every data-processing and communications
system on the Shilo was tasked, one of the ship's two Sikorsky SH-60B
Seahawk helicopters was powered up on the Shilo's rear helipad, rotor
turning, though locked safely into its haul down system.

By T minus zero, the successful implementation of Arctic Shade would
mean that every component of the Shilo's integrated attack and defense
systems was fully engaged. Its three generators would be producing a
peak of 2,500 kw of power. All 364 of her crew members would be at
general quarters, prepared for battle.

And if all went as General Vanovich had explained it would, by T plus
ten seconds, one of the most sophisticated fighting ships in the arsenal
of the United States would be a useless tub of metal at the mercy of the
waves, unable to take any hostile action, yet with every member of her
crew unharmed.

"The age of weapons of mass destruction will end today," General
Vanovich had declared this morning over breakfast. "We are on the
threshold of the era of weapons of mass disruption."

It was Margaret's belief, however, that military history showed that
disruption was never an end in itself, only a prelude to more
destruction. She had argued, in the debates they'd been having ever
since the general had briefed her on his revolutionary project, that
QUICKSILVER, though a radical step forward, could only be considered the
next logical stage in the evolution of America's defenses. If today's
test was successful, the world would change, but not, Margaret believed,
because a new era had been reached. It would change because the United
States would have successfully fielded a new defensive system that was
decades ahead of what any potential enemy could develop, and for those
decades, the world would be safer.

In her experience, advances in weaponry never brought lasting peace,
they only bought breathing room. Though Margaret understood the general
was hoping his gift to the world would be nothing less than an end to
war, unfortunately he was not the first to make such a wish. She doubted
he'd be the last.

A hatch opened behind her as another officer stepped onto the deck.

For a moment, Margaret heard the soft chorus of calm, assured voices
from the bridge relating weapons status, system updates, and the closing
speed of "the platform." For security, the classified code name
QUICKSILVER was not spoken aloud during this exercise. Of the 824
personnel directly participating in today's Arctic Shade exercise, only
26 besides herself and the general knew its true purpose. Everyone else
believed the cover story that a new satellite surveillance system was
being tested. Even in the Pentagon, except for three assistant directors
of the NIA with a critical need to know, only a select few knew what
General Vanovich was truly attempting in the Pacific today.

The PA provided another update: "At T minus one minute, fifty seconds,
the Baton Rouge confirms torpedo launch."

A flush reddened Vanovich's bald spot. Despite her reservations about
the true significance of her superior's project, Margaret felt her own
pulse quicken. Over the past ten days, she and the general had witnessed
the perfect execution of three Arctic Shade rehearsal exercises with
this same intricate dance of weapons and warships.

Today's test would be the first to add QUICKSILVER'S capabilities to the
equation.

Through her binoculars, Margaret saw a plume of white smoke and red
flame erupt from the gray smudge of the Shilo.

"At T minus ninety seconds, onboard AEGIS confirms the Shilo has
launched her Tomahawk."

She let her binoculars drop around her neck. "This is it, sir. You'll be
able to follow it better inside on the screens."

But Vanovich shook his head. "I'll watch the tapes later. I'd rather see
this with my own eyes."

Margaret understood his decision, to a point. The general had been
recruited into the Air Force almost thirty years ago, when shortlived
spy satellites still dropped capsules filled with exposed film and the
electronics revolution in information acquisition was on a distant
horizon. He had been a post doc at MIT at the time, and the Air Force
had courted him for his mind. For all the different ways he said his
specialty had changed over the years, from the hand-soldered
motherboards of his youth to the nanoengineering and virtual-reality
simulations of today, General Vanovich was always extolling the virtues
of the hands-on approach.

But in this case, his decision left Margaret with an important question.
"Will there be anything to see, sir?"

"Maybe some arcing from the masts. It depends how long the platform
maintains contact. The scale was too small for the simulations to be
conclusive."

"At T minus one minute, all systems on all ships are good to go. The
platform is 300 miles up range closing at a speed of 15,600 knots."

Margaret raised her binoculars again. She saw a sudden cloud of debris
billow around the Shilo: infrared decoys and chaff to confuse the
airborne weapons locked on to the ship.

"At T minus forty-five seconds, platform telemetry reports it has
acquired the target. No response from the Shilo AEGIS."

Margaret was impressed. Even in its pre-fire, active targeting mode,
QUICKSILVER remained undetectable.

"At T minus thirty seconds, platform has initiated power-up sequencing
..."

Margaret glanced away from her binoculars to see Vanovich tensely braced
against the deck railing. She knew what he was feeling. Failure in
QUICKSILVER'S first operational test would threaten his independent
control of the project and even, perhaps, of the NIA.

At T minus ten seconds, Margaret's ears rang with the roar of a Tomahawk
launch from the Valley Forge. Five seconds later, an even louder
explosion and thrumming deck vibration accompanied the launch of a
Harpoon antiship missile.

"... four ... three ... engagement sequence initialized ... and platform
is engaged at T minus zero." QUICKSILVER was firing.

Despite her outward appearance of calm, Margaret held her breath,
intently peering through her binoculars, though she knew the whole point
of the exercise was that there would be nothing dramatic to see.

The Harpoon was above her range of vision but she could track the
Tomahawk from the Valley Forge as it skimmed the ocean's surface,
closing on the Shilo.

Margaret bit her lip. The Shilo herself seemed unaffected. The target
ship's high-intensity running lights, which should have winked out the
instant QUICKSILVER fired, were still clearly visible, each one blazing
away.

Almost unnecessarily, the PA confirmed the bad news. "I plus five
seconds, no effects registered. Shilo AEGIS remains fully operational."

Margaret couldn't look at the general. She kept her binoculars focused
on the ocean's surface where she saw a fountain of water spray up as the
Tomahawk from the Valley Forge dropped safely from the air, out of fuel.
Just as it had during the rehearsal exercises.

QUICKSILVER was a failure. There was nothing to show for Vanovich's
almost eight years of work. Not even one faint spark from the Shilo's
mast.

"General," she said, "I'm sorry. I--"

A blade of silver fire pierced the Shilo.

Margaret stared up at the huge, shimmering sheet of something molten and
metallic, hundreds of feet wide, miles high, that suddenly connected the
heavens to the sea. In an instant, the Shilo was enveloped in a writhing
web of blue-white lightning, the whole scene eerily silent because of
the distance.

Margaret looked to Vanovich for some explanation. How could a discharge
like this be possible? In all his briefings, the general had stressed
that the absolute power output of QUICKSILVER could be measured merely
in tens of kilowatts, enough to light a house but little more.

Then the first shock wave of sound rolled over the Valley Forge. Its
massive, stuttering boom drowned out the unintelligible, shouting
protests of the officers on the observation deck.

Margaret turned back in time to see the Shilo wrenched from the sea, its
almost nine-and-a-half-thousand-ton mass raised twenty feet above the
waves, thirty feet, water streaming from her exposed hull.

Suddenly, shockingly, the Shilo's hull shattered like glass, the edges
of each jagged shard flaming with coronal discharges.

Then the target ship vanished in multiple, soundless flashes of chemical
explosions, as all her munitions ignited at once.

A cloud of fire replaced the Shilo. At Margaret's side, General Vanovich
stood rigid at the railing, shinned into silence with the rest of the
incredulous observers on the Valley Forge. QUICKSILVER was supposed to
disrupt computer circuits and overload transformers--to stop machinery,
not destroy it.

Margaret flinched as the fiery cloud shot out blistering tendrils of
lightning so intense that black spiderwebs embroidered her vision.

One madly snapping whip of incandescent fire snaked upward to strike the
Harpoon missile and hurl it from the sky.

Then another jagged bolt leapt the five-mile gap between the Shilo's
death cloud and the Valley Forge.

Margaret heard Vanovich cry out a warning and in the same instant, she
was slammed against the observation deck as if the bolt's roll clap of
thunder were a physical blow, crushing her, deafening her, filling her
entire body with a sound of such intensity that she could no longer hear
it, only feel it.

The rough deck reverberated beneath her outstretched hands. She sensed
other explosions, other screams. She lifted her head to locate the
general, but a glowing fog of impenetrable light suffused everything
around her.

For a disorienting moment, Margaret felt light, not air, physically
enter her mouth. Instinctively, she gasped and felt a hot wind scorch
her throat. As she struggled to draw breath, the electric scent of ozone
stung her nostrils.

Then, as quickly as if a switch had been thrown, QUICKSILVER'S attack
ended.

Margaret got shakily to her feet, limbs trembling. Her ears still rang
with the echo of the thunderbolt. Supporting herself against the deck
railing, she stared out to sea. A faint and turbulent sheet of
incandescent air now sparkled like evaporating mist above the cloud of
smoke and burning streamers of debris that marked the Shilo's last
position. The funeral pyre of her 364 crew.

Vanovich staggered to the railing beside her. Neither he nor she even
attempted to speak. As one, they looked up to the brilliant blue sky,
once again pure, peaceful, undisturbed.

Unseen, miles downrange, in silent, inexorable orbit high above the
Earth, QUICKSILVER flew on. Patiently waiting for the commands that
would bring it to life once again.

Not as a defensive system. But as a weapon. And everything Margaret had
learned about the history and progress of war told her a weapon of such
destructive capability could not remain unused for long.

The world would change, but not as General Vanovich had intended.

Whatever happened next was up to the Pentagon.

CLOUDY OFFICE SUNDAY, JUNE 19

SIX MONTHS LATER ONE

UNITED STATES NAVAL ACADEMY ANNAPOLIS MARYLAND They had stolen her
underwear.

Again.

Amy "Nuke" Bethune cursed like the sailor she hoped one day to become as
she charged down the empty corridor on the third floor of Wing Three of
Bancroft Hall, the hem of her tightly clutched b-robe flying behind her.
Three years at the United States Naval Academy and everything she had
done to earn her place as an equal among her classmates had come to
nothing. She was still treated this way.

Not by the men. But by the other women.

Amy skidded to a stop on the slickly polished linoleum outside
Midshipman Annika Marsh's dorm room. Marsh's name and graduating year
were cut into the white plastic ID plate on the door, the color to alert
other mids that this was a room for females. Male mids had their names
cut into black plates.

Amy had targeted this room for two reasons, the most important being
that Marsh was about her size. She knew that some might think she was
about to take a strong initiative that would violate the Academy's honor
concept, the solemn vow to never lie, cheat, or steal. But it was the
only way she could complete her duty for today. Besides, the honor
concept also stated that midshipmen were to ensure that others were able
to benefit from the use of their own property. So it's not stealing, Amy
told herself, it's emergency borrowing. The distinction made what she
had to do a bit easier to justify. But not by much.

Amy pushed hard against the metal doorplate and the oversized, heavy
door swung open as she knew it would. The level of trust among the
Academy's 4,000-strong brigade of midshipmen meant that virtually none
of the dorm-room doors was ever locked, except during long absences over
holiday and vacation breaks. Considering that Marsh was more than likely
one of the masterminds behind the disappearing underwear, though, Amy
was surprised that her classmate seemed unprepared for retaliation.

Marsh's dorm room was the size of a small and spartan studio apartment,
identical to Amy's and typical of the Hall. There were two narrow bunk
beds, one to either side, with a built-in desk beneath each, and two
closets along the wall. In one corner was a shower and sink--an absolute
timesaving necessity when 4,000 midshipmen had to follow identical
schedules.

But Amy took no time to study the room. She headed straight for the
cupboard unit built in against the end of Marsh's bunk, trying not to
think what might happen to 12th Company's status if she were caught in
the act.

Twelfth Company was Amy's cadre of 124 fellow mids from plebes to
Firsties, one of the 36 companies making up the Academy's brigade of
midshipmen. It was also the Academy's current Color Company, an honor it
had earned for the past three years. Amy considered it no coincidence
that 12th Company's ascendancy had begun when she had joined it. Points
in an Academy-wide competition were awarded for academic, athletic, and
professional excellence. Her performance in the classroom and on the
diving team had added significantly to 12th Company's point score. This
past year, she and her cadre had accumulated 320.6 out of a possible
360. Her accomplishments had also, obviously, raised her profile among
the company to the point where her textbooks had begun disappearing, her
e-mail account was regularly acquiring new passwords, and--as had
happened this morning--her alarm clock could no longer be trusted.

For all that the Academy made a point of searching out young men and
women who would excel in the Navy and Marine Corps, Amy was painfully
learning that it also hewed to a military culture which valued team
solidarity over individual achievement. Somewhere, unofficially, there
existed an invisible boundary between excellence and independence.

Marsh, among others, apparently thought Amy Bethune had crossed it.

But as Amy quickly searched through the stack of drawers in Marsh's
cupboard, trying to find the midshipman's underwear, she rebelliously
thought again that it was not her obligation to hold herself back in her
quest for the controversial career goal that had earned her her
nickname. Rather, it was her classmates' obligation to raise themselves
to her standards.

Some might call and had called her attitude arrogant. To which Amy
always replied, Welcome to the real world. If people didn't like her
being the best at what she set out to do, then it was their mission to
try to do even better. If they weren't prepared for that challenge,
they'd soon find out that their only other choice was to get out of her
way.

She hit pay dirt in the third drawer down. A sports bra and briefs,
both, fortunately, still folded from the laundry. She quickly rifled
through the remaining stack to see if she had the luxury of a choice in
what she appropriated, but the only other option, crammed out of sight
at the bottom of the stack, was a flaming-pink combo: transparent above
and little more than a G-string below. Definitely not regulation.

As a calling card, Amy draped Marsh's racy weekend underwear over the
green shade of the lamp beside the desktop computer, confident that even
such flagrant disorder would be unlikely to cost Marsh a demerit.

Commissioning week, when the latest class had graduated and all other
classes moved up one year, had come and gone three weeks ago, putting
the Academy into summer-leave and summer training mode. That meant the
Yard was noticeably less populated, especially on weekends, when not
even the high-school students brought in for one of three introductory
summer seminars were present. Room inspections, a frequent fact of life
during the other semesters, especially for plebes, were almost
nonexistent.

In fact, there were no plebes at the Academy right now. Most mids who
had completed their plebe year, and were now officially Youngsters, were
off patrolling New England ports on the Academy's unarmed Yard Patrol
craft, training on the Academy's forty-four-foot sailing sloops, or
taking part in joint maneuvers that simulated SEAL and Marines Corps
exercises. The second-class students, those entering their third year,
were getting firsthand introductions to naval aviation at Pensacola or
to submarine operations off Florida, or fighting war games with Marines
in the wilds of Virginia. And most new Firsties, like Amy those
midshipmen who had been raised to their fourth and final year were
serving as junior officers in operational fleet squadrons around the
world. Except for the volunteers from 12th Company.

As the Academy's Color Company, they had earned special privileges and
duties for the academic year, including the honor of representing the
Academy at official government functions. And few events in recent
memory were as official or as historic as today's at the Pentagon.

Which was why forty-two second-, third-, and fourth-year midshipmen had
responded to Commandant Rigby's invitation to give up part of their
precious three-week summer leave to volunteer for a special honor
detail: attending the President's NATO ceremony.

Every mid knew that even if they were to do little more than seat
dignitaries and help set tables, their participation in what was surely
to become one of the defining moments of the new century would forever
mark their service records apart from others. To say nothing of the
opportunity to clock face-time with the top brass.

But it was equally clear that there were those in the company, besides
Marsh, who didn't want Amy to be able to share in that distinction and
opportunity. Unfortunately for them, they obviously hadn't yet learned
that Nuke Bethune was impossible to stop. She'd make it the way she
always did on her own. Determinedly clutching the borrowed underwear,
Amy flew out of Marsh's room, bare feet slapping the floor.

Back in her own room, she slammed the door behind her and checked her
watch. That action was ingrained in every mid from his and her first day
of induction. As many as fourteen times every day, Academy students were
subject to accountability the requirement to establish their presence at
a specific place at a specific time, from class attendance to bed
checks. Punctuality became instinctive, which was all the more reason
Amy pushed herself this morning. Being late was unprofessional, and
unacceptable.

The time right now was 6:51. The bus was scheduled to leave from the
seaward side of Macdonough Hall at 0700. Reaching it in time was just
within the realm of possibility. Just.

She threw off her b-robe, dragged on Marsh's regulation underwear, then
grabbed the pristine set of summer whites hanging in her closet. She
yanked up her skirt zipper, took a few precious extra seconds to tie her
shoes tightly, then crammed her cap onto her unruly chestnut brown hair
disastrously thick but short enough to meet regulations and take care of
itself without wasting valuable time. She stuffed her wallet and her
Pentagon day pass into an inner pocket of her dress jacket, then burst
from her room into the corridor, blouse still undone, but on her way at
last.

As she had anticipated, there was no one in Bancroft to see her careen
down the wide stairs, holding the metal handrail tightly at each landing
in order to whip around at full tilt, open jacket and blouse a
double-layered cape behind her.

By the time she exploded from the foyer onto the broad stone steps
leading down to Tecumseh Court, she had enough buttons done up for
propriety's sake, and brought her speed up to maximum. She gave no
thought to pacing herself. This was an all-or-nothing effort. Either
she'd make the bus with ample time to catch her breath and straighten
herself out on the ride to Arlington, or she would fail and nothing more
would matter.

And Nuke Bethune never failed. The word was not in her vocabulary.

But a minute later, it was clear her vocabulary was in need of revision.

As she breathlessly rounded the eastern wing of Bancroft Hall, Amy
caught sight of the gleaming silver-and-blue Academy V. I.P bus pulling
out from the Macdonough Hall parking lot to turn right on Holloway Road.

Amy flung herself after the bus in futile pursuit. Waving her arms
wildly, she leapt from the narrow concrete pathway to the edge of the
parking lot, shouting as much in frustration as in any hope of
attracting the bus driver's attention. But the bus disappeared behind
the hall in seconds, and she reluctantly stumbled to a halt.

One more minute and I'd have been on that bus. The simple recognition of
her tactical situation was as close to self-pity as Amy could allow
herself to come.

Drenched in sweat, her dress blouse ruined, she leaned over to rest her
hands on her knees, gasping deep lungfuls of humid air. It was supposed
to reach an unseasonable ninety-five degrees today, and even this early
in the morning the June heat was verging on oppressive. But she pushed
physical comfort to the side. Her mind churned with alternative
scenarios.

She could jog back the way she had come, head for Gate One just past
Lejeune Hall. She could use a phone in the guardhouse. But for what?

There was no public transportation between Annapolis and Washington, let
alone Arlington, Virginia. She didn't have enough cash to take a cab all
that way and she knew her maxed-out Visa card couldn't take the strain,
either. This early in the summer, she was still drawing second-class
midshipman's pay, which, after deductions for everything from laundry to
the payments for the Academy-assigned computer, netted her slightly less
than two hundred dollars cash each month.

Which left her with only one solution. The Harley.

Amy had no idea how her summer whites would fare on the thirty five-mile
drive to Arlington. And she doubted the security arrangements at the
Pentagon would permit her to take the cycle onto the grounds. But
showing up on time in a deficient uniform was better than not showing up
at all. Marginally, at least.

Amy made her decision in less than a second--another benefit of Academy
training. She'd sprint back to her room, get the key to the Harley, then
leave the Yard and run the three blocks to the garage she rented in
town. Technically, no midshipman was authorized to operate or even
maintain a motorcycle within twenty-two miles of the Academy--the most
common cause of death for mids was traffic accidents.

But that cycle had been in Amy's life as long as she could remember, and
Commandant Rigby had personally signed the special request chit that had
given Amy permission to keep her father's cycle within the town's
liberty limit, provided she rode it only during vacation leaves.

But Amy was certain the Dant wouldn't object to her planned use of it
today. And regardless of what the Dant might think or do, she wasn't
about to let Midshipman Marsh or whoever had set her up this morning win
this round. With any luck, Amy decided she might even be able to catch
up with the bus and talk her way back on before it reached its
destination.

Decision made and strategy outlined, Amy started the run back to
Bancroft Hall, filled with new purpose. She had been an attentive
student for the past three years. As the Navy would expect of those
selected for the Academy, Midshipman Bethune was thoroughly trained to
accept no other outcome but victory.

No matter what the cost.

Half a mile away, in the air-conditioned comfort of the Academy's V. I.P
bus, Midshipman Annika Marsh was exceptionally pleased with herself.

As she had known it would, the bus had pulled out of the parking lot at
precisely 0700 hours. And, as she had hoped, Nuke Bethune wasn't on it.

It was a sweet plan. Today's honor detail was volunteer duty. No
demerits would accrue to the company if one of its members screwed up.

So Bethune's failure would be completely her own, not shared.

It would be a particularly fitting punishment, because that was exactly
how Bethune had chosen to pursue her naval career--on her own. Now maybe
her egotistical classmate would see what the result of not being a team
player could be. And far better she learn it here than on a warship
where the lives of her fellow sailors could be at stake.

Her objective achieved, Marsh gazed contentedly out the bus window,
watching the lofty green elms and quaint antique buildings of the
Academy pass by. Few of her classmates spoke, and those who did kept
their voices low. Marsh approved of their demeanor. They weren't
midshipmen off on an excursion. They were naval officers on a mission.

The excitement was real, but suppressed. Marsh knew the unspoken
question all shared was who, if any, would be assigned to the
President's table.

The guards at the blue-awninged Gate One security post raised the
traffic barricade and the bus pulled out onto the peaceful Sunday
streets of Annapolis, in bright, early-morning sun. In just a few hours,
as day tourists and weekend sailors descended on the small town, the
narrow downtown streets, most dating back to pre-Revolutionary times,
would become impossibly congested.

It was a glorious morning and Nuke Bethune had been taught a lesson.

Already, Marsh knew this was going to be a perfect day, made even better
by the certainty that she herself would be a participant, no matter how
minor, in a truly momentous occasion.

The bus quickly left the historic sections of Annapolis behind as it
headed northwest to Highway 50, just outside the city limits. The newer
streets here were wider and smoother, and few other vehicles were on the
road. The only interruption occurred on the approach to the new
construction on the twisting interchange between 70 and 50. As the bus
slowed, Marsh craned her neck to see a portable traffic advisory sign
announcing closed lanes ahead. Behind it, a row of orange plastic
traffic cones snaked into the overpass tunnel, shutting down both right
lanes. A young highway worker in an orange safety vest and hard hat held
up a stop sign as he listened to a hand radio.

The Academy bus downshifted and hissed to a stop. All the midshipmen
looked ahead, questioning the delay. Then the curved concrete wall of
the overpass tunnel glowed with light and a red pickup truck with its
headlights on sped out. Marsh saw the young worker say something into
his radio, then he turned his sign around. Now it read slow.

The bus rocked to life again, pulled into the oncoming lanes, then
entered the tunnel. Marsh half-expected the bus to start splashing
through water. Whatever had prompted the highway department to send out
a repair crew on a Sunday morning, she knew it would have to be
something drastic, like a broken water main.

As the bus crawled through the dark tunnel, Marsh noticed that the
lights running along both walls were not working. She peered through the
side window, catching the reflection of regular flashes of red light up
ahead. That explained it. A traffic accident. Marsh impatiently tapped a
finger against the laminated Pentagon security pass she wore on a chain
around her neck every mid on the bus wore one.

Sure enough, at the deepest bend of the tunnel, the bus stopped again.

A large, silver tractor-trailer was parked to the right, angled across
three of the tunnel's four lanes. The red flashing lights came from two
white cars blocking the one free lane remaining.

Marsh pushed herself up from her seat to look over the heads of the
midshipmen in front of her. She didn't see any insignia on the cars, and
the flashing lights were portable, held on to the roofs by suction cups.
Maybe the cars were unmarked police vehicles. Maybe it wasn't an
accident. Maybe it was an arrest.

Eight men, all in orange safety vests and hard hats, were grouped by the
gleaming silver tractor-trailer, the unmarked white cars, and now, in
front of the bus. Still looking ahead through the large front windows,
Marsh saw one of the men approach the bus, holding up an open badge
case.

At any other time, Marsh would have been interested to know exactly what
was going on here. At some level, everyone who joined the Navy looked
forward to a life of action, so three years of classrooms and training
maneuvers at the Academy could take their toll on a mid's enthusiasm.
But today, instead of wondering if there were escaped criminals in the
area, Marsh was anxious to move on. Especially since she didn't put it
past Bethune to try and catch up with the bus on her Harley.

Of course, Marsh thought smugly, first she'd have to find the key to the
Harley, and old Nuke wasn't likely to do that anytime soon. Marsh ran
her fingers over the key's outline, where it rested secure in her jacket
pocket.

The conversation level in the bus increased as the driver opened the
front doors and the man holding up the badge ran up the stairs. He was
in his thirties, Marsh estimated, lean, though his broad face was
full-featured. He also looked as if he had had a recent sunburn. His
reddened cheeks contrasted strongly with his short, almost
military-style black hair, though his long, wide sideburns were
definitely not regulation. The driver, a civilian assigned to the
Academy's transportation department, leaned forward to examine the man's
badge. At the same moment, the red-faced man suddenly struck him down
with the dark object he held in his other hand. The driver slumped
sideways, half out of his seat.

Marsh didn't have time to be startled by the unexpected violence of the
action. The man in the vest was facing the bus full of midshipmen,
screaming hoarsely as he waved the handgun he had used to fell the
driver.

"HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! NOW! NOW!"

Even as she slowly began to raise her hands, Marsh felt empowered at the
sudden charge that crackled through the bus. She was in the company of
forty-one of the Navy's finest young men and women on this bus. Everyone
had trained in hand-to-hand combat. Everyone knew small arms. Everyone
had slogged through Virginia swamps with Marines.

The enemy didn't have a chance.

Marsh knew she and her classmates all shared a single thought: They were
going to shape this battle space, not one lone, crazed civilian with a
gun.

Marsh began thinking tactics. The two mids sitting in the front seats,
just an arm's length from the enemy, were Bragonier and Shelton. With
them was Lieutenant John Roth, an ethics instructor at the Academy who
had volunteered to serve as the company's liaison today. The lieutenant
also helped train the Academy's power-lifting team, and he had the broad
shoulders and solid physique to prove it.

With those three capable sailors up front, the tactics of the situation
were clear. Roth would jump the enemy, one mid would take his gun, and
the other would take over the bus and ram it through the cars blocking
the fourth lane. It was as simple as that.

And then the man in the vest stopped shouting, swung his gun to the
side, and shot Lieutenant Roth in the head.

The abrupt noise of the gun's explosion shocked Marsh as much as the
sight of the back of the lieutenant's head exploding outward in a geyser
of blood.

When he spoke again, the red-faced man no longer shouted. His words were
succinct, crisp, and unhurried. "You have been subdued by a superior
force. If one of you resists, you will all be killed. Is that
understood?" Deep within, Marsh responded to the cadence and sincerity
of his speech the voice of command. This was no civilian.

The enemy was an officer.

With no hesitation now, everyone's hands clasped the back of their
heads. Marsh's heart was racing. This was the real thing. But she was
still prepared for the consequences of action. There was no way the man
was getting off this bus, except as the Navy's prisoner. The rest of her
company had to be feeling the same way.

A second man now stepped onto the bus. His features were almost
chiseled, his tanned skin smooth and unlined, his military-short hair
luminously blond. Although he wore faded orange workman's coveralls, the
second man had the same intent manner as the first and Marsh concluded
he must also be a soldier.

"Put your passes in the case," the blond man ordered as he began walking
down the aisle, holding out a well-worn, soft-sided, black leather
attache case that opened from the top. To Marsh, his clipped accent
sounded almost British.

At the same time, at the front of the bus, the gunman had placed his
weapon -two inches from Midshipman Shelton's forehead. "If anyone does
not give up his pass," he warned, "this woman will die." Marsh heard
someone in one of the front seats begin to vomit. Her gaze traveled to
the side window near Lieutenant Roth's body. Rivulets of blood and bits
of tissue were slowly dripping down the glass. Marsh's own stomach
tightened. When her time came, she surrendered her laminated Pentagon
security day pass and its neck chain without resistance. Like her
classmates, she knew, her mind was working furiously, seeking the right
time to take action.

His mission accomplished, the blond man walked backward up the aisle to
the front of the bus, where the gunman waited with Shelton.

Now! Marsh thought, barely able to keep her seat. This was the moment.

And it was.

Just as the blond man with the case reached the gunman's position, the
gunman stepped aside to allow him access to the steps that led out of
the bus. For that instant, Marsh knew the gunman's contact with Shelton
was momentarily deflected, and he'd lost sight of Bragonier.

The two midshipmen acted at once, leaping forward from their double
seat, Bragonier tackling the man with the case, Shelton engaging the
gunman.

Then every member of the company was on his and her feet. Marsh couldn't
see anything. She heard a cry of pain, a muffled gunshot, shouts of
victory, and then a jarring explosion of glass as a fusillade of bullets
blew out the middle-right windows of the bus.

Marsh ducked in the aisle as she heard screams. A fine spray of blood
rained across her white skirt and jacket. More gunmen outside the bus.

With automatic rifles.

Someone up front screamed. "Get him! Get him!"

The gunfire stopped. Marsh lifted her head. The two men were gone.

Shelton's body hung limp across a seatback, her dark face a ragged
scarlet mass without features. But Bragonier was behind the wheel, the
unconscious driver sprawled in the aisle beside him.

The bus engine revved violently, but Marsh felt no motion. Then a wet
hand gripped her knee. Midshipman Fisher. In the aisle. His white jacket
sodden with blood.

Four weeks ago, Joe Fisher had been only a plebe. Just turned twenty.

Fresh blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he moaned words she
couldn't hear. Marsh's body trembled with outrage. To hurt one member of
a company was to hurt everyone. The enemy had to pay for what they had
done.

The bus engine revved again. This time Marsh heard gears grind. Felt the
bus rock with renewed life.

She grabbed Fisher's slippery hand. "We're going to win ..." she vowed
fiercely. Nothing could stop 12th Company.

She leaned forward, tensely anticipating the forward lurch, but the bus
only vibrated as its gears ground more loudly.

Given their helplessness, Marsh didn't understand why the gunfire had
stopped. The ambush had been perfect. Why would the enemy let them
escape without renewing the attack?

Then she heard more glass breaking at the back of the bus. She twisted
around and saw a dark green, hat-sized, disk-shaped object hit the aisle
with a thud, then vanish in a sudden swirl of white fog.

In a heartbeat, the mist swept forward with the cutting smell of
ethylene oxide.

A terrible understanding possessed her as she remembered the scent from
her summer in Virginia. She knew what would happen next.

That's why they're not firing, she thought. They don't have to.

Annika Marsh squeezed Joe Fisher's hand rightly, offering the only
comfort she could. Then she closed her eyes, took a last breath, and
wished she'd missed the bus like Nuke Bethune.

Every intact window in the Academy bus blew out at once, accompanied
only by a dull thud and a dim yellow flash.

Ranger, the blond leader of the intercept platoon--four squads of four
men each--rubbed his hand over his close-cropped hair and allowed
himself a moment to exhale. The first stage of the operation had played
out almost perfectly.

The SLAM-II, a fuel-air-explosive version of the U.S. Army's Selectable
Lightweight Attack Munition, had lived up to specs. It had neutralized
everyone in the bus's passenger compartment without causing appreciable
structural damage to the vehicle or risking a collateral detonation of
its fuel system. He'd specifically chosen this variation of the weapon
because it had been developed for close-quarters urban combat, when
mission objectives deemed it desirable to kill enemy personnel without
destroying civilian structures. Instead of projecting its lethal energy
from a single ignition point, as with conventional explosives, the
SLAM-II first released a volatile gas which expanded to fill a contained
space, then detonated the entire volume at once.

For the midshipmen who had been on the bus, Ranger knew, it was as if
they had been embedded in the explosive matrix. The SLAM-II pressure
wave came from all sides at once, ensuring that there would be no
blast-shadow areas of survival. For those who had, in their last second
of life, inhaled the gas, even the air in their lungs would have
ignited. But despite the blast's lethality, the overall pressure in a
confined space would barely be enough to cause cracks in drywall.

Now, even as the last glittering fragments of shattered safety glass
bounced along the tunnel roadway beside the motionless bus, Ranger
circled his hand in the air.

With rehearsed precision, two figures in highway-worker coveralls swung
open the rear doors of the silver tractor-trailer that blocked three of
the four lanes in front of the bus. Just as quickly they pulled out the
two long tire ramps stowed inside. The harsh metal clatter of the ramps
banging on the asphalt joined with the sudden, deep rumble of a diesel
engine turning over inside the trailer.

Ranger motioned to a third figure, who immediately wrested open the
front doors of the Academy bus and leapt over the bloody pile of limp
bodies to reach the driver's seat. The bus engine was still running
--the midshipman who had attempted to drive the bus had not known how to
put it in gear.

Ranger's commandos needed no more instructions. Accompanied by Norway,
the senior communications member of the first squad, Ranger jogged over
to the nearer of the two white Lebarons that blocked the fourth lane of
the tunnel.

He placed the attache case containing the collected security passes on
the roof of the car, then quickly shrugged off his faded orange overalls
to reveal the spotless summer-white dress uniform of a naval lieutenant.
The name on his ID badge read roth.

As he expertly straightened his shirt and belt, he saw Norway fingering
the gun in the hidden holster in the orange safety vest he wore. During
the training simulations, the communications officer had insisted that
the midshipmen of 12th Company would not have enough experience to
recognize a hopeless situation. Norway's prediction that they would
foolishly resist had been correct.

Ranger, in truth, had been surprised by the midshipmen's actions. In the
tactics sessions, though he had conceded that their young targets would
have little experience in combat situations and so could possibly
misjudge the strength of their position, he had not expected them to
resist. These days, few in America had any stomach for death-especially
their own.

In the end, though, whatever the reaction of the targets had been,
Ranger knew it was unimportant to the final outcome of the mission's
intercept stage. Holding prisoners, even for the short duration of the
full operation, had never been an option. The violence of this encounter
had been strictly scripted by necessity. The Pentagon passes had to be
recovered undamaged and on schedule. Norway's authorization to shoot one
passenger at random at the beginning had actually been useful to hasten
the collection process. Ranger regretted the violence As would any good
officer, he thought but accepted that it was unavoidable to serve the
greater good.

Three minutes after the SLAM-II's detonation, Ranger heard the chirp of
Norway's radio. It was the flagman at the tunnel's west entrance
reporting that three civilian cars were waiting to pass. Ranger
instructed Norway to radio back his response: The tunnel would be clear
within two minutes, exactly on schedule.

The Academy bus was now inside the trailer, its engine switched off. In
only a few seconds, his commandos would have the tire ramps stowed and
would close and seal the trailer's rear doors. The plan called for the
entire tractor-trailer to be abandoned in an industrial park ten miles
away where a parking space had already been arranged, and three months'
rental paid in cash. If the rear-door seal held as it should, it would
be weeks before anyone investigated.

The duplicate bus that had been concealed in the trailer was already on
the road. Two technical specialists were almost finished attaching the
license plates from the original bus. Ranger could see the duplicate
passengers inside, their white uniforms ghostly through the tinted
windows. All forty-one were sitting ramrod straight, facing forward,
properly focused on the mission's next objective.

As Ranger made the final adjustments to his uniform and the cap he now
wore, Norway handed him the black attache case, then, unexpectedly,
snapped to attention and saluted.

Touched, even honored, Ranger made a point of returning the salute with
the same passion and precision. Despite their many differences, he and
Norway were brothers-in-arms, and together they had just survived their
first contact with the enemy. That alone would serve to bind them
through the engagements to follow.

Salutes exchanged, Norway spoke a single word, awkwardly.

"Stasglivo."

Ranger shook his head at Norway's execrable pronunciation. "Et vous, mon
ami. Bonne chance, aussi." His French was much better than Norway's
Russian. But then, given their respective histories, it had to be.

Then Ranger walked away from the Lebaron, over to the duplicate bus.

Once on board, he had two replacement midshipmen hand out the passes,
matching them according to the list he had prepared. At the same time,
the duplicate bus pulled out of the tunnel, passed the flagman and the
waiting, unsuspecting civilian cars, and smoothly took the entrance ramp
to Highway 50.

In less than a minute, Ranger knew traffic flow would resume through the
tunnel, even as the last of his commandos removed the traffic cones,
swept up the shattered window glass, and drove off in the two white
Lebarons, along with the stolen Department of Highways trucks towing the
portable traffic-advisory signs.

Except for a few errant cubes of safety glass, the tunnel and the 7050
interchange would be back to normal, as if nothing had happened.

Taking his place in the front passenger seat, Ranger switched on a small
radio and dialed to the Washington news station, WTOP. Not hearing what
he was waiting for, he kept the radio on at low volume, just enough that
he would be able to hear the first reports from the National Archives.

Then he cleared his mind and settled back to watch the passing
landscape, alive to each subtle nuance of color, light, and shadow. His
mind no longer held thoughts of what had happened, nor of what was still
to come. Experiencing only the sensations of the moment, he savored the
clarity of a warrior in battle, knowing all was as it should be.

The temperature was seventy-eight degrees. The morning sun was rising in
a cloudless blue sky. A silver-and-blue United States Naval Academy bus
filled with forty-one white-clad midshipmen was rolling westbound on
Highway 50, its destination, the Pentagon.

Team Two was on its way to Ground Zero.

And Ranger was confident that even before he heard the news from the
Archives, thirty-five miles away, Team One was already in position.

TWO NORTH AMERICAN LIGHTNING DETECTION NETWORK, TUCSON, ARIZONA

After six months of analysis, at the exact same second Stan Drewniak had
his breakthrough about the Grinch, he heard footsteps behind him and
reflexively hit the F1 key on his keyboard. Instantly, a half completed
game of solitaire filled his desktop computer screen.

But in this case, instantly wasn't fast enough.

"I saw that," his boss said.

Stan spun around in his squeaking swivel chair to smile winningly at Dr.
Helen Shapiro. She was a wiry fifty years old to his waist thickening
thirty, carried a thick black binder, and wore a sagging, brown cardigan
over blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a turquoise and silver bolo tie. She
didn't smile back. "I don't even have to guess what you're doing, do I?"
she said.

Stan thought about brazening it out. Dr. Shapiro, like everyone else at
Global Atmospherics, Inc." was overworked this year. The America based
subsidiary of the Japanese company had begun with a localized sensing
system developed in the 1970s for the Bureau of Land Management, to aid
in the early detection of lightning-caused forest fires in Alaska. Those
first crude Magnetic Direction Finding sensors had been able to pinpoint
a lightning strike with an accuracy ranging between two to four miles.
By the late 1990s, that technology had evolved into a satellite-linked
network of more than two hundred sophisticated sensors covering the
entire country. As accuracy improved, most ground lightning strikes
could be pinpointed within one hundred yards of their actual location.
And not only could the system detect air-to-air strikes that never
reached the ground, it could now distinguish among the up-to-twenty
return strokes that accompanied each flash- event.

By the turn of the century, the North American Lightning Detection
Network had linked GAI's National Lightning Detection Network for the
continental United States to additional networks covering Canada,
Mexico, and the Pacific Ocean from the west coast of North America to
Hawaii. Stan knew the chief reason he'd been hired by Global
Atmospherics was that its management believed the next decade could
bring a fully integrated lightning-detection network that would span the
world. The amount of research that required was responsible for the
incredible workload and most of the new jobs at GAL One of those new
jobs was Stan's.

Ten years from now, he was sure, the latest, ultimate network would
probably be able to identify the nature of the Grinch within seconds of
the elusive event's next appearance. But he had put a lot of time into
solving his latest pet puzzle over the past six months. He didn't feel
like waiting ten years before he had the answer.

So Stan chose his strategy, scratched his scraggly black beard, and
confessed, more or less, mostly less. "I was ... on my break." Shapiro
sighed. She was a cloud physicist with twenty-five years of experience
who, to Stan and to anyone else who worked with her, only seemed to come
to life that one time each spring when she disappeared into the field to
fly through Florida's thunderstorms. The rest of the year, locked up in
the new and ferociously air-conditioned NALDN monitoring station in the
Arizona desert, she was like a storm system of her own, ready to burst
at any second. It was a common enough problem in high-technology
endeavors, Stan knew. The people with the technical expertise for a task
rarely had a matching level of managerial experience for directing
support staff. Dr. Shapiro was undeniably intelligent enough to have
become one of the country's foremost lightning experts. But she was also
incredibly negative and judgmental, and, even worse, she was responsible
for his performance reviews.

Right now, the cloud physicist was speaking to him as his manager and
not as a fellow scientist. "We're shorthanded today, Stan. We don't have
breaks."

Swiftly mounting his defense, Stan waved his hand in the general
direction of the main event display, twenty feet away on the far wall of
the expansive monitoring room. The ten-foot-wide screen showed an
outline of North America, including all the states, provinces, and
territories of Canada, the United States, and Mexico. The grid map
scintillated with red dots, most of them concentrated in a band cross
filing Louisiana into Florida, and in separate clumps over Portland and
the Canadian prairies.

Each flashing dot represented one lightning event, appearing on the
display approximately ten seconds after the event took place. That was
the length of time the company's computers needed to compare
time-of-arrival data transmitted from ground sensors and to calculate
each lightning bolt's triangulated position, polarity, and amplitude.

"The system's working perfectly." Stan knew he was on solid ground so
far. The grid map showed that every bolt of lightning originating
anywhere across an eighth of the Earth's surface was being monitored
precisely, efficiently, and automatically.

Dr. Shapiro rubbed her wildly disordered salt-and-pepper hair. The best
explanation Stan had heard for her remarkable hairstyle was that it was
the direct result of her lightning-hunting airplane taking dozens of
direct hits each time it went up. But then, for someone who studied
lightning, that was the point.

"Stan, what if a sensor baseline went down? And you're lost on your
Grinch hunt?"

Stan glanced over at the handful of other computer specialists sitting
at their monitors in low-walled cubicles, struggling through the
Saturday-midnight-to-Sunday-morning graveyard shift. Like Shapiro, most
of them were swathed in bulky sweaters, despite the fact that the
outside temperature in Tucson this morning was well on its way to 115
degrees. Air-conditioning was an all-or-nothing effort in this
computerized facility. But unlike the other, freezing staff members,
Stan defiantly wore cotton shorts, a Banzai Institute T-shirt, and
desert sandals. No matter how cold it got inside the dark, cavelike
detection center, his inner thermostat always knew how hot it was
outside. "Um ... one of the Popsicle sticks would tell me and I'd get
right on it?"

"Wrong answer, Stan. You're the shift manager. You're supposed to notice
it. That's why this company hires people, not robots." Shapiro tapped
one elegantly manicured finger on the pictures of playing cards on his
computer screen. "Why are you the only one who covers up his work by
pretending you're playing games and not the other way around like
everyone else?"

Stan shrugged.

Shapiro shook her head as if she'd never understand him, which he knew
she wouldn't, ever. "I want you to get your Grinch program off the
company network."

"But ..." Stan hesitated, then went for broke. "I think I can catch it
in twelve days."

Shapiro's large blue eyes widened, startled. "The Grinch?"

Stan nodded, surprising himself by the depth of the pleasure he took in
her reaction of disbelief.

"It's a random, high-altitude, transient event, Stan. Everyone's gone
over it. Japan's gone over it. NOAA's gone over it. We have perfect
agreement."

"Perfect?" Stan dismissively ticked off the ludicrous possibilities on
his fingers. "Your experts' top three theories are meteor, high-altitude
aurora within four degrees of the equator, for God's sake and
stratospheric luminous discharge, which has got to be the most
meaningless buzzword of the decade in this business."

Shapiro shifted her binder from one hand to the other, making the
movement a sign of her growing impatience. "And so now you know what it
is?"

"Oh, no. Not a clue." He held up a hand to forestall her protest.

"But ... I do know it's not random." There, he thought. Let's see what
she does with that. No matter how ineffectual a manager Shapiro was, she
was also a scientist. And there was only one way for a scientist to
respond to the claim he had just made.

Shapiro hesitated for a moment, then nodded, almost wary. "All right.

What's the pattern?"

Yes. Stan spun back to the computer on his desk and hit the F1 key to
toggle the solitaire screen away. Now what appeared was a grid map of
the world, centered on the Pacific, crossed by a series of
different-colored sine waves.

As he knew she would, Shapiro recognized what she was looking at.

"Those are satellite orbits."

"That's right. Polar." He pointed to the different colors one at a time.
"That's Landsat IV, Landsat V, ADEOS-II, FORTE, the space station, and
SPOT II."

"Stan, the Grinch has appeared three times in six months, on a
completely irregular basis. These satellites orbit like clockwork.

They can't be the cause."

"I didn't say they were," Stan countered. "But look at this." He rapidly
typed in a series of commands on his keyboard, and the sine wave path of
the orbits disappeared, then began to be redrawn on the screen from the
left. "These are the orbital paths of all those satellites on December
24, last year." The paths continued to draw themselves for a few
seconds, then stopped as a red dot appeared in the Pacific, almost a
thousand miles southeast of Hawaii. "And that's the Grinch. An
electromagnetic event of unknown origin and awesome power. First
appearance. December 24th.

Five-seventeen p.m. Mountain time." He glanced sideways at his manager,
revelling in her dawning expression of enlightenment as she gradually
registered what was on the screen.

"Okay. Show me the second appearance."

Stan suppressed his feeling of triumph. Her tone had been neutral but he
had her. He could tell.

He cleared the screen again, then requested orbit-adjustment for
February 15. This time, the Grinch's location, plus or minus 150 miles,
was approximately 1,200 miles due south of Hawaii.

Shapiro leaned forward, but she only needed to see the screen for a
moment. "And the third?"

Stan advanced to the final screen. April 28. Eight hundred miles west of
Hawaii. He used his finger to draw a circle on his computer screen,
outlining the area around the Grinch location that was completely free
of orbiting satellites. "In all three cases," he said, "the Grinch only
appears when there are no satellites overhead capable of observing a
transient discharge event. Now, that can't be a coincidence. Not three
times."

Shapiro straightened up. "And the next gap in coverage occurs in twelve
days?"

Stan nodded. "There's a fifty-five-minute window on July 1st, centered
on a point nine hundred and fifty miles southwest of Hawaii."

Shapiro stared at the screen for a few long seconds.

"Okay," she said at last. "This is good science. You analyze the data,
detect a pattern, and make a prediction. In twelve days, we'll know if
your prediction is right. Assuming it is, what do you think is the
causative link?"

Stan was surprised she'd even ask so obvious a question. "Military, of
course. It's got to be. I say somebody's testing an EMP bomb. For our
network to detect a discharge event at that distance, the
electromagnetic pulse being generated has got to be humongous."

Shapiro's eyes lost focus, as if her mind were off working on some other
problem. "An EM pulse there strong enough for us to pick up here would
turn off half the power grids in Hawaii and make every plane over the
Pacific drop from the sky. I think we might have heard about something
like ..." She stopped as another expression of enlightenment came to
her. She looked at him intently.

"Like ... what?" Stan prompted, curious rather than defensive now that
she seemed to be taking his obsessive quest seriously.

"That Navy ship. The one that was sunk in the training mission. That was
Christmas, wasn't it?"

Stan knew exactly what was in his manager's mind. "The USS Shilo. That
was one of the first things I thought of, too." Everyone knew about the
Shilo. Almost four hundred sailors had been killed when a cruise
missile, supposedly disarmed for a training exercise, had accidentally
slammed into the ship and sunk her within minutes. The hearings in
Washington had lasted almost a month. The televised Navy rootage of the
rescue attempt among the burning debris had been dramatic, and the
startling satellite photo showing the cruise missile in flight only
seconds before the Shilo was hit had made the cover of every newspaper
and news magazine in the world. But the Navy disaster had nothing to do
with the Grinch. "That was on the 26th," Stan explained. "The Grinch was
two days earlier--on the 24th. And anyway, the two locations are about a
thousand miles apart. No connection."

Shapiro nodded, apparently accepting his reasoning. "Okay. So, go write
up a formal report."

"Really?" Stan couldn't believe his luck. All he'd been hoping for was
her reluctant consent to his continuing work on the Grinch problem in
his spare time. But now she was making his investigation part of his
official duties.

"Really. We're definitely not seeing an BMP bomb, but the fact that we
are picking up something that the Pentagon probably wants to keep secret
means someone else could be picking it up, too." "The Pentagon? I said
'," Dr. Shapiro. Not our military."

"C'mon, Stan. Who else is there these days?"

"My guess is the French. They're always blowing up islands and things in
the ..." Stan ended his explanation in a mumble. Too late, he remembered
that office gossip had it that Shapiro supposedly had had a hot French
lover back in prehistoric days.

"These Grinch events are not explosions, Stan." Shapiro spoke as if Stan
had no clue about how to interpret data logically. "They could be ... a
tryout of a new radar system. Somebody could be measuring ionization
effects in the upper atmosphere with sounding rockets. Our picking that
up could be good for the company. Help sell our services to the defense
industry."

Stan refrained from crossing his eyes at her to let her know what he
thought of her reasoning. He knew a good scientist was supposed to
consider every possibility, but Shapiro's suggestions were definitely
problematic. Still cocky from his unexpected initial success with her,
he pressed on. "Doctor, radar and ionization studies aren't exactly
cutting-edge technologies. And they don't produce a lot of visual data.
So why would anyone bother to hide them from satellites?" "I don't
know," Shapiro said sharply. "Force of habit, maybe. If you're ever
unfortunate enough to do defense work, Stan, you'll discover that the
military lies. All the time. Cover stories, camouflage, deception ...
it's their rule rather than their exception."

Stan stared with new interest at his manager. He'd never heard such
venom in her voice. He wondered if anyone in the office knew about any
defense work Shapiro might have done in her past.

But whatever her experience had been, Stan's manager now quickly brushed
aside any disturbing memories it might have left. "Look, write your
report. Include screen dumps of the orbital tracks you showed me.

And ..." She glanced at her watch. "Can I get it all before you go this
morning?"

Stan wisely decided to stop arguing. "Sure. No problem."

"And one more thing ..." Shapiro leaned past Stan to hit the F1 key on
his computer. The Grinch map on the screen was once again replaced by a
half-completed game of solitaire. "If we are straying into a classified
area, it might be a good idea to keep it to ourselves for now." She
stepped back, then looked out over the detection center.

"Is anyone else helping you with this?"

Stan shook his head. He knew better than that. Misuse of company
resources was a real offense at GAL Past experience had taught him how
to keep a secret. "Nope. Just me."

"Good. You give me the report. I'll take it to Dr. Green tomorrow.

And twelve days from now, maybe you'll be a company hero."

"Works for me," Stan said.

Shapiro nodded in the direction of his screen. "Meanwhile, you'd better
keep up appearances, too."

Stan stared at her blankly. He had absolutely no idea what she was
talking about.

"The black ten goes on the red jack." Then Shapiro told him she'd see
him at the end of the shift, and walked off, binder under her arm,
through the center of the monitoring room, toward her office.

With his mouse, Stan obediently moved the ten of spades onto the Jack of
diamonds, then clicked over a few new cards, all the while mentally
composing the introduction for his report.

But as he did, something Shapiro had said kept turning over in his mind.

The military lies. All the time. She'd spoken with such conviction.

He toggled back to his Grinch maps, running them backward and forward.

He had three more hours left in his shift. He might as well put them to
good use.

If the Pentagon was somehow lying about the Grinch, then Stan Drewniak
was going to find out why.

THREE CHASE RESIDENCE. QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

In the supposed safety of the living room of his own home, Tom Chase
braced himself for the inevitable attack. Even as his opponent gripped
his hand and began to methodically swing it up and down, Tom forced
himself to concentrate. He would not pull away, because that was what
the enemy wanted. The movement would change his center of gravity. It
would allow his attacker to use his own momentum against him. Instead,
Tom stood his ground, braced himself, and' Hey Completely unexpectedly,
a sharp shock of intense pain flashed into Tom's thumb. All his mental
preparations vanished as he tried to snatch his hand back from his
opponent's grip. He was too late.

Tom's living-room floor and ceiling blurred past him, then stopped with
a bang as he slammed onto his back.

He heard the flimsy walls of his townhouse rattle. He heard something on
an Ikea bookshelf topple.

He heard his eight-year-old son giggle proudly.

But Tom couldn't say anything. He couldn't even draw a breath. His lungs
were paralyzed from the force of his impact. He regretted not having had
the money to upgrade the inexpensive gray broadloom. The standard
half-inch under pad had done nothing to cushion his fall.

Tyler stopped giggling. A look of concern flickered over him.

Tom forced himself up on one elbow, mouthing the words "I'm fine." He
glanced over at the blank, off-white common wall he shared with his
next-door neighbors, but didn't detect any protests from that half of
the townhouse. It was just after seven in the morning. With luck, the
Lufkins had slept through his latest martial-arts encounter with his
son.

Tyler gallantly held out a hand to help his decrepit old man to his
feet.

Tom took a shallow breath, felt better, made a show of moving his hands
out of Tyler's reach. "Forget it, pal. I'm not falling for that twice."

Tyler put one hand on his stomach, one in the small of his back, and
took several bows for his invisible audience. "Thank you, thank you."

Tom sat cross-legged on the floor, marveling at his son's capacity to
surprise him. "Your mother taught you that?"

Tyler looked defensive. "I'm a yellow belt. I learned that in class."

"Not the flip. I mean the trick with the hand."

Tyler grinned and moved his eyebrows up and down. "The old Vulcan death
grip." He made a pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger.

That was all it had taken to inflict serious pain in the fleshy muscle
between Tom's thumb and forefinger.

Tom's hand still ached. He stood up, trying his best to look stern.

"There's no such thing as a Vulcan death grip."

"That's what Mom called it." C<* Tom studied his son, trying to ignore
the somewhat grotesquely illustrated Black Lung T-shirt. He supposed his
own preadolescent worship of Kiss had similarly escaped his parents. As
a first-time father, Tom was finding himself constantly caught up in an
unwinnable war between what he knew was best for his child, and what he
remembered best from his own childhood. He was beginning to suspect no
one ever struck the right balance.

Tyler Chase was a bit smaller than other boys his age, just edging in
under four feet, even with his black custom high-tops. And he was
definitely lighter, still less than fifty pounds soaking wet. But
judging from the amount of milk the kid could drink, and the number of
mini microwave pizzas that disappeared on his weekends at the townhouse,
Tom was convinced his son was on the brink of a major growth spurt. He
hoped so. The kid was definitely going to inherit his mother's looks. He
could use a bit of his father's height to back them up. And thinking
about his mother ... Tom shook his still painful hand. "Only true aliens
need to know things like that."

Tyler shrugged. His universal gesture for whatever subject he chose not
to discuss. "What time is it?"

Tom looked at his watch--that is, he looked at his wrist where his watch
used to be.

Tyler was wearing it now. Smirking.

"Missing something, Dad?"

Tom frowned in what he hoped was a good impression of authority figure
disapproval, but he knew it couldn't hide his pride. "That was smooth.

First time I didn't feel a thing."

Tyler's smirk blossomed into a full-fledged and honest smile, not a hint
of artifice about it. That simple expression was enough to trigger a
full-scale wave of fierce parental love in Tom. At once, he saw in his
son an echo of the child the boy had been, and a compelling glimpse of
the adult he would someday become. That Tom had had a hand in the
creation of this small, maddening, yet perfect being was something that
astounded him on a daily basis. But whenever he threatened to become
awash in maudlin sentimentality, he was also able to see an echo of his
wife in Tyler. Ex-wife. That cooled things off pretty quickly.

Tyler adjusted his father's large silver-banded watch. Its metal links
hung loosely on his young wrist. "Mom says no one needs to know things
like this."

"Yeah? Well, trust me, knowing a couple of classic magic tricks is a lot
more useful than knowing how to kill someone with a ... a Gummi Bear and
an elastic band."

Tyler's sudden, intensely hopeful expression warned Tom he'd chosen the
wrong example. He could almost hear his son's amazed thoughts: 7 can get
a Gummi Bear ... 7 can get an elastic band ... "That was a joke."

"I know." Tyler's obvious disappointment gave Tom a quick, terrible
thought.

"She hasn't taught you how to kill someone with anything else, has she?"

"Daa-ad."

"Just checking. You know, when you get older and go to parties with
girls--"

"Yuck."

"Yuck away. They're gonna love the stuff I'm teaching you. Maybe someday
you'll even thank me."

Tyler smiled brightly. "I'll thank you now. Shake?"

Tom pretended not to notice Tyler's straining-to look-innocent eyes.

"Sure."

This time, as soon as Tyler slapped his other hand to Tom's wrist to
begin the karate throw, Tom was ready. With a savage roar of attack, he
swiftly lifted his arm up, leaving Tyler's midsection exposed, then
swung in with his free arm, grabbed the startled boy around the waist,
and spun him into the air so he hung upside down at Tom's side.

Tyler squealed with delighted laughter, kicking wildly, desperately
trying to reach around and tickle his father.

That was when Lufkin pounded on the common wall from his side of the
townhouse. A muffled roar informed Tom precisely what time it was.

"Sorry!" But Tom's shouted reply only served to plunge himself and his
son into even greater whoops of laughter, made all the stronger by their
ineffectual attempts to stop.

Tyler's kicking now threw Tom off-balance, made him sidestep to recover,
directly into the side of the old gray-cord couch. Tom tossed Tyler
dramatically clear onto the couch's well-worn cushions, then collapsed
to the floor for the second time, rattling all the metal-shelved
bookcases in the tiny, L-shaped combination living and dining room.

By the time they caught their respective breath, Tom was sitting on the
floor with his back to the couch. Tyler was on the floor beside him,
leaning against Tom as if he were three again and not worried whether
hugging his dad was cool or not.

Tom roughed up his son's hair. Where the red came from, neither he nor
his wife ex-wife had ever been able to figure out. "Your turn to make
breakfast."

"Waffles."

Tom frowned. Waffles were merely Tyler's excuse to guzzle maple syrup
and inch-thick slabs of butter. "Okay, my turn. Omelettes."

"Waffles."

"Fruit, no syrup."

"I get to have Coke at the game."

"One."

"And candy."

"Don't push it, pal." Tom had noted that Tyler was turning everything
into a drawn-out negotiation these days and that, too often, it was
resulting in the kid's getting his way. But summer vacation was just
starting and this was their day for fun. Anything serious could wait for
September and the start of school. He gave his son a poke in the ribs
and leapt to his feet before Tyler could physically counterattack.

"Lef s go. Shower, bed-making, and ... change the shirt."

"Mom lets me wear this shirt."

Tom didn't want to play that game. Trying one from the self-help books,
he changed the direction of the potential argument. "Show some team
spirit. Wear your Orioles shirt."

Unfortunately, Tyler hadn't read the same books. "Mom bought me Black
Lung's new album. With autographs."

"I bought the tickets to the game."

"Why didn't you buy a ticket for Mom? She's not doing anything today."

Tom felt a familiar wall descending. He knew there was no way he was
going to win this particular argument.

"Maybe next time."

"Why not this time?"

Tom spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. "I only have two tickets."

"You could buy--"

"Tyler. This conversation's going nowhere."

Tom knew Tyler understood what that particular code phrase from his
father meant, but the kid persisted anyway. "Mom would ask you to a
game. She's always asking about you."

That revelation caused Tom to hesitate, but then he caught himself.

Tyler had almost outmaneuvered him again. "C'mon. Let's go make
omelettes."

"Waffles!"

"Waffles." He got to his feet, held out his hand to Tyler. Tyler grinned
at what he obviously thought was the opening to an attack and got up by
himself. Then the grin suddenly left his open, freckled face. His thin
arm seemed to twitch.

All of Tom's parental senses went on alert. Was his son feeling unwell?
Food poisoning? Seizure? All the unlikely, even ridiculous nightmares
only a parent could know suddenly alive within him.

Then he realized what had happened.

"Give me the watch."

Reluctantly, Tyler handed it over.

It was a Timex-Motorola, two time zones, timer, day and date, stopwatch,
150 phone numbers, and full 900MHz Skytel pager functions.

Tom had set the watch to vibrate silently when a page came in so it
wouldn't interrupt his classes. That's what Tyler had felt.

Seven o'clock Sunday morning and dad might have to go to work.

Tom read the display: 783 1. So much for the ball game.

Tyler pulled the watch down to his eye level as Tom fastened the metal
strap. "Who is it? Mom?"

Tom angled the watch for Tyler, but the boy twisted Tom's arm around so
he could see the display from the opposite direction.

He hesitantly read the letters the upside-down numbers made. "... I eol?
What's that mean?"

"Nothing. It's just numbers." When Tom had given Tyler his own pager,
they had made a game of constructing upside-down code messages they
could send to each other. On Tyler's pager display five dash five oh
five 5-505 was an SOS from school, meaning whoever it was who was
supposed to pick him up was late. Four dash five oh five V-505 was a
homework emergency. This past year, Sunday nights had seemed incomplete
without an urgent page from Tyler, who had suddenly remembered he had
some project or other due first thing Monday morning.

Tyler twisted Tom's arm the other way. "It's not a phone number. So,
that makes it a code, right?"

Tom looked for the cordless phone. It was over on the television, on top
of last night's pizza box. "Top Secret. They're going to have to send me
back to the space station."

"Heyyy!" Tyler didn't let go of Tom's arm as he walked over to the
phone. Tom played along, let his son swing like a monkey. "You're not an
astronaut!"

Tom switched on the phone. He didn't have to think about the number he
was going to dial. "Oh, I don't need a spaceship. They just beam me up."

Tyler pounded rhythmically on the matte black casing of Tom's oversize
television set. "Who is it?!"

Tom held up a finger calling for instant silence. The number he had
called was answered halfway through the first ring. It always was.

"Hey, Tommy. Thanks for getting back so fast." Despite the certain loss
of his day with his son, Tom felt a stirring of interest. The man who
had answered was more than his part-time employer. He was a friend. A
good one. "You're at home, I see." It went without comment that Tom's
location was known to his caller. The phone system Tom had made contact
with automatically overrode any form of call blocking that civilian
switching systems could provide. The theory, engineering, and
programming of such systems was one of the subjects Tom taught at the
FBI Academy ten miles from the townhouse.

"It's my day with Tyler," Tom said. He wasn't complaining. He was just
making it known that certain arrangements would have to be made.

"Taken care of."

Tyler, meanwhile, stood in front of his father, hands on his hips,
slowly and silently mouthing, "Who is it?" over an dover. "Who?"

"Just a second," Tom said, "there's someone here who wants to say
hello."

Tom handed the phone to Tyler.

Tyler held it to his ear and cautiously said, "Hello?" Then he broke
into a huge smile and added, "Uncle Milo!"

Tom was pleased by that reaction. Tyler had no grandparents or aunts or
uncles, and since the day the boy was born, Milo Vanovich, who had no
children, had gladly and enthusiastically taken over the
all-purpose-relative role. Tom had met enough people on Vanovich's staff
to know this was the general's modus operandi. He didn't have staff, he
had family. Tom enjoyed being included within that extended group. He
was even more pleased that the general's interest extended to Tyler.

Tyler said a few things about the afternoon's ball game and his plans
for the summer, then handed the phone back to Tom.

"So, should I pack a bag?" Tom asked.

"I just need you at the office. With any luck, I'll get you back by
noon."

Tom heard an odd huskiness in Vanovich's voice. Maybe the old guy was
finally getting out on Saturday nights. A little fun could only be good
for him given the kind of job the general had.

"Huh. I've heard that before. I saw the news last night. What's it going
to be like getting in there today?"

"There's a car on the way. Just bring your pass."

Tom knew better than to ask for additional details. "See you in an hour,
then."

He could sense Vanovich's smile form on the other end of the line.

"Oh, sooner than that, I'd say."

The line clicked off and the doorbell rang at the same time.

Tom saw the undisguised look of disappointment in Tyler's eyes.

"Sorry, pal."

"I know. Uncle Milo told me. It's work." Tyler sighed. They had talked
about this often enough that the boy knew, in this matter at least,
arguing wasn't an option. Ever since Tom had begun teaching at the FBI
Academy, and had regular hours like other fathers, it was rare for him
to cancel on Tyler. Now when he did, Tyler was more accepting of the
fact that there were still some parts of Tom's work that absolutely had
to come first. Even Tyler's mother had helped him understand that. It
was one of the few subjects on which she and Tom could agree.

Tom headed down the steep, oak-veneer staircase that led to his
minuscule entrance hall. Through the sheers covering the three strips of
glass on the white Colonial-style front door, he saw two men in
nondescript gray suits definitely not the clothing of choice on a muggy
June day in Virginia. Tom opened the door. "I just got the call."

There was already a sheen of sweat on both men. The larger of the two
took off his aviator-style sunglasses. Tom watched the man's hooded eyes
efficiently scan the still unfurnished entry hall behind Tom, then lock
on to Tyler as the boy noisily jumped down the uncarpeted stairs, two
steps at a time. At the same time, the man opened a small, black leather
wallet to reveal his Defense Intelligence Agency identification. Tom
knew that was the ID of choice carried by agents of the National
Infrastructure Agency. Since the agency Vanovich headed was not publicly
acknowledged to exist, no one from the NIA could admit working for it.

"Mr. Chase, I'm Captain Lassiter." He nodded at the man beside him.

"This is Captain Dorsey. He'll be your driver. The general asked me to
..." Lassiter nodded at Tyler as the boy took up position at his
father's side.

Tom looked down at his son. "Tyler, this is Captain Lassiter. He's going
to be your baby-sitter." Tom jammed a hand into the front pocket of his
jeans.

Tyler caught the move. "Watch this," the boy warned the captain.

Tom tried some misdirection. "Watch what?"

Tyler poked a finger against Tom's hand in his pocket. "Whenever you put
your hand in your pocket like that, you're going to pull something out
of my ear."

"This hand?" Tom pulled his hand free, turned it back and forth, nothing
in it. "I am not."

Then Tom reached out suddenly with his other hand as if to cup
Lassiter's ear. The captain's hand was on Tom's wrist like a whip had
been snapped, before Tom had even seen him move.

Tyler voiced Tom's surprise. "Whoa ... cool ..."

Tom studied the soldier in civilian garb. He was definitely Special Ops
material. As far as Tom was concerned, guys like that shouldn't be let
outside without a leash and muzzle. "Captain ... it's Sunday morning,
you're not on base ... how about taking things a little easier."

Lassiter released his grip and Tom slowly moved his hand back. Held
edgewise between his index and middle finger were two tickets for the
afternoon's game at Oriole Park in Baltimore, five rows back from the
visitors' dugout. He handed them over. "My son is apt to try a few moves
like that himself. Think before you defend yourself, okay?"

Lassiter clearly didn't appreciate Tom's unstated warning, but he was
under orders.

Tom put a hand on his front door. Despite the heat, no soldier was going
to cross his threshold again. Fortunately, like garlic and crosses for
vampires, the chain of command would keep Lassiter and Dorsey in their
place.

"The general wants you to wait here. I have to get my pass." Tom could
see that Lassiter wanted to object. In the army, when a general said
Now-it meant Now--a soldier in Tom's position would wear his pass around
his neck at all times just in case a call came in at the most
inopportune time. Nor was Tom going to change out of his gray Polo shirt
and blue jeans. He wasn't in the Army and there was nothing anyone like
Lassiter could do about it.

"I'll be right out." Tom closed the front door firmly, then he raced
Tyler up the oak-railed stairs to the bedrooms. He let Tyler beat him to
the top-floor landing.

As his son grumpily brushed his hair and teeth as directed, Tom closed
his own bedroom door, shifted his old pine dresser to one side, and
exposed the compact, metallic wall safe hidden behind it. He punched in
his assigned code number, then waited until the small red light on the
safe turned green. Somewhere, a central computer in Fort Meade,
Maryland, had been told over a cellular phone link that Tom Chase was
accessing his government-supplied, secure storage unit. Of the four
different code sequences Tom could have input, the one he had used
indicated he was not under duress.

Tom heard the safe click as an authorization signal was returned by the
computer. Then he spun the combination dial to its required settings.

There was little the military loved more than redundancy.

Tom opened the safe. It was fifteen inches wide, nine inches tall, but
only eight inches deep, specifically designed for installation by the
Army Corps of Engineers in the narrow walls of civilian housing. But the
metal-alloy unit was also welded to a pair of six-foot-long, diagonally
crossed steel beams which would force anyone intending to steal the safe
to tear out an entire bedroom wall.

Redundancy and overkill, Tom thought. Emphasis on the kill.

Of the two objects within the safe, Tom took only one--his security
pass. The gun, a compact Beretta M9 semiautomatic pistol, remained
behind. He had accepted possession of it only as a condition of his
security clearance. So far, he had been successful in avoiding all the
training sessions the Army had set up to teach him how to fire the
weapon. He was content to let it rot in the safe, unused, unwanted, and
no possible threat to his child.

The day Tom had returned home with that gun, he had sealed it in the
safe, then promptly thrown away the two boxes of ammunition that came
with it, along with the key to the trigger lock. As far as Tom was
concerned, he didn't own a gun, and he never intended to fire one.

Tom shoved his pass and its neck chain into the front pocket of his
jeans, then closed the safe and entered a new code sequence to let the
Fort Meade computer know he hadn't been executed by terrorists when the
safe had opened. As he pushed the pine dresser back into

place, he heard Tyler turn off the water in the bathroom sink. He met
his son in the hall. Tyler was wearing his new Orioles shirt. It hung
down to his knees, almost obscuring his black-cotton surfer shorts.

"Thanks, pal."

But Tyler didn't want his father to get the wrong idea. "I got
toothpaste on the other one. What time's Mom coming tonight?"

"Eight. But I'll be here after the game. We'll phone out for pizza?"

Tyler pumped his arm in the air as he started down the stairs. "Two
nights in a row!"

They reached the entrance hall. "Only if you don't tell your mother."

Tyler hung back from the front door. "Dad ... you're going to be okay,
right?"

Tom understood. He crouched down to look his son in the eyes,
face-to-face. "I'm just going to Uncle Milo's office. Nothing fancy this
time."

"Don't you need your kit?"

Tom patted his back pocket. "This is all I needed to fix the Space
Shuttle when those flying saucers attacked."

"Daa-ad!"

"Oops, I forgot. That's still classified. Don't tell anyone I told you
or--" Tom pointed knowingly at the hulking silhouettes of the
plainclothes NIA agents in the front-door windows. "--they'll have to
... you know." He drew his finger across his neck with an appropriate
reproduction of the sound of flesh being cut.

But Tyler had heard that particular joke too many times. "Seriously."

"Seriously, they have everything I need at the office." Tom reached for
the front door's brass doorknob. Through the door's windows, he saw the
agents outside shift their positions, as if there were a chance that
someone other than Tom Chase would be coming through. "I'll beep you
when I'm finished. Promise."

Tyler lifted up his shirt to check the transparent orange pager clipped
to his waistband. Then he suddenly lurched at his father and hugged him.

Tom hugged back, accepting what was unsaid. "I love you, too." He mussed
his son's freshly brushed hair. "Go get your glove. It's in the
backseat."

Tom opened his front door and Tyler charged out past the soldiers, down
the concrete patio-stone walk and across the lawn to Tom's five year-old
red Cherokee parked in the driveway he shared with the Lufkins. Tom
squeezed his keychain and heard the vehicle beep once as the doors
unlocked. There were two other vehicles parked at the curb in front of
the gray-shingle townhouse. An innocuous beige Chevy Cavalier with three
short and stubby black antennae attached to the trunk, letting careful
observers know it wasn't as innocuous as it appeared. Lined up behind
the Cavalier was a white Chevy Suburban with impenetrably tinted
windows, the ubiquitous unmarked government vehicle of choice in D.C.
Tom saw the pronounced tread on the wide tires and recognized the
Suburban as a class-four transport. It could drive over a mine and take
a direct hit from a Stinger missile at the same time, and still get all
of four miles to the gallon.

"Is that necessary?"

After a brief glance at Tom's casual, weekend attire, Captain Dorsey
gave what Tom considered to be a classic military reply. "General's
orders." With that mind-set, Tom knew, necessity and logic need play no
part in a soldier's thinking. Assuming a soldier is capable of thought
in the first place.

Tyler slid out from the backseat of the Cherokee with his yellow leather
fielder's glove. As he pounded his fist into the battered glove's
pocket, he half-spun and kicked the Cherokee's door closed with what Tom
recognized as a well-executed karate side kick, accompanied by an
appropriate cry of attack. The kid was a force of nature. Letting him
spend the day in the company of someone who had been through Special
Forces training was asking for trouble.

Tom pushed down Lassiter's sunglasses so he could see the captain's
eyes. Lassiter stiffened but made no outward gesture of response. "He
can have two hot dogs, one Coke, one popcorn. Spread them out over the
game. No ice cream, no candy bars." Tom stuffed two twenties into
Lassiter's jacket pocket. "And consider this general's orders, too: Keep
the conversation on baseball. No war stories. No training stories. Even
if he asks. And especially if he asks how to blow things up. Is that
understood?"

Lassiter nodded once, slowly, his cheeks darkening with his effort to
maintain control in the face of reckless provocation. He clearly found
it as trying to be in Tom's presence as Tom found it to be in his.

"Good. If you make it through the day, I'll tell the general you deserve
combat pay." Tom turned to Captain Dorsey. "Let's go."

Meeting Tyler in the driveway, Tom held out his hand so they could
exchange a high five. Tyler, predictably, moved his hand away at the
last second. Tom, just as predictably, recovered by jabbing Tyler in the
ribs. "No karate moves on the captain."

Tyler did that thing with his eyebrows again. "Hell, hell. He'll never
know what hit him." Tom grimaced. Definitely too much Nickelodeon.

He got into the front seat of the Suburban before his NIA escort could
open the back door. Dorsey hesitated, then walked around to the driver's
side.

Tom watched through the Suburban's tinted side window as, in the
driveway, Tyler formally shook hands with Captain Lassiter, without
apparent incident.

Dorsey pulled an impossibly thin radio from his inside jacket pocket,
held it close to his mouth. "Eighty-five." Tom heard no acknowledgment
in reply. But, apparently, the code meant all was well since Dorsey put
the radio away, then leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition.

Outside, Tyler and Captain Lassiter walked down the driveway toward the
innocuous Cavalier at the curb. Tyler was already talking earnestly to
his companion. Tom almost rolled his window down to wish the captain
luck.

"Quite the young man you have there, sir," Dorsey said as the Suburban
pulled away from the curb. "Think he'll be going into your line of
work?"

"He'd better not." And don't let him be a soldier, either, Tom thought,
turning his head to watch Tyler now getting into the backseat of the
Cavalier. With approval, he watched as Lassiter leaned in to secure
Tyler's seat belt.

Dorsey adjusted a control on the dash. "Are you getting enough
air-conditioning, sir?"

Tom was, and he slouched down, making himself comfortable as the
Suburban turned the corner, away from the neatly spaced cluster of
upright gray townhouses backed by towering stands of elm. Dorsey chose
the lane that would take them away from the outskirts of Quantico,
toward Interstate 95. This early on a Sunday morning, traffic would be
nonexistent. "Just fine. Any idea what the trouble is?"

"I really couldn't say, sir." No surprise there. "Just thought it might
have something to do with the ceremony."

"I'm sure the general will fill you in."

Tom realized he'd have to create his own entertainment. "I guess it's a
big day for you guys."

"Sir?"

"Another couple of treaties like this, and you people are pretty much
out of a job, right?"

"I wouldn't say that, sir."

"C'mon, Captain. Russia joining NATO? They're making history today.

You're running out of enemies."

Dorsey snapped on the Suburban's blinker with a bit too much force, Tom
thought. "You'd be surprised, sir."

Tom waited expectantly, but the captain volunteered no other comment.

Restless for stimulation, he turned on the radio.

" at least twenty dead, including two security guards manning a video
surveillance station on the second floor." The announcer sounded
flustered, as if she'd been forced to fill airtime, nonstop, for hours.

"So far, no one has taken responsibility for the massacre, and we have
been unable to determine if police have identified a motive behind the
deadly attack. We're going live to Bill Jennings to get the latest on
this terrible tragedy. And we remind you to stay with WTOP for
continuous updates on this fast-breaking story."

As Dorsey took the entrance ramp to the interstate, the look on his face
told Tom the captain knew as little as Tom did about whatever had just
happened.

Tom leaned forward and turned up the volume as a new voice came over the
radio. The sound quality was different, less clear. "This is Bill
Jennings reporting live from outside the National Archives on
Constitution Avenue." Tom sat back, frowning. He had taken Tyler to the
Archives last October. His son's favorite document at the Archives, like
Tom's, had been the $7,200,000 check used to buy Alaska from Russia in
1867. Ornate as it was, it hadn't even been certified.

The reporter's tone was grave. "The death toll for last night's massacre
now stands at eight security personnel and twenty-four visitors to the
Archives' exhibition hall. We are still waiting for confirmation that
some of the most important documents stored here, including " The voice
paused solemnly before continuing. " America's three great Charters of
Freedom, are unharmed. But, as yet, the police have still not set a time
for a press conference." "That's what I meant, sir," Dorsey said grimly.
"There's always someone out there who's after us."

Tom slumped down in his seat, sickened. He wondered if any of the
twenty-four had been children, innocent civilians slaughtered on the
new, urban battlefield. Since becoming a parent, he was no longer able
to listen to the ever-increasing stories of random madness sweeping the
country and the world without fearing for his child's future, and his
own.

But he took some comfort from the fact that for at least today, he had
nothing to worry about.

Tyler was being escorted to the ball game by a Special Ops bodyguard.

And as for himself, Tom couldn't think of a building in the world that
was more secure than the Pentagon.

FOUR MARINE ONE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Seen from Marine One, the stately, gleaming green-and-white Sikorsky
VH-3D helicopter operated by Marine aviation squadron HMX-1, the
Sunday-morning haze was thicker over the Potomac, so that the river's
eastern edge was like an ocean shore. There was a gentle westward curve
of land, a narrow brush stroke of calm dark water, then nothing but
featureless mist that dissolved into the far horizon.

No, not the edge of the ocean, Hector Macgregor thought, staring out
through one of the Sikorsky's thick, blast proof windows. It might as
well be the edge of the world. At least, that's what the old-timers he
worked with would probably think. Their world ended at the Beltway, that
ring of 1-495 that surrounded Washington, D. C." like an isolating,
insulating moat. But Hector didn't hold the insiders' atrophied vision
against them. He was pragmatic enough to know that the traditional
shortsightedness of the politicos and policymakers was exactly why
someone like him was riding up front today with the President of the
United States of America.

Just this morning, prior to boarding, the President's pilot had told
Hector that the two-mile flight from the south lawn of the White House
to the Pentagon seldom took more than seven minutes from takeoff to
secured landing. But as a matter of security, different routes were used
on a random basis for all the President's air travel over Washington, to
lessen the chance of potential assassins lying in wait for the helo with
a surface-to-air missile.

If the worst happened, the seventy-two-foot-long helicopter did carry
extensive countermeasures against SAM attacks. Though the "V"

in its model designation indicated the helicopter was an Executive
Transport Configuration, complete with wet bar and galley, a toilet, and
several hundred pounds of soundproofing, it was also heavily armed and
armored. In addition to missile decoys, radar and laser ranging jamming
devices, infrared suppressors, and smoke generators, it carried three
7.62 Miniguns in concealed gun ports. As a final resort, the four-person
Marine crew rigorously selected from the Corps' best pilots and the
Secret Service contingent accompanying the President, riding on all five
helicopters of the Presidential formation, also had access to an onboard
emergency store of weapons and personnel protection devices in the event
Marine One was ever forced down.

Thus, despite the added safety concerns of flying, up to an altitude of
500 feet, the crew assured Hector the President was at least as safe in
Marine One as if he were in his armored limousine.

This morning, the flight path of the helicopter formation would bring
them in north of the Pentagon, banking near Arlington National Cemetery
before touching down on the helicopter landing pad directly outside the
Building's southwest wall.

The helipad, a 100-foot-by-100-foot square of concrete slabs, had been
added in 1955. At the time, its purpose was to provide for the rapid
evacuation of key military and civilian personnel. However, by the
sixties, when the Pentagon's security chiefs had realized that the
confirmed alert time for offshore, submarine-launched Soviet missiles
fired at the Pentagon was considerably shorter than the time it would
take the Pentagon's key personnel to run from their offices to the
heliport, other defensive strategies had been pursued. The heliport then
had reverted to its secondary role as a landing site for official
visits, and as an occasional medical-evacuation facility.

However, Hector knew, the President's arrival this morning was being
treated as a routine visit, and he would not be greeted with military
honors. The choice of Marine One had been an expedient measure to avoid
the traffic delays expected to en snarl the immediate area for the day.
Since Saturday midnight, key highways, roads, and bridges within a mile
of the Pentagon had been closed to all but authorized traffic.

Almost directly to the east, the George Mason and Rochambeau Memorial
Bridges, and the Arlen D. Williams Memorial Bridge, had been shut down
on the Washington side. Directly north, approaches to the Arlington
Memorial Bridge had been blocked just past the Lincoln Memorial.

On the Arlington side, the web of north-south highways north of the
Pentagon, including the George Washington Memorial Highway and the
Jefferson Davis which ran directly beneath the Pentagon's River Entrance
Parade Grounds as if the grounds were an overpass-had been closed by
concrete traffic barriers guarded by Virginia state police. Traffic that
would normally travel the half-mile route between Washington and
Arlington along Interstate 395 now had to face a six mile detour that
forced it north to the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, and all the
way around Arlington National Cemetery until it could rejoin the
interstate a mile southwest of the Pentagon.

Underground, both Metrorail subway lines that served the area were being
allowed to keep running, but no trains would be allowed to stop at the
Pentagon Metro station until Monday morning. Aboveground, even Ronald
Reagan National Airport, less than a mile to the south along the
Potomac's shore, would be closed for the day.

For the next twenty-four hours, the only traffic allowed into the area
would be military, diplomatic, or news media.

As MSNBC was so fond of reporting, the security arrangements were
unprecedented.

But then, so was the event. And Hector Macgregor was going to witness it
from a front-row seat because the President felt he needed what modern
bizspeak called a contrarian--the fashionable label for a devil's
advocate whose job function was to argue the opposite opinion to an
organization's common wisdom and provide a change in perspective.

Hector, actually, preferred to see his job in more direct terms: He was
the President's designated link to the real world. Strangely, given that
D.C. housed the people's representatives, who were supposed to be in
touch with the country they served, the nation's capital had a decided
shortage of those links.

When Hector had begun working as an unpaid consultant to the President's
party, he'd been twenty-six and, incredible even to him, close to making
his first million as an Internet marketing consultant. He'd been
expecting that after establishing and selling his company, and traveling
around the world at least once, he'd move on to some other challenge in
advertising and marketing. In a way he'd been right. Hector had since
learned there really wasn't much difference between leading consumers to
prefer a particular brand of soup, or voters a particular candidate.

When it came to American elections, ninety-four percent of the winning
candidates were those who had spent the most on their campaigns.

Just turned twenty-eight, Hector now held the vague but multipurpose
title of Outreach Advisor to the Presidential Staff. His office address
was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue: a cubicle in the West Wing of the White
House to be precise, only thirty-seven steps from the Man himself. Late
one night, in the throes of adrenaline-induced insomnia during his
"first month in his new job, Hector had carefully paced out the distance
himself.

Naturally, the old-timers resented his office and his proximity to the
President, especially since the President's direct request had literally
airlifted Hector into a staff position without their prior knowledge.
But the last election had been tight, and Hector had delivered core
support among young voters. It didn't hurt, either, that his mixed-up
racial and cultural heritage made him the living model of the
President's election-year vision of a Brave New World for the Brave New
Century--America Without Boundaries. Or, as the media had come to
grandly call it, the Pax Americana. Thanks to his parents and
grandparents, Hector Macgregor could make almost equal claim on Samoan,
French, Japanese, and Bahamian ancestry.

So far, the President's handlers had been willing to let the Chief
Executive reward his lapdog, at least till next year's midterm
elections. By then, Hector knew, they expected his novelty to have worn
off and he could be safely and swiftly discarded. While he was still in
place, though, the party's election managers were courting him to find
out how he had used the Internet so successfully to identify, contact,
and woo young voters they'd written off as too apathetic to court.

Hector, however, wouldn't give up all his secrets. He had just as firmly
made up his mind to outlast the old guard, and even this President. Not
only had he discovered that he loved the work he did as a member of the
President's staff, he'd become addicted to the fantastic perks his
position had brought him.

Simply by having the President's ear, he'd already experienced,
firsthand, the almost visceral thrill of seeing the advice he gave, at
times, become policy, guiding some small part of the future of the
United States, and even, in rare cases, the world.

Of course, his miserable civil-service salary was no match for what he
might be earning in private industry, but he still had more than
$700,000 in the bank from the sale of his company. That nest egg had
given him a unique perspective from which to learn that success and
power could be measured in terms other than dollars.

An old girlfriend, who had somehow faded from his life when he'd been
swallowed up by the election, had left him a parting gift, super glued
to the middle of his home-computer monitor as it sat on the dining table
that dominated his cramped studio apartment in D. C."s Adams-Morgan
district. power ennobles, the unremovable sign had read.

absolute power ennobles absolutely.

Hector still had that outdated computer and it still sat on his dining
table. He'd kept its defaced monitor as a souvenir, not to remind him of
his old girlfriend--he had trouble even remembering what she had looked
like--but because as far as he was concerned, the aphorism was true.
Especially at times like this, when the President looked at him from
across the remarkably quiet and spacious, vibration-free passenger cabin
of the official Presidential helicopter, and said, "Well, Hec, here we
go."

With that, at the edge of nothingness, at the edge of the world, Hector
saw the Building resolve from the mist ahead, a glacier, intimidating
and inscrutable. And despite the generic nickname used by those who
worked inside it, Hector knew the Pentagon was more than any mere
building.

It was an icon, a concept recognized and understood by more than half
the world, though some nations obviously would choose to understand it
differently than others.

Even its name was the sum total of its address. The Pentagon Building.

No other name or designation was required.

As Marine One closed on its approach, the radiating bands and rings of
the Building's dark- and light-gray roofs became clearer, suggesting to
Hector nothing so much as a mechanistic spider's web.

Through his window, Hector watched as that pattern formed against the
canvas of mist making clear the Building's near-primitive simplicity:
five sides, five rings, five corners, a Platonic ideal made solid. But,
as he and nearly everyone else in the world knew, that simplicity backed
a statement of power that was direct and unequivocal, a fitting
description of the forces shaped within the fortresslike walls.

Hector could see that even the President was affected by the sight of
the Pentagon. Or, at the very least, by his contemplation of the events
that would take place there at eleven o'clock this morning. So it was
time for Hector to do his job as a contrarian. He held up a hand to the
large window beside him, easily blocking the entire Building. "It's
actually kind of small, don't you think?" he asked.

The President put down his carefully folded newspaper and placed a pen
on top of it. His dark blue eyes, as always, were riveting, and helped
distract attention from his rapidly receding hairline. Most Presidents
went white during their time in office. This President was growing
balder every month. He'd always been a serious guy, Hector thought, but
he'd begun to look almost goofy toward the end of his first year in
office. Fortunately, he had finally taken the advice of his image
consultants and abandoned his pathetic attempts to comb what hair he had
left over the growing expanse of his scalp. In the past year, the
President's dark-brown hair had been closely shorn at the sides and even
his detractors agreed he now had a more appropriate appearance.

The President brought the full weight of his inherent gravity to bear on
Hector now. "The Pentagon small? You be sure to tell General Flores
that."

For a moment, Hector worried that he'd been rebuked. He glanced at the
other passengers in the cabin. The stone-faced Secret Service agents and
other members of the President's traveling party gave him no clues, each
fixedly staring out the large passenger-compartment windows or reading
other sections of the Sunday Post.

But a second later, the President's stern expression gave way to a quick
wink and playful grin, and Hector realized he was safe. General Jaime
Alvarez Flores, United States Army, was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff. In this fiscal year, the last thing anyone in the White House
wanted to do was encourage the general in his ongoing battle for
increased defense funding. Especially since the Building was still in
the throes of a billion-dollar-plus renovation marked by unexpected
budgetary shortfalls.

The President was just letting Hector know that changes in perspective
worked both ways. So Hector filed the lesson away with the others he had
been accumulating. He was counting on them to serve him well during the
years he would spend in Washington, long after the President, and his
hidebound advisors, were gone.

Lesson learned, Hector took his hand away from the window.

In protective formation with four of its kind, Marine One roared across
the Potomac. It was on its final approach now.

From Hector's new perspective, the Pentagon expanded until it filled the
window, rushing at him like an avalanche.

HIGHWAY 50. MARYLAND The highway, the sky, the green hills around her,
everything was a blur to Midshipman Amy Bethune. She was aware only of
the sound and the speed of her motorcycle reverberating in her helmet,
and the knowledge that she was still in the game.

When she had raced back to her dorm room and found that the key to the
Harley was missing from her key ring, she hadn't wasted energy becoming
angry. Nor had she felt surprise. Her key's disappearance had merely
been further evidence that all the delays heaped upon her today were not
intended as minor inconveniences or pranks. This was war.

Which meant she was free to escalate the conflict as she saw fit. And
she was in a position to escalate.

First of all, the missing key wasn't even an issue. Three years at the

Naval Academy had taught her valuable lessons that were as applicable to
everyday life as they were to a Naval career.

One of those lessons was to anticipate possible future threats and take
measures to avert them now, when time was an ally, not when they became
real and time had become the enemy.

Thus, she had spare keys for her Harley. Her father's Harley, actually.
A Heritage Softail, his pride and joy, all chrome and glossy black
paint, nurtured since his adolescence, kept in storage during the
family's postings to Air Force bases overseas, disassembled every
winter, reassembled every spring during their tours Stateside. Their
homes had changed, but the Harley had remained a constant.

Some of Amy's earliest memories were of being with her father in a
garage, fascinated by her flowing reflection in the mirror finish of the
motorcycle's chromed parts. She had learned, almost by osmosis, the
power that lay in the precise way her father would arrange the parts,
this gasket here, that screw there, so that when picked up in order they
would magically transform themselves into the Harley.

As a child, she'd nestled securely in her father's arms, wearing a
helmet that was so big her laughter echoed in it, while she sat on the
Harley's fuel tank as her father drove the cycle oh so slowly down the
driveway, around the block, and back again.

As a teenager, she had found the calming satisfaction that came from
taking the Harley apart herself, cleaning and adjusting each piece, then
rebuilding it, the magic flowing through her this time, until the
transcendent moment when she would turn the key and it would live again.

And later, all the long nights as her father lay dying in their last
home, the small, wooden-frame house in Topeka, Kansas, the cancer taking
apart the ordered structure of his body, they would talk about the
Harley, how they'd fix it up again that winter, take it out again for
the first spring ride.

Amy had taken it out by herself that spring. But when the speed was
right and the motor roared and the world flashed by in a blur of
sensation, she had not felt alone.

The Harley was in her heart as much as her father had been--and still
was--and nothing as small and inconsequential as a missing key was ever
going to keep them apart.

Of the three spare keys she kept, the most accessible was the one hidden
in a rolled-up pair of bright orange socks in her bottom drawer--a color
she felt no other midshipmen would ever be tempted to "borrow."

Seeing that the first key had been taken off the ring that she kept in
her desk drawer, though, had served to focus her intentions. It was no
longer enough to merely catch up with 12th Company; she had to appear as
if it had not been a struggle. Thus, Amy had changed from her uniform
into jeans and Reeboks and a gray Navy sweatshirt, then carefully folded
her uniform and packed it with a fresh blouse in her sports bag. As a
Firstie, she had "civvies"--the right to wear civilian clothes when
leaving the Academy for authorized absences-and she knew no one would
question her outfit.

The picture she formed of her victory was inspiring: to be seen in a
perfectly presentable uniform, waiting to meet the bus at the Pentagon
as her company arrived. Then, as soon as the opportunity presented
itself, she would see to it that Annika Marsh ended up with something
colorful and greasy spilled on her own uniform.

Unfortunately, the more Amy analyzed that scenario, the more she
realized its central flaw. Without a vehicle pass, she would not be able
to gain entrance to the Pentagon on her own. According to the briefings
Lieutenant Roth had given the company, the only way any of the
midshipmen could get through the Pentagon's security today was by being
on the bus.

But another of the lessons the Academy taught was to be flexible. So Amy
set her dream of total victory aside. A simple victory would be enough.

She would have to go back to her original plan of catching up to the bus
and getting it to pull over so she could board.

As she twisted the throttle on the Harley and leaned into the long curve
heading toward the Anacostia River, Amy prepared herself for the
challenge ahead.

She could see the shining silver of the Academy bus about a mile farther
on, about to cross the bridge from Maryland to the District of Columbia.
The highway here cut through the green, pastoral parkland bordering the
Anacostia River. The rush of warm wind and the brilliance of the
cloudless blue sky were exhilarating.

Amy rehearsed exactly how she would make her move, pulling beside the
bus, waving to get the attention of the driver. Then she realized
another flaw. No one would be able to recognize her. She slowed for the
few seconds it took her to unfasten her black, full coverage helmet, tug
it off, and wedge it in front of her. Then, leaning forward to keep her
helmet in place, she began to accelerate again.

The Academy bus was half a mile ahead now. Amy squinted against the
force of the wind. She could feel grit in her eyes already. But her
heartbeat quickened in response to the chase, to the flat-out pursuit.

At some level, she did not deny that she was responding to the
excitement of the day. She twisted the throttle farther forward,
thrilling to the deep roar of the engine.

She glanced at the speedometer. She was at eighty miles an hour now,
flying. Without her helmet, it was as if the sound of the rushing air
went through her, became part of her.

And then the air filled with the wail of a siren.

Blue light sparkled and twirled in the bright disk of her handlebar
mirror.

Amy opened her mouth to swear but the wind stole her protestations.

The white-and-blue county police patrol car flashed its headlights and
drew closer behind her. She had no choice. She swung the Harley over to
the paved shoulder, wondering if anything was going to go right for her
today.

HIGHWAY 50. DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA A quarter-mile ahead of Amy, the Naval
Academy bus disappeared over the curve of the bridge, crossing the
Anacostia River into the District of Columbia. In the front passenger
seat, Ranger leaned forward, eyes on the slowing police car in the bus's
long side mirror until the road rose up to hide it.

The flashing blue lights had attracted more than his attention. Behind
him, two weapons specialists held ready the Heckler & Koch MP5
submachine guns that had been stowed under their seats. Ranger's team of
infiltrators would not risk taking these weapons through the Pentagon's
security checkpoints, but they were prepared should anything unexpected
occur on the way there.

Fortunately, the police car had been chasing a speeding motorcyclist,
not the bus. Additional, time-costing deaths would not be necessary.

At least until he and Team Two reached their destination.

Ranger turned up the volume on the radio he held to keep track of the
latest news bulletins. The police were still unaware who was responsible
for the Archives massacre. Ranger had expected no less of Team One.

He checked his watch. It was 0755 hours.

The President was scheduled to speak at 1100.

And that meant Team Two's next attack would begin in precisely two
hours, fifty minutes.

INTERSTATE 95, VIRGINIA The Suburban took forty-five minutes to complete
the northbound drive through Virginia on Interstate 95 to the point of
land on the Virginia shore of the Potomac where the Pentagon waited.

By the time Captain Dorsey made the turnoffs onto Highway 27, and then
Columbia Pike, on his approach to the Building through the checkpoints
set up just below the Navy Annex south of the Arlington Cemetery, the
WTOP lead news became even worse. Forty-eight people were now confirmed
dead, a twelve-person renovation crew assigned to work an evening shift
at the Archives was missing, and though it had not been officially
confirmed, the press was reporting that the Declaration of Independence,
the Bill of Rights, and the first and fourth pages of the Constitution
were missing. Speculation was rampant that the shocking event might have
some connection to the NATO ceremony for Russia at the Pentagon today,
though no one had any clear idea what that connection might be.

They're just objects--what about the people? Tom thought to himself as
the Suburban stopped at a Virginia State Police checkpoint and Dorsey
held up his ID. The words of the Charters were safe in millions of books
and computer files around the world. Realistically, the theft of the
physical documents would mean nothing.

A state trooper took only a quick glance at Dorsey's ID through the
captain's closed window before he waved the car on. So far, the security
arrangements for the NATO ceremony were less than impressive to Tom. Not
that his evaluation mattered one way or another, or that he really
cared, but MSNBC had reported they would be among the strictest ever
enforced during peacetime. The Pentagon and its soldiers could, however,
certainly defend the American commander in chief and others like him. It
was the civilians, like those at the Archives, who were defenseless
these days.

As the Suburban sped up again, Tom told Dorsey what he thought about the
theft of the Charters, that in his opinion the act amounted to nothing
more meaningful than a protester burning the American flag.

That it made no difference to the country if every historical document
were stolen, so long as its content was preserved. That once symbols
became more important than the ideals they represented, the ideals
became meaningless.

Being a soldier, Dorsey predictably did not appreciate Tom's lack of
outrage.

"It is a calculated insult," Dorsey insisted. "A deliberate attack on
the United States of America. There's no other reason for such an act."

"Sure there is," Tom countered. "They're historical documents.

They're worth a fortune."

But the captain's attention had transferred from Tom to their next
obstacle. The state trooper roadblock had only been a preliminary
screening area. Up ahead, Tom saw soldiers in combat gear waiting by a
twisting maze of concrete barricades that blocked Columbia Pike a half
mile from the Pentagon.

This time, Dorsey rolled down his window to speak to the soldier who
waved the vehicle to a stop. The Suburban had been directed into one of
five bays at the side of the road, each bay defined by four-foot-high,
white concrete barriers. Tom watched Dorsey remove a proxcard from his
jacket obviously, the captain's DIA badge wasn't enough to get past this
blockade. Then a tapping on his own window startled Tom.

He turned to see a second soldier motioning him to roll down his window.
Like the others at this station, the soldier wore BDUs a battle dress
uniform of splotched greens and browns, jungle camouflage.

Tom felt like asking him how much good a jungle pattern would do against
the gray asphalt of an interstate highway, but didn't.

The young soldier scrutinized him; then, as if concluding that Tom's
blunt-cut brown hair could only belong to a civilian, his attitude
became slightly less threatening. "Good morning, sir. What's the purpose
of your visit today?"

But Tom could feel his ACLU card burning a hole in his wallet. The
soldier, though polite, was carrying a rifle and blocking a public
roadway. Tom couldn't make it that easy for the guy. "I'm the
photocopier repair guy."

The soldier's less-threatening attitude vanished as quickly as it had
appeared. "Step out of the car, sir." Tom considered the soldier's
response proof of his long-held observation that military personnel had
no sense of humor.

Tom was reaching for the door handle, looking forward to the altercation
to come, when Dorsey suddenly leaned across him, holding up his badge
case to intercede. "Soldier that won't be necessary. I'm escorting my
passenger under the direct orders of Major General Vanovich."

Tom's soldier looked questioningly over to Dorsey's soldier on the other
side of the Suburban. Dorsey's soldier called out, "His prox is good."

But Tom's soldier wasn't letting the matter go. "No one gets in without
an authorized building pass cleared for today. Those are the direct
orders of the SECDEF."

Tom liked poker. He liked any game with cards, with numbers, with odds
and possibilities that followed the strict rules and probability curves
of chance.

Tom's soldier had raised him by invoking the Secretary of Defense. Tom
would see him and call. He dug into his jeans and pulled out his royal
flush--the security pass that an hour ago had been locked in the secure
storage unit in his bedroom.

The soldier had a card reader the size of a paperback book clipped to
his green web belt. Without expression, he pulled it up, turned it on,
held it out for Tom.

Tom touched his card to a metal square on the reader. Like Dorsey's
pass, Tom's was a proxcard--it didn't need to be run through a
magnetic-strip reader, the information encoded on its embedded smart
chip could be scanned just by being in close proximity to a reader.

Tom felt a justifiable sense of victory as he saw the soldier's
expression change in response to the information displayed on the
reader's small screen. The soldier stepped back from the car and for a
moment Tom wondered if the soldier was going to salute him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chase. I have--" "Orders," Tom said. "I've heard that
one before."

Once again, Tom saw his soldier look across the Suburban to Dorsey's
soldier. Dorsey's soldier was making hand signals to another pair of
soldiers at the end of the barricade maze, maybe one hundred feet away.

Two large armored vehicles were parked to either side there, also
painted in amoeba like patches of brown and green. Their surfaces were
flat, severely angled, cut by narrow window slits. There were no obvious
weapons on them, but each had a bulldozer blade beneath the forward cab.
Other soldiers stood in positions around the vehicles, all eyes intently
focused on the Suburban. From this distance the soldiers looked like
department-store mannequins. Identical haircuts, identical uniforms. Tom
felt as if he were entering a surreal world of life-size G.I. Joe action
figures.

Dorsey carefully thanked his soldier and slowly backed up from the bay
and into the beginning of the maze. Tom realized then that there had
been a third soldier by the Suburban, carrying something that looked
like a mine detector. Obviously, the vehicle had been checked for
explosives at the same time its occupants were being assessed. Maybe
MSNBC had been right, after all.

Dorsey drove slowly forward between the white concrete barricades as Tom
noted the pattern. They'd been laid out in a series of S-shaped curves
to prevent potential terrorists from smashing through them in a
fast-moving vehicle. At two points along the curve, there were turnoffs.
Soldiers at those intersections indicated which route Dorsey should
follow. Tom took a look back at the layout of the barricades and saw
that in both cases the other routes led to blind alleys. He had no doubt
that the soldiers they passed had practiced training their weapons on
those dead ends.

Captain Dorsey didn't seem interested in the security arrangements,
though. He was still upset about Tom's offhand reaction to the Charters'
theft.

"I can't agree with you, sir. The Charters can't be sold, so they have
no monetary value. What could a buyer do? Put them in a museum and
charge admission?" Dorsey punched the accelerator as the Suburban
cleared the last barrier, leaving the G.I. Joes and the armored
bulldozers behind.

"More likely cut them into half-inch squares, stick ' in Lucite, print
up some certificates of authenticity, and sell them on the Home Shopping
Network. That's the American way."

Tom enjoyed the way Dorsey clenched his jaw to keep his response to
himself. The Suburban proceeded without Dorsey's further comment, passed
a small guard booth, then clanged over a closed metal vehicle-barricade
flush with the road's surface. In the event of a security incident, the
security officer in the booth could cause a serrated metal plate to pop
out of the road with enough strength to rip the axles off a
tractor-trailer.

As soon as the vehicle was clear of the barricade, Dorsey picked up the
argument again. He'd had time to think of a calmer response.

"Forty-eight people are dead, sir. The people who are responsible must
be punished."

"Of course they should. That's why we have jails."

"They should be executed."

"Oh, so then we become killers, just like them. Who do we punish then?"

Dorsey's voice revealed his bewilderment. "Punishing murderers isn't the
same as killing innocent civilians."

"Killing innocent civilians. Isn't that what you guys call ' damage'?"

Tom saw Dorsey's hands tighten on the steering wheel. The Suburban
approached the entrance to the short tunnel running beneath Washington
Boulevard.

"Mr. Chase, one of the great things about this country is that we're all
entitled to our opinion." Dorsey gave Tom a look of profound
disapproval. "No matter how ignorant and misinformed it may be."

Tom returned the look pleasantly. "How about that. We finally agree on
something."

The shadow of the tunnel vanished in a blast of sunlight as the Suburban
emerged onto the Pentagon's grounds. But Tom's attention was not
directed toward the Building. The headquarters of America's armed forces
held no wonder or meaning for him. Instead, the first thing he noticed
was the massed formation of green-and-white helicopters hovering over
the southwest lawn.

Five of the gleaming behemoths held positions a hundred feet off the
ground, flattening the grass in sweeping spirals of hurricane-force
wind, making the trees against the Pentagon's southwest wall lean back
as if in fear.

As the combined thunder of the helicopters' engines and rotors made the
windows of the Suburban vibrate, Captain Dorsey drove past the helipad,
toward the vast South Parking Lot, which took up almost the same amount
of square footage as the Pentagon itself. Despite having room for more
than four thousand parked cars, the lot was almost empty this Sunday.

Only a handful of military vehicles occupied it, most of them squat
green HUMVEES, grouped near one end like a herd of robotic creatures
gathered around a water hole.

Tom looked back at the tableau behind them. One of the five hovering
helicopters carried the President, he knew. The other four, identical to
the fifth, were there as decoys, simply to draw fire. Given that fact,
how hard could it be for any potential assassin to realize that the
President's helicopter was the one in the middle, in the most protected
position?

In addition to having no sense of humor, Tom was becoming convinced the
standard-issue military mind had no imagination, either.

Which is probably just as well, Tom suddenly thought.

Imagination let loose in the Pentagon could cause a whole lot of
trouble.

FIVE THE PENTAGON

When Marine One's rotors had come to a full stop. The plainclothes
Secret Service agents already in position at the helipad's edge gave the
all-clear and one of the backup Marine pilots opened the forward hatch
from the inside and deployed the fold-down passenger stairs.

From his position behind the President at the hatch, Hector Mac Gregor
recognized the three people who had come to greet their commander in
chief--being six inches taller than the six-foot-tall Chief Executive
had its advantages. Two of the welcoming party were military: General
Jaime Alvarez Flores, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and his
chief aide, Major Elena Christou, a reserved, athletic looking woman
somewhere in her early forties, Hector guessed.

Both officers wore crisp blue uniforms. The intricate braid on the visor
of Flores's cap and on his jacket sleeves shone in the bright sunlight
as if it were real gold. Major Christou's uniform made a not so-subtle
political statement because she was wearing trousers. Until last year,
the Army had remained its usual two to three decades behind the rest of
the country and had permitted women to wear trousers only as part of
their least formal service uniforms. But General Flores had pushed
through the final regulation changes that brought complete parity to
male and female soldiers in everything except ground combat duty. Since
the general's interest in equality of the sexes had come to him late in
his career, it was widely assumed that his change in posture was one of
several steps he was undertaking in preparation for his own run at the
Presidency in one or two elections. Certainly, the political realities
of America in this new century were easing the electorate toward the
idea of a Hispanic president more swiftly than toward any other
minority. For that reason alone, Hector wanted to get along with the
general. Perhaps they'd be working together someday.

The third person waiting at the foot of Marine One's folding metal
stairs was Nicholas Guilbert, technically a civilian. He wore a subdued,
dark-blue pinstripe suit, a solid dark-blue tie, and a shirt almost
painfully white against his deep black skin. But his rigid bearing and
focused attitude made that suit as much a uniform as anything Flores and
Christou wore. The President had done well to choose a Secretary of
Defense who made other soldiers feel comfortable in his presence.

As the President stepped from the hatch, General Flores and Major
Christou saluted with machine precision. Flores was the first to speak.
"Good morning, Mr. President." He had to shout because of the thunder
from the other four VH-3Ds that were holding their positions about fifty
feet above the ground now, ringing the helipad. The combined wind from
their enormous rotors made everyone's clothes flap, and kept the air
full of dust and grass clippings.

Despite the noise and the wind, though, the President returned the
salutes without the awkwardness Hector had noted during the Man's first
few months in office. The President had turned eighteen after the draft
had ended, and had not served in the military. Upon his election, he had
not been comfortable with the military honors suddenly due him. In
private, he constantly worried that the military leaders he met would
feel he was an impostor. During one early staff meeting, Secretary of
Defense Guilbert had helpfully pointed out that even if one of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff felt the President was a horse's ass, the 88th Article
of the Uniform Code of Military Justice meant the officer could be
subject to court-martial for saying so. The President's concerns had not
been eased by this protection, but he had worked at increasing his
rapport with the military. So far, his strategy seemed to be effective,
evident by the way General Flores leaned close to speak to the
President, as if to a friend. "I still don't consider this the proper
way to welcome the commander in chief.

Even an honor guard would--"

Hector saw the President stop the general by putting an equally friendly
hand on his upper arm and shaking his hand. "Al," he heard the President
shout, "this is going to be one heck of a day. The fewer distractions,
the better." Once again, Hector marveled that in private, the President
treated everyone the same way he did in public.

He also doubted any Chief Executive had used the word "heck" for at
least fifty years.

"Do I have a choice?" the general asked.

To Hector, the President's smile was clearly his answer. Then the
President reached out to shake hands with the general's aide. "Major
Christou, good to see you again."

Hector watched how the major responded to the President. She was still
at attention, and looking flushed, as if she were delighted he could
remember her name from their last meeting almost two months ago.

Hector decided that she had forgotten her uniform included a name badge.

Two plainclothes Secret Service agents now moved into position in front
of the President. One was Mike Zibart, a former Army Ranger and head of
today's Presidential protection detail. At his side was Jerry Harrap,
another top agent who had transferred to the Treasury Department from
the FBI. Both men had the lean, intent look Hector had come to associate
with front line soldiers.

The two agents led the way along the path that ran from the south edge
of the helipad, past the facility's newly constructed support buildings.
The farther building to the north, dwarfed by the Pentagon behind it,
was a low, beige-painted structure with a few small windows and a
compact yellow fire truck and a white ambulance parked inside its open
garage. The closer building was a miniature aircraft control tower.
Though the tower was only two stories tall, its top floor was ringed by
large, outward-slanting windows. Hector could see the tower personnel
inside, headphones on, standing at those windows to catch a glimpse of
the President as he walked by. With the President safely on the ground,
the other VH-3Ds that had arrived in formation with Marine One had
climbed back into the sky for the thirty-mile trip back to Quantico
Marine Air Station, home base for HMX-1. As always, two other VH-3Ds
would remain on standby at the Anacostia Naval Air Station, two miles
across the Potomac.

Behind the President, another plainclothes Secret Service agent joined
their formation, accompanied by Air Force Major Ron Fielding, dressed
today in a standard uniform that made him appear as just another of the
President's military aides. Hector still didn't know all the Secret
Service agents who rotated in and out of White House duty for major
operations like today's, but he knew Fielding as a low-key, unassuming
fellow who was one of six officers to fill his particular position in
the White House Military Office on a round-the-clock basis. Major
Fielding carried the slim, black, hard-sided briefcase known as the
"football"--a holdover from the worst days of the last century when it
was considered necessary for the President to have instant access to the
codes and communications equipment that could authorize the use of the
country's nuclear weapons.

Fielding's briefcase, the latest in an ongoing string of upgrades and
redesigned replacements, was currently known as the Command Authority
Terminal, though the ability to authorize the use of nuclear weapons did
not strictly rest with the President alone. Following a series of
Presidential directives, the first originating with Eisenhower in 1957,
pre delegation launch authority could actually be assumed by more than
twenty other individuals in the chain of command, including the
Secretary of Defense, nuclear submarine commanders, and even Army and
Air Force commanders in the field who believed they faced a nuclear
threat.

The CAT carried by the major today was the scaled-down version typically
used within the continental United States when access to secure
communications was not an issue. Inside, Hector knew, was an always-on,
dedicated, encrypted video conference link to the MIL STAR satellite
network and from there to the geographically distributed nodes of the
National Command Authority. Though the CAT was intended to give the
President instant communication capability in the event of any form of
critical national emergency, the case also held a set of envelopes, each
contained within brittle, clear-plastic shells. Those envelopes were
still replaced every day, and held cards with letter-code sequences
matching those in identical envelopes kept in safes in missile silos,
Air Force bomber bases, and submarines around the world. When necessary,
the codes would be used to authenticate the President's command to
prepare nuclear weapons for use.

The last time the CAT had been opened in front of a President, for any
reason other than a drill, had been in January 1995, when Russia's
deteriorating early-warning system had responded to the launch of a
Norwegian science rocket as if it were the forerunner of an American
first strike. Then Russian President Boris Yeltsin, in consultation with
his Defense Minister and his Chief of General Staff, had come within
eight minutes of ordering a retaliatory strike.

The National Security Agency's satellites and covert, ground-based
listening stations had long been able to conduct real-time intercepts of
all secure transmissions throughout Russia's Kavkus nuclear command
and-control communications network. Consequently, the NSA detected the
change in Russia's nuclear alert status at once, and recommended an
immediate and matching escalation of preparedness for American forces.

Only the absence of any significant political tension between the two
countries had led the Russians to delay their decision long enough to
confirm that the Norwegian rocket was following a trajectory that did
not threaten Russian assets. When the Russian forces stood down from
alert, another innocuous Air Force major had closed the President's CAT
and resumed his role as a gray man, always in the shadows, but always
present.

Behind Major Fielding and the third Secret Service agent, Marine One's
hatch remained open, its forward metal stairway flanked by two of its
four-man Marine crew, standing at ease, wearing sidearms. Today, the two
primary pilots would be staying in their seats, keeping the helo on
standby for immediate takeoff should the President's safety require it.

It was precisely this electric atmosphere of expectancy surrounding the
President that Hector Macgregor found so intoxicating, the sense that at
any moment something of historical import might occur, despite the fact
that the function of the Secret Service was to ensure that the
President's life would never get that exciting, and the function of the
U.S. military was to ensure that the nuclear football would never need
to be used.

As the Presidential party walked on, Hector could see Agent Zibart
speaking into the small microphone pinned under his collar. Beside him,
Agent Harrap was scanning the Pentagon's roofline, five stories
overhead, where another figure in a gray suit and aviator sunglasses
stood with two riflemen in black fatigues.

The three figures on the Pentagon's roof were looking in every direction
except the President's, though Hector was hard-pressed to think where a
potential attack might come from out here. Flat green lawn spread out in
all directions. Hector savored the strong, bright smell of sun-warmed,
freshly cut grass that was quickly overpowering the hot, gassy fumes of
the departing helicopters.

He was only able to see, rising here and there across the lawn, a
handful of trees, most growing alongside the Building itself, and all
had branches too high and thin to provide useful ground cover an
intentional landscaping choice, he decided. Beyond the helipad, almost
parallel to the Pentagon's northwest face, ran a narrow, paved jogging
path, then eight lanes of Highway 27, all shut down and empty of
traffic. The only place where Hector could envisage a potential attacker
concealing himself within half a mile of the Pentagon's northwest wall
was in the underpass serving the interchange between Highways 27 and
244, and the remarkably twisted braiding of overpasses and tunnels
connecting to Interstate 395, the whole mess affectionately known
locally as the

"Mixing Bowl."

Clearly, the long-established security of the Pentagon was one of the
key reasons it had been selected to host the NATO ceremony.

As Agents Zibart and Harrap reached the pathway at the Pentagon's wall,
they turned right, to the south, heading for one of the Building's minor
entrances halfway between the helipad and the corner. As much as Hector
wanted to keep up with the President, General Flores, and Secretary
Guilbert, to listen in on their conversation, sometimes it was best not
to look too eager. Carrying the President's small, brown leather
briefcase at his side, he held back to walk with Major Christou.

"So, Major, how's it going?"

Christou's glance at him was noncommittal. "As planned."

Hector thought he understood the reason for her reaction to him. "Is
everyone feeling that way?"

"What way?"

"Like you're about to have a going-out-of-business sale?"

Up six stone steps and past the utilitarian, square columns framing the
entrance, two Army sergeants in green uniforms saluted as the twin glass
doors leading into the Pentagon automatically opened. The Secret Service
agents stepped to either side of the doors, allowing the President, the
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Secretary of Defense to
continue without them. Once inside the Building, the President was
presumed to be in a controlled environment, as secure as if he were in
the White House. Hector knew other Secret Service personnel were
stationed inside, but they were there primarily for logistical support
during the NATO induction ceremony and luncheon.

Two paces from the steps leading up to the entrance, Hector suddenly
froze as a deep pulsating roar engulfed him. He looked up in time to see
an enormous black helicopter thunder overhead, definitely not part of
the Presidential formation.

"I thought airspace was closed," he said.

"That's a Pave Low III."

Hector looked at her, waiting.

"One of ours, sir. An MH-53J."

He nodded, but they both knew he didn't speak the language.

"Air Force Special Ops. It's a rescue helicopter. Two teams will be in
the air at all times today. Two more on standby."

"Are you actually expecting trouble?"

"It's our job."

THE PENTAGON. SOUTH ROTARY ROAD The Suburban followed the entrance road
to the right, merging onto the South Rotary Road that continued along
the edge of the sprawling South Parking Lot. Dorsey's determined silence
forced Tom to contemplate the Pentagon as it rolled past to the north.

From ground level, at a distance, there was nothing too remarkable about
the Building. It was a long, low, exceptionally bland structure.

The south facade was less imposing to Tom than the other four exterior
walls, even though, like the others, it was almost a thousand feet long.
The recent round of renovations had added twin, two-story entrance
structures that divided the wall into thirds. They awkwardly reached
into the South Parking Lot like land bound piers.

Someone with a completely different outlook on the Pentagon had once
told Tom that the Building's architectural style was

"Stripped Classicism." But all Tom saw was its heritage of bleak wartime
austerity. The Pentagon had been built during World War II and, as far
as Tom was concerned, the practices and beliefs of most of its
inhabitants still belonged in that long-ago era.

The Suburban turned left, taking a roadway that cut through the South
Parking Lot, then along the Building's southeastern side. This view of
the Pentagon had always reminded Tom of a bus terminal with its indented
parking spaces for at least twenty buses in the stretched-out, open-air
Metro station. Most of the bus stands were empty today. But four at the
end were taken up by large green army buses marked with prominent red
crosses in white circles. Army medical personnel moved among them,
including the first uniformed women Tom had seen today. He looked away.

Beyond the bus terminal, on Dorsey's side, Tom noticed a few changes
since his last trip to the Building. The segment-by-segment renovation
project, under way since 1994, was apparently nearing its end.

Construction hoarding and a ten-foot, chain-link fence masked by green
plastic sheets now surrounded the Pentagon's far corner, incompletely
hiding large waste bins and temporary disposal chutes. This latest
segment to be rebuilt had little to do with the defense of the free
world, and everything to do with free commerce.

The Pentagon's contract construction crews were renovating the
Building's shopping mall.

Years ago, Tom's first visit to the original Concourse had been when
he'd realized how much a part an accepted part the business of war had
become in American life. The Pentagon mall with its florist shop,
bookstore, barber shop, and souvenir stores housed in the same structure
that held the Department of Defense was, in fact, a telling example of
how Americans currently regarded their country's military actions in
far-off locales: as a weekend's entertainment with smart bombs and
sanitized military briefings on C-SPAN.

Commerce and death, Tom thought. An inspiring combination.

The Suburban exited the South Parking Lot, coming up on the Pentagon's
northeast side the only one that could be thought of as being the
Building's main entrance. It was called the River Entrance because it
faced the Potomac. Technically, though, the body of water directly in
front of it was the Boundary Channel and Lagoon that separated the
Building from the river. VIPs most often entered the Building here
because it was the entrance closest to the offices of the Secretary of
Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as well as the National Military
Command Center.

Directly in front of the main steps of the River Entrance was a small,
ultra-V. I.P parking lot. Beyond it stretched a grassy, flat parade
ground, the favored site in the past for elaborate military ceremonies.

Tom wondered just when it had occurred to Pentagon security that a major
six-lane highway ran directly beneath those parade grounds, offering a
perfect parking spot for a devastating truck bomb. In the past few
years, at least, most official ceremonies were being held in the
Pentagon's much more defensible interior courtyard, located in the very
center of its five rings.

The Pentagon, Tom noted, obviously considered the press to be more
expendable. He could see that the parade grounds today were cluttered
with temporary stands erected by the dozens of broadcast news
organizations from around the world that would report on today's
historic ceremony.

Dorsey drove past the small, River annex parking lot that was down one
level from the elevated River Mall. This short access road, too, was
similarly packed with power-generator trucks and vans sprouting antennae
of all configurations, from the small clipped disks of microwave links,
to the tall, twisted helixes of short-range radio, and the large bowls
of direct satellite uplinks.

As the Suburban drove toward the entrance to the underground parking
structure and the Tricare health facility beneath the upper level ramp,
Tom risked a joke. "Sneaking me in through the back door?" The entrance
was guarded by two Marines in dress blue uniforms. A temporary sign on
the wall beside the entrance said official VEHICLES.

Dorsey didn't respond as he turned the Suburban to the right, then
headed into a temporary parking space labeled on the wall as DIA2 in
freshly painted yellow letters. He shut off the Suburban, pulled out the
keys, took off his sunglasses, and then sat quietly for a moment, as if
gathering his thoughts. Tom waited in the muffled silence. He could
guess what was coming.

It did.

"Why the hell do you work for us?"

"Why do you?"

Dorsey didn't hesitate. "To do my duty for my country."

"Me, too. But here's the difference. You've been programmed to say that.
I haven't."

Tom had no doubt that if Dorsey had not been on duty, if this
conversation had been held after hours in a bar, he would be flat on his
back right now with the imprint of Dorsey's fist on his jaw.

But they were in the Pentagon.

The captain closed his door a touch too forcefully as he got out of the
car. Closing his own door gently, Tom paused in surprise at the
near-suffocating physical grip of the outdoor heat and humidity. It felt
like the worst day in August.

As Dorsey strode ahead of Tom toward the two Marines guarding the garage
entrance, a large silver-and-blue bus suddenly appeared and swerved
directly into the captain's path. Reacting instantly, with a parent's
reflexes, Tom held Dorsey back as the bus squealed to a stop in front of
them. He caught the flash of consternation Dorsey was unable to hide. He
clearly didn't want to be beholden to Tom for anything.

The silver bus was decorated with a narrow band of dark blue, and a
discreet line of type identifying it as belonging to the United States
Naval Academy. Inside, Tom could see young white-uniformed men and a few
women standing up, filing off in regimented silence, photo security
passes conspicuously hanging around their necks.

Tom started around the bus, but Dorsey gestured to him to wait for the
line to pass.

A blond naval officer, carrying a scuffed, black-leather attache case,
stood by the door like a teacher counting students. Tom found himself
staring at the officer's uniform. He wasn't expert at identifying
military markings, but he recognized the twin stripes on the man's
shoulder board. The blond officer was a lieutenant.

Then as if the lieutenant sensed Tom's scrutiny, he turned his head
suddenly and met Tom's gaze directly. For a moment, his pale eyes
narrowed and the set of his mouth subtly altered, almost as if he
recognized Tom.

Unsettled, Tom stared back, trying to recall if he'd ever met the man.

But then the officer's face shifted back to blank indifference. He
nodded at Tom, then at Dorsey, as if thanking them for their decision to
wait.

Dorsey nodded in return.

Tom did his bit to promote world peace. He flashed a V-sign and said
cheerily, "Go Navy, beat Army."

The officer hesitated for an instant, puzzled, but then quickly moved
off after his charges through the limousine entrance, the scuffed
attache case swinging at his side.

Dorsey's hand on his arm prevented Tom from following. The captain's
face was tight with anger.

"Mr. Chase, some advice. You are no longer in your own territory.

You are in ours. You are entitled to your own opinions about the
military, but in here, I'd keep them to myself."

Of all the possible replies Tom could have given the livid captain, by
force of habit, he chose the worst possible one.

"Don't hold your breath."

Then Tom stepped into the Pentagon.

Directly behind Team Two and Ranger.

SIX NORTH AMERICAN LIGHTNING DETECTION NETWORK. TUCSON. ARIZONA

One half hour before his shift was finished, Stan Drewniak took a big
gulp from the last can of his evening six-pack of Jolt Cola, and
realized everything he had just typed in his report for Dr. Helen
Shapiro was invalid.

His data set was not large enough to justify the conclusion he had
reached. In layman's terms, he had not covered all his bets.

Of the 972 operational satellites in orbit of Earth, fully one-third of
them were military. Yet he had only tracked the orbits of civilian
satellites in identifying what he now called "Grinch Gaps"--those
irregular times when large areas of the Pacific were not under direct
visual observation by satellites capable of detecting a large, lightning
like discharge.

But what about the orbits of military satellites?

In a caffeine-and-sugar-induced flash of insight, several new
possibilities suddenly presented themselves to him, and he twitched his
toes so that the sole of his sandal tapped against his heel more or less
in time to the opening theme from Buckaroo Banzai.

One possibility was that he would discover that at the time of the
civilian Grinch Gaps there was no military coverage over the same
section of the Pacific. That would strongly imply that whoever was
responsible for the enormous electromagnetic pulse spotted by the North
American Lightning Detection Network was not associated with the United
States. Stan was still leaning toward the French. The United States had
tens of thousands of square miles of remote desert in which to test new
military equipment. The French didn't. So they had to wreak destruction
on other people's real estate.

The other possibility, Stan knew, was that he would discover that U.S.
military surveillance satellites were, in fact, in position to cover the
area missed by civilian satellites. That would imply that the Grinch
events were being staged by the U.S. military and timed to avoid public
notice. Stan was certain that would be the possibility his paranoid
manager would consider more likely.

Stan saved his incomplete report, then accessed the GAI satellite
listings. Because the NALDN was dependent on commercial communications
satellites to maintain its sensor system, Global Atmospherics kept on
file complete ephemeris tables for almost every other satellite known to
be in orbit. Occasionally, especially during periods of intense solar
winds, some satellite signals could interfere with others. At those
times, it was necessary for the company to quickly determine if a
communications problem in its network was the result of its own
hardware, or someone else's. One of the first troubleshooting methods
used during a communications slipup was to see if satellite interference
could be possible. As he selected U.S. surveillance satellites from the
list of 274 military space platforms presented by his computer, Stan
understood that he might not find anything useful.

It was definitely probable that the Pentagon had many more satellites on
orbit than GAI would be aware of. But the orbits of the military's
largest platforms were laughably easy to determine from publicly
announced launch dates, government publications, and actual eyeball
sightings In particular, he knew, visible-light astronomers around the
world kept careful note of satellite positions in order to avoid having
a satellite trail mar a long photographic exposure of the stars.

For his first attempt at determining what U.S. military assets might
have been in position over the Pacific for the first Grinch event, Stan
skipped over anything he knew to be a military communication satellite
or related to the Global Positioning System. He clicked his mouse to
select only surveillance satellites which observed the Earth in visible
light. Since the Grinch event on December 24th had taken place in
daytime, and in an area where weather photos had shown almost no clouds,
Stan also ignored those satellites that observed the Earth at infrared
and radar frequencies. At this stage, all he wanted to know was if the
Pentagon had anything up there that could snap a picture of the Grinch.

After scrolling through the entire list, he ended up selecting eight
military satellites. Publicly, most were known as the Keyhole series.

But since that code name dated from the 1960s, he was certain the
Pentagon had other names for them by now.

Since eight seemed like a low number, Stan went back through the list
and selected three National Security Agency satellites in the Trumpet
series that would normally be used to intercept microwave radio
transmissions and cellular phone conversations. With that level of
sensitivity, they would be able to detect the Grinch event from
thousands of miles away, though they wouldn't be able to image it.

His satellites selected, Stan instructed his computer to trace their
orbits over the Pacific on December 24th of last year. The grid map of
the world appeared, and at once eleven colorful sine waves began to
weave across his screen. And by the point at which the time code read
5:17 p.m. Mountain time, it looked to Stan as if five of those
satellites had collided directly over the area he'd identified as the
most probable location of the Grinch event.

Stan hummed softly to himself as he had the computer put the orbital
tracking on pause. "So much for the French." Whatever had caused the
Grinch event, it had done so when no civilian satellite was nearby, but
when three of the U.S. military's visible-light and two of its
radio-frequency surveillance satellites were almost directly overhead.

Much as he hated to admit it, Shapiro might be right. The Pentagon
appeared to be connected to the Grinch.

Stan tapped the keys that would save the orbital tracks as a graphic
file he could print out, then hesitated as he realized he was about to
make another mistake.

One of the worst things a scientist could do when he found the results
he had hoped for was to stop looking. How did he know that those five
satellites didn't achieve the same orbital positions over the Pacific on
a regular timetable? It could be a coincidence that they were in orbital
alignment when the Grinch event occurred. What about during the two
other events?

"What's the pattern?" he muttered to himself. He still had to establish
one. He knew Shapiro wouldn't be interested in anything he had to say
until he did.

There were only ten minutes left in his shift. Stan looked over to the
main event display where he could see his relief, Teej Cluet, schmoozing
with one of the system operators. Since Stan was working with his
manager's blessing for a change, he decided he shouldn't have any
difficulty staying a few minutes later at his desk. Teej could keep an
eye on things from one of the terminals that wasn't being used this
Sunday morning.

Totally committed now to finishing the report before he left, Stan took
the orbital traces off pause. He watched as all eleven sine waves began
slowly crossing the map of the world, some diverging, some closing, but
all relationships between them apparently random. He waited to see how
many orbits it would take for four or five of them to come together as
they had over the Grinch.

The time code rolled over to December 25. The satellites were scattered
across the globe. He typed in a command to speed up the screen drawing
program. It was time to test his formal prediction that the next time
the satellites would cluster together over the Pacific wouldn't be until
February 15 of this year, when the Grinch had made its second
appearance.

The time code rolled over to December 26. The Pentagon's surveillance
satellites showed no sign of converging at all. Their orbits continued
to spread apart like oil drops on water. Stan decided to speed the
process even more.

But even as he moved his hand to press the F10 acceleration key, he
changed his mind.

He pressed F5 to stop the traces.

Then he ran them backward to midnight, December 25, and started them
forward again, slowly, this time, paying close attention to the orbital
paths followed by the Pentagon's visible-light surveillance satellites.

Stan sat back with a smile. He took another sip of Jolt Cola.

By midnight, December 26, not one of the military satellites had been in
position to capture the dramatic shot of the cruise missile that had
destroyed the USS Shilo.

He had found the Pentagon's lie.

Thirty minutes later, Stan was in Shapiro's office, thrumming from equal
parts caffeine and excitement as he watched her scan through the
material he had brought her. At the top of the pile was a copy of the
satellite photo that had been the key exhibit at the Shilo hearings.

He had down loaded it from the USA Today Website.

The photo was in black-and-white, and had been taken from almost
directly overhead, though from an altitude of several hundred miles.

The Navy had said the surveillance satellite was taking part in the same
training exercise as the Shilo, an exercise intended to help military
photo analysts identify different weapons systems in use.

In the upper right-hand corner of the image, the Shilo was a knife
sharp, narrow streak of light gray. The shadow the vessel cast across
the mottled surface of the ocean was solid black. In the lower left hand
corner was an even shorter streak of white, the cruise missile's
exhaust. The streak was enclosed by a white circle, and an even more
extreme blowup of that section of the photo was inset beside the circled
area. The enhanced blowup showed the blocky silhouette of a missile with
stubby wings toward the back. The edges of it were jagged, like a
low-resolution computer graphic. Offset from the missile itself was a
matching shadow on the ocean. At the hearings, the Pentagon's photo
analysts had testified that six seconds after this image had been
recorded, the cruise missile had struck the Shilo amidships. The
resulting explosion had detonated the Shilo's own missile warheads. She
had sunk in less than a minute, with no survivors.

Stan watched as Shapiro briefly glanced at the photo, then skimmed
through his five-page report and accompanying printouts of orbital
traces. Fighting the irrational urge to blurt out his own conclusions,
Stan looked out through the half-glass wall into the main work area.

Teej was at the shift manager's desk now. Only four other programmers
were at their stations. On the main event screen, thunderstorm activity
across North America looked light.

Stan sneaked a quick glance at his manager, but she was still flipping
through the pages. He switched his attention to the framed print on the
wall behind her, some improbably photo realistic painting of a Hopi
Indian on a mountaintop, arms raised to gathering storm clouds arranged
in the shape of a soaring eagle and laced by glowing strands of
lightning. Beside it was a much smaller framed photo of a flight crew in
orange jumpsuits, cradling white helmets, as they stood in front of a
silver aircraft with a large NASA logo on the side. Stan recognized
Shapiro as one of the two women in the photo. The plane was the
Lightning Chaser. It was how she spent her summer vacations.

He looked away from the photo and the print to find Shapiro studying
him, idly twisting one of the sterling-silver tips of her bolo tie
around one lean finger.

"The Grinch sank the Shilo," she said. She made her pronouncement sound
like a statement, but Stan knew it was a question.

So he answered it. "The photo of the cruise missile couldn't have been
taken on December 26th when the Navy says the ship was sunk because
there were no surveillance satellites overhead. "

"None that you know of," his manager corrected.

Stan shook his head. He'd found the pattern. She'd almost pointed him to
it. "But, there were at least three visible-light surveillance
satellites over the Grinch site on the 24th that could have taken that
picture. If we get someone in here who knows how to calculate angles and
shadows, he could probably tell us which of those three satellites took
the shot, and exactly when it was taken."

Shapiro uncoiled a few inches of bolo string from her finger. "And why
would we want to do that, Stan?"

Stan had the disconcerting sensation that he had just dropped into a
completely different conversation. "Uh, because this is a cover-up," he
said.

"And ... ?"

"And four hundred people died."

"That wasn't covered up. They held hearings."

"Say what?" Shapiro continued before Stan could think of any better way
to express his confusion. "Stan, all you've got here--no, all you might
have here, is evidence suggesting the Navy changed the time of the Shilo
accident by about forty-eight hours, and changed the location by about a
thousand miles. I can imagine all sorts of legitimate security reasons
to explain why those measures were necessary."

"But what about the Grinch?"

Shapiro's elegantly shaped fingernail tapped the photo. "If your
analysis is correct, it's right here. You found it.

Congratulations."

Stan gave his head a shake. It was almost as if Shapiro was being
deliberately obtuse. He spoke slowly, in an effort to make her
understand. "No, Doctor. That missile's nowhere near big enough to hold
an explosive that could generate the electromagnetic pulse we detected."

Shapiro shrugged as she shuffled the pages of his report together.

"Then I don't know what you're trying to tell me. Is this the Grinch
event or isn't it?"

"No. The Grinch is what sank the Shilo. Not that cruise missile.

This picture was taken just before it happened." "You just told me you
couldn't be sure exactly when this picture was taken."

"Not to the exact second. But since the Shilo's there and undamaged,
the photo had to have been taken before the ship ... blew up or
whatever."

Shapiro placed his report in the center of her green desk blotter.

Stan felt some slight relief as he realized she wasn't going to give it
back to him. That had to mean that she was at least going to pass it on
to Dr. Green, the NALDN operations manager. "To tell the truth, Stan, I
don't think you've thought this through very well."

"What?"

Shapiro tapped the report. "There's absolutely nothing in here that
tells us what the Grinch is. And that was the entire rationale for the
assignment I gave you, wasn't it?"

Feeling dizzy, Stan sat down in one of the two hard-backed wooden chairs
facing the desk in Shapiro's office. "But I was right the first time.
The Grinch is a military system. I think it was on the Shilo. I think
when that cruise missile was launched at the Shilo, the Shilo was
supposed to use some new electromagnetic-pulse generator to knock out
the missile's electronics. And instead, it blew up the ship."

"Stan." The cloud physicist walked around her desk, pulled up the second
chair, and sat down beside him. "I can tell you're getting upset, but
you don't have to be. Even if everything you say is true, what do you
want the company to do about it? If the Navy was testing a new defensive
system and it didn't work, don't you think it's a good idea to keep
those results secret? I mean, we still do have enemies in the world. Why
would GAI want to do anything that would let our country's enemies know
we have a weakness?" "Dr. Shapiro, about four hours ago, you told me
that the military lies. This is a lie."

"And what good comes of exposing it? I mean, if the Navy had said that
four hundred men hadn't died, if they were covering up something hideous
like that, well, then, okay, you'd have a point. But they're not
covering that up."

"They used this thing two ... more ... times," Stan said. Even to
himself, his voice sounded as if he were pleading. "February 15th.

April 28th. Both times, Dr. Shapiro, there was no civilian satellite
coverage, but lots of military coverage. The orbital traces are right
there."

"And are any other ships missing?"

"Not ... that I know of."

"Then what's your point?" "You're the one who asked me to write this
report."

"Because GAI is in the business of detecting, analyzing, and reporting
electromagnetic phenomena. When I asked you to bring me your research, I
expected that's what would be in it. Not some diatribe against the Navy
for understandably keeping classified information classified."

Stan felt shell-shocked. "It's not a diatribe. All that I'm saying ..

. I mean, what's so obvious ..." But his mind was becoming jumbled.

In his frustration at not being understood, he couldn't find the words
he wanted to say.

"I think you should call it a day." Shapiro stood up. "Go home and
sleep. We'll talk about this again tomorrow."

"What about Dr. Green?"

"I can't show him this. We'll talk. Maybe we'll find a way to present
your material in a more ... coherent way."

Shapiro was moving to the door. Stan knew he was being herded out.

"But it is coherent," he insisted. "The Navy was running a test of
something new. Something that wasn't supposed to hurt anyone."

"You have no evidence to support that." ,^ "Yes, I do. If they were
testing something that was supposed to blow up, Dr. Shapiro, they would
have done it in New Mexico. They would have used it on an unmanned
barge. But they wouldn't have used it against a ship full of sailors."

Shapiro put her hand on the doorknob. "They had hearings. The Navy
admitted its mistakes."

Impulsively, Stan put his hand on the door to keep her from opening it.

"Maybe we don't know what the Grinch is," he said. "But I say the Navy
doesn't know, either. I say they built something to do something ..."

Stan felt his exhaustion overwhelming his vocabulary again. "... but ...
it did something else they weren't ready for. It blew that ship out of
the water. It set off every detector we have on the West Coast.

And they're so scared shitless about it, they lied about where and when
the Shilo went down because they don't want anyone to know that they've
developed a weapon that's out of control!"

Stan's manager just stared at him until he remembered to take his hand
from her door.

"Well, I'll say this much, Stan, a scientist needs a good imagination,
and you have a beaut. Go home, and don't you dare talk about this with
anyone. This company is not in the business of spreading unfounded
rumors about a potential client."

Stan felt too rattled to say anything else. Shapiro held open the door
to her office. As he walked out, chest tight, face flushed, Stan felt
like a first-grader who'd just been lectured by the principal.

Starting back across the main work area, he stopped, finally realizing
what he should have said. He should have told Shapiro that it was
obvious the Navy didn't know exactly what it was testing because they
ran the test when visible-light surveillance satellites were overhead.

And why would anyone need visible-light photos of an electromagnetic
weapon, unless the people involved had no idea what was going to happen?

He paused beneath the main event display, fully intending to go back to
Shapiro's office. But his manager's door was closed again, and he could
see through the observation windows that she was on the phone. No sense
in getting in trouble with her twice in the same day, he decided.

He turned back to the exit door, and left the building, barely noticing
in his self-absorbed state the 120-degree heat that enveloped him the
instant he stepped outside.

But all through his drive home in his open-air Jeep, he replayed the
conversation he had had with her, thinking of all the other
exceptionally concise and inarguable things he should have said.

By the time he arrived home at the tan, Spanish-style stucco bungalow he
shared with three other programmers, Stan had fully convinced himself
that Shapiro hadn't understood a word he had said because she wasn't
capable of understanding him. It was incredible that the company kept
someone so thick in her job. There could be no other explanation for her
obstinacy.

The small bungalow was dark, its muggy 80-degree interior made bearable
only by the gurgling swamp cooler on the red-tile roof. Judging from the
number of empty beer bottles in the tiny living room, Stan decided his
housemates wouldn't be up for a few more hours, so he went into his pit
of a bedroom to listen to some Best of the Hong Kong Cavaliers on his
headphones. That and a joint of San Francisco's finest helped take the
edge off his Jolt Cola jitters and his frustration at being the only
person to know how right he was about ... everything.

Stan smoothed out the tangle of once-white sheets on his floor mattress,
and settled back to stare at the few pinpricks of light that spiked in
through the tinfoil he had duct-taped to his window to help him sleep
through the days. He blew out deeply inhaled marijuana smoke to watch it
swirl through the narrow shafts of light, converting them into miniature
laser beams.

Stupid Shapiro, he thought drowsily. Stupid Pentagon, too.

It was just so obvious that the military had come up with something it
didn't understand. And probably nobody else understood what they had
yet, either.

Except me, Stan thought, carefully stubbing out his joint in an
overflowing ashtray he had lifted from Maria's Restaurant up the street.
/ know everything about the Grinch.

A faint, defiant smile touched his lips.

And I'll tell the first person who asks me.

SEVEN THIRD FLOOR. E RING

"It is the photocopier?"

From behind his huge walnut desk, in his office overlooking the
Pentagon's River Entrance and Parade Grounds, Major General Milo
Vanovich leaned forward in his ergonomically molded armchair, cradling a
gray phone receiver to his ear, one hand over the mouthpiece. "Eh, Tommy
... photocopier, printer, what can I tell you? That's what the software
guys say." Vanovich squinted and his wildly tufted gray eyebrows moved
up like feelers. "What's so funny?"

Tom Chase decided the joke would take too long to explain. But he still
wasn't convinced his old friend was leveling with him. "Isn't there
something called building services? You know, trained technicians who
service photocopiers twenty-four hours a day?"

Vanovich waved a broad, thick-fingered hand as if clearing the air of a
bad smell. "Tommy, it's Sunday morning ..."

"So I noticed."

"... there's an all-day love-in in the Courtyard ..." "You never told me
you were a hippie."

"... and I've had two jerks from tech support already take a look at
it."

"The verdict?"

"Broken."

"And it's the only photocopier in the Pentagon?"

"It's the only Red Level in my office." "Ah," Tom said, at last
understanding why the general needed him in particular.

Suddenly, Vanovich's mood changed as he focused all his attention on the
phone call. Whoever he was speaking with had come back on >i the line.
"Just a sec, Tommy. Yeah, I'm still here, Doctor. Have you locked the
files?"

Tom stood with his hands in the back pockets of his blue jeans, waiting
for Vanovich to finish the call. He glanced around the office, looking
for anything that had changed since his last visit before Christmas.

Like most of the upper-echelon offices in this renovated section of the
Pentagon, it was conservatively tasteful in decor: dark wood paneling,
neutral beige broadloom, a few subdued though inexpensive prints of
classic warplanes as befit the working environment of a two star Air
Force general, various framed certificates, and brass highlights
everywhere, from the floor and desk lamps to the light-switch covers.

But despite the bland uniformity required to prove that taxpayers'
dollars weren't being squandered on frills, Vanovich had managed to
introduce a few decorative elements to personalize his domain. The most
notable among them were the ergonomic chair and the three model stands
on his massive desk.

One rounded triangle of polished dark wood held up a ten-inch long
blocky blue-and-silver model of a MIL STAR communications satellite, the
backbone of the military's strategic and tactical relay communications
system. Even a cursory glance told Tom that the model was missing a
number of crucial technical details, making it acceptable for display in
an unclassified environment. The second stand bore aloft a matte black
version of the old, bizarre Darkstar unmanned aerial vehicle. Tyler
would like this one, thought Tom. The long wings attached to the
flying-saucer-like body made the long-cancelled UAV look more like a
prop from the latest Star Wars film than an actual aircraft.

Tom paused appreciatively before the third stand. Now, this one was
typical of Vanovich's decidedly nonmilitary sense of humor. The brass
plaque on the base identified the model only as nevada rain (operational
mode). But no satellite or cutting-edge aircraft adorned the stand's
empty support arm. Whatever the Nevada Rain was, aircraft or satellite,
Tom decided it must have impressive Stealth characteristics.

The other stamp of individuality on Vanovich's office was, of course,
the not-so-subtle scent of cigars. The Pentagon, like every other U.S.
military installation, was a completely no-smoking building. But
Vanovich enjoyed keeping a few unlit cigars around, as if threatening to
break the rules at any moment.

"No, no," Vanovich said to whoever was on the phone. "He won't cause
trouble." The general shrugged at Tom as if to apologize for the length
of the call. Tom shrugged back, knowing that with Vanovich's propensity
for making all his staff part of one big extended family, the phone call
could be about anything from a colonel who might have gone A. W.O. L. to
a secretary's kid busted for stealing a bike. Va novich shifted the
receiver to his other ear, the movement revealing to Tom, surprisingly,
that the general was wearing what appeared to be a small hearing aid in
his left ear. Not that it seemed to be slowing him down.

As Vanovich continued his conversation, Tom wandered over to one of the
tall windows that looked down onto the parade grounds. There was a
limestone pillar almost directly in front of the window, but he saw
enough to know that the circus was in full swing below.

Tom counted eight stretch limos, each with a different set of national
flags, lined up on the ramp leading to the V. I.P parking lot directly
in front of the River Entrance. Beyond them, he could see enough of the
parade grounds to know they had been turned into a city of news
broadcast trailers and elevated stages, with clusters of brilliant
television lights switched on despite the full sun. Typically, the
majority of news teams seemed to be foreign. Today's NATO ceremony for
Russia was recognized as a precedent-shattering event everywhere but in
the country that had made it possible.

"Okay," Vanovich said, and Tom could hear that the phone call was coming
to an end. "I'll send someone out. Say, Tuesday morning?

Okay, the afternoon works, too. Just don't spook him. Yeah, that's
right. That's my job. Thank you, Doctor. You, too." Vanovich hung up,
but stared at the phone a few moments longer, lost in thought. The
multiline set was one of three on his desk. With a casual glance, Tom
checked the wire coming from it and saw it had been the general's secure
phone. Tom had done some consulting work on the Pentagon's three-tiered
phone system, back when the first renovations were starting.

Finally, Vanovich looked up at him. "Is Captain Dorsey still hanging
around?"

"I think so," Tom said. He went to the office door, opened it to find
Dorsey standing outside in the corridor. "The general wants you."

Dorsey entered the office as if Tom weren't there. "Yes, General."

Vanovich tore a sheet of numbered notepaper from a pad, placed it on the
glass top of his desk, and scrawled a series of words across it.

"Captain, I'd like you and Captain Lassiter to take a trip to Tucson,
ASAP." He handed the sheet of paper to Dorsey. "This guy's supervisor is
faxing his personnel file into Records right now. Run it through the
FBI. And come back as soon as you've put it through."

Dorsey knew when he was being dismissed. "Yes, sir."

After Dorsey closed the door behind him, Vanovich got up from behind his
desk.

Tom didn't do a good job of hiding his shock at the general's
appearance. Inwardly, he was outraged. Why hadn't he been told? Now that
he was standing, the general looked almost shrunken to Tom, and even
paler than usual.

"Forty pounds," Vanovich said as he shook Tom's hand with both of his.

As usual, Vanovich could read his mind. "Yeah. It's what you think.

But not that bad."

"How bad?"

"They caught it fast, Tommy. I had my regular checkup last October.

Other than being too fat, I checked out okay. Then I had a bunch more
tests in January, and ... son of a gun, you know. But that means they
got it within two months of it starting up. They say it gives me a good
shot at beating it."

Tom didn't question the facts, but he wasn't falling for the spin
Vanovich was putting on them. "Beating what, Milo?"

"Cancer. Colon."

"Jesus."

"Tommy, look at me, will you." Vanovich patted his considerably deflated
chest. His crisply pressed blue shirt was tucked smoothly into his
uniform trousers. His dark tie hung almost flat, instead of curving over
the bulging belly that was no longer there. "I never felt better. I'm
looking great. I'm going to stop wasting my time fixing you up and get
some action of my own now."

"You're full of shit."

Vanovich grimaced. "You'd be amazed. I've got to shit through a hose
these days."

"Milo ..."

Vanovich grabbed Tom's arms, gave them a squeeze. "Tommy, I'm fine.

I'll be a smelly old fart in the front row when our boy graduates from
Yale. But I'm going to be there."

"You'd better be." Tom didn't know what else to say. But if Vanovich was
going to tough it out, then so would he. "So ... the photocopier?

I take it it's in your office office?" He held up his proxcard.

Vanovich beamed at Tom. "That's my boy." He gave Tom's proxcard a tap.
"Now, where was I going to find another one of those on a Sunday morning
in this joint with all that crap going on outside?" Tom sighed, but he
knew the general was right. "Show me the patient," he said. General
-Vanovich walked--no, shuffled, Tom thought angrily--over to a door at
the side of his outer office, and Tom's concern intensified. Last year,
despite his weight, Vanovich had moved like a boxer, full of pent-up
energy. Tom found himself wondering why it was the general had had
medical tests run only a few months after his regular checkup. It was
more than likely that Vanovich hadn't told him the whole story.

Tom stood back as the general placed his eye against a small black
rubber cup mounted on a gray metal box beside the door. A moment later,
a chime sounded from the box and the door lock clicked, signifying that
a computer in the Pentagon's basement was satisfied that the retina
pattern it had just scanned was on the authorized list for the facility
that lay beyond.

In Pentagon parlance, Vanovich had just opened a "green door," the name
given to an entrance to areas whose activities were decidedly sensitive.

As Vanovich pushed the door open, a cool draft of air-conditioning swept
out over Tom. The lighting in the room beyond was subdued, most of it
coming from four display monitors clearly visible on a sleek, Red Level
workstation. Tom knew there were no outside windows in the general's
inner office. Where the Pentagon's most secure operations took place,
there never were.

But entrance to the restricted room was not as simple as Vanovich's
merely opening the green door and allowing Tom to step through.

Thermal sensors above the entrance would detect the presence of two
people entering when only one had been scanned, and would trigger an
instant security alert, followed by the deployment of protective
measures. That safeguard was to keep the general from ever being forced,
at gunpoint, to give entry to the Red Level room.

Now it was General Vanovich's turn to wait, as Tom touched his proxcard
to the metal square beneath the retina scanner, then placed his eye
against the scanner, taking care not to blink. For a brief instant, a
pale red disk floated before him in multiple levels of dark glass--a
reflected image of the back of his eyeball, the network of blood vessels
there as distinct as any fingerprint, but far more accessible to
computer interpretation.

The pattern area of fingerprints typically fell into one of three types,
with each type possessing further sub groupings of similar ridge
structures. No two sets of fingerprints were ever identical, not even
those of twins. But the characteristics that distinguished one from
another could sometimes be so subtle that even the most sophisticated
computer programs could not reliably see the differences between two
fingerprints sharing the same pattern family and sub groupings In those
cases, the final decision had to be made by human specialists.

Fingerprint identification was an art, not a science.

Retinal patterns of blood vessels, however, appeared to be completely
random and, except in the case of certain diseases, did not change over
time. Thus, when real-time identification was required, retinal scans
were much easier for computers to deal with than fingerprints.

As for hand-geometry scanners, the military's interest in those had
cooled after a group of terrorists had come within two locked doors of
an anthrax vaccine storage center at Fort Detrick, Maryland, by using
the severed hand of a Department of Agriculture researcher who had had
the proper clearance.

The scanner chimed again. Tom Chase's retina pattern had been in the
Pentagon's computers for years.

Vanovich invited him in. It was a small room, ten feet by twenty, but it
gave the general total access to all the relevant assets of every other
organization in the intelligence community. That was the power of the
National Infrastructure Agency.

The National Security Agency collected electronic intelligence from
around the world, intercepting everything from ordinary phone calls,
e-mail, and faxes to the most secure military communications of other
countries, and the National Reconnaissance Office collected imagery
intelligence. Most often, the NRO intelligence came from satellites that
could look down from space in a complete range of wavelengths, allowing
detailed photographs to be made not only in daylight but in darkness,
and through clouds, fog, and smoke, as well. Above the NSA and the NRO
was the Central Intelligence Agency--the coordinating agency for the
entire intelligence community, including the separate agencies run by
each branch of the military.

But Vanovich's NIA eclipsed all agencies, for it functioned not only as
a gatherer of intelligence, but as a protector of it as well. The more
complex the underlying systems of America had become--with vast power
grids, integrated-communications networks, and electronic banking that
transferred trillions of dollars as bits of electronic data, as only a
few examples of the changes that had come with the twentieth
century--the more vulnerable America itself had become to disruption.

To protect that national infrastructure, the NIA had been given broad
powers to both integrate with and monitor it. And since that same
infrastructure supported the operations of all the other intelligence
agencies, the NIA had inevitably become the ultimate watcher, with
access to all the secrets held within the entire intelligence community.

The only safeguard that held the NIA in check was that, deliberately, it
had been given absolutely no operational authority. In theory, it had no
covert operatives; it could take no action based on what it discovered.
Its agents could only compile reports and share them with the National
Security Council. But in practice, in a world where knowledge, more than
ever, was power, the sheer quantity of information the NIA had access
to, domestic and foreign, had made it the most influential arm of the
U.S. government, though fewer than a thousand people even knew it
existed.

"Feels good to be back, doesn't it?" the general said as he stood before
the smoothly curved lines of the Red Level workstation that dominated
the room. "You don't get to play with these at the FBI Academy." "Not
yet," Tom said.

"I want you to come back to work for me, Tommy."

Caught off guard by Vanovich's sudden change of subject, Tom frowned.

That had been settled years ago. "I already do."

"Not as a consultant. Full time. Here. In the NIA."

"That's not where I belong, Milo. We both know it."

Vanovich looked directly into Tom's eyes, and in one stomach wrenching
moment, Tom knew exactly what the general was going to say.

"I'm dying, Tommy."

Protests of useless denial sprang up inside Tom. He wanted to tell
Vanovich he couldn't die, that he wouldn't let him, that he and Tyler
needed him to live for a long, long time. But Tom knew he also had to
treat the offer with respect. The general was serious. They would have
to discuss it.

"It gets worse." The general paused, choosing his next words carefully.
Tom had never seen his old friend look so defeated. "I can't let these
fuckers take control of my agency when I'm gone. It's too dangerous. I
made a mistake. We've gone offensive."

For a moment, Tom almost felt as he had when Tyler had flipped him in
the living room. His chest felt paralyzed. Vanovich's NIA, America's
newest intelligence agency, the highly classified department that was to
protect the country from one of the most destructive new forms of
warfare in the history of humanity, had somehow developed a way to wage
that type of war itself.

"Jesus, Milo, what have you done?"

The general seemed too afraid to answer.

EIGHT THE PENTAGON "G" PARKING LOT CHECKPOINT ROMEO

"I swore at a cop, okay?"

Amy sat astride her Harley, still fuming from her encounter with the
county police. Two hundred and forty dollars it was going to cost
her--more than she cleared in a month--for twenty-five lousy miles an
hour over the speed limit. And no helmet.

She'd fight the ticket. That's what she had told the sanctimonious _
mother-- ... she wouldn't say the words again. Not even to herself.

^ When she had said them to the cop, that's when he had torn up the
ticket for nine miles over the limit and changed it to the full
twenty-five.

The Army sergeant at her side swiped her pass through the slot on his
card reader. He looked to be about forty, probably from a reserve unit,
not overly familiar with the equipment or the attitude. Amy fought down
the urge to rev the Harley to relieve her impatience.

The sergeant swiped the card again.

"Oh, man," Amy sighed. Then shrugged at the sergeant's look of
annoyance. He was not to be rushed. "Sorry, it's just that cop ..."

More than an hour he had kept her at the side of the freeway. A whole,
God-- ... no, she wouldn't start. She wouldn't.

The sergeant started to hook his card reader to his belt. "Sorry, ma'am,
it's not going through. I'm going to have to ask you to get off the
motorcycle and--"

"Come on!" In addition to travel time, it had taken Amy another hour and
a half just to get to a military checkpoint near the Pentagon. The first
police checkpoint she'd reached, near the Jefferson Memorial, had
refused to let her through. She had had to fight traffic all the way up
to the Roosevelt Bridge to cross the Potomac, then swing all the way
around the Arlington Cemetery, before she'd found a second police
checkpoint on Columbia Pike, near the Navy Annex. And those sons of ...
those myopic, hidebound ... robots ... hadn't let her through, either.

She had then had to poke her way through Pentagon City on surface
streets until she'd come to her last chance--the police checkpoint at
Jefferson Davis and the 395. At least those cops had finally succumbed
to her nonstop verbal outpouring and waved her through to tell her story
to the Army checkpoint up ahead.

After all that, she wasn't about to give up now just because a weekend
warrior didn't know how to operate his God-- ... reader.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. But this is not a valid pass."

"Look," Amy pleaded, "sometimes the magnetic strips get screwed up,
okay? Type in the bar-code numbers."

"I can't--"

"Yes, you can." Amy swept her hand behind her. The road was clear.

"There's no lineup. You can give me a f-- ..." She bit her lip,
swallowed the word she was about to say. "Please, Sergeant, enter the
card manually."

The sergeant sighed. He snapped Amy's pass into a clip at the top of his
reader so he could see it; then he laboriously typed in the
sixteen-digit, five-letter code that ran at the bottom of the pass's bar
code.

"Thank you."

The sergeant nodded as he typed on the reader's minuscule keyboard.

Twice he hit two tiny keys--raised plastic blisters, actually-at the
same time and had to erase his entry and start again.

Amy looked past the checkpoint to the Pentagon's River Entrance, less
than half a mile away. She could see the fleet of limos parked
bumper-to-bumper beside the parade grounds, dotted with fluttering
patches of color from the official flags they flew. A field of brilliant
lights blazed with blue-white intensity beside them.

Television coverage, she guessed, like for the arrival of stars at the
Academy Awards.

Amy's gaze followed the angles of the ramps and intertwining roadways
that knotted around this part of the Pentagon. She pictured herself
gunning the Harley, speeding forward, then soaring over the barricades
and checkpoints like Steve Mcqueen in The Great Escape. That had been
her father's all-time favorite movie. It still was hers.

"Bethune, Amy Leanne, midshipman, United States Navy," the sergeant
said.

Amy frowned. She didn't know what the sergeant meant by his recitation.
That information was printed on the front of the pass along with her
photo ID. "That's me."

The sergeant turned the reader around so Amy could see that a second ID
photo of her had appeared on its small LCD screen, flanked by several
lines of small type. "Says here you were supposed to have arrived almost
three hours ago."

Amy forced herself to retain her composure. "And that's what I've been
saying."

"It also suggests that for your duty assignment at the luncheon, you're
out of uniform."

Amy slapped her dark-blue sports bag, strapped to the back of her cycle.
"It's right here, ready to go."

The sergeant seemed close to making up his mind. "You going to get into
trouble for this?"

"I can handle it."

The sergeant gave a small chuckle. "I bet you can. Okay. You're in."

Amy stood up to push the Harley off its stand.

"Except," the sergeant continued, "not on that. The pass is good for
you, only. No parking privileges."

Amy rocked back on the cycle, knowing another half hour had just been
added to her morning. The speeches would be starting by then.

Seeing her crestfallen face, the sergeant at least tried to be helpful.

"You can lock it up in G lot, right over there. We'll be at this station
all day, so it'll be safe."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Amy pulled herself together with an effort and
started to walk the cycle backward. "Can you tell me what entrance I
have to go to?"

The sergeant checked the screen. "Tricare service entrance under the
River Entrance ... but that's not going to do you any good. It's packed
with all the official arrivals by now. Hold on." He switched on a small
radio clipped to his camouflaged shirt front. "Gate Control, this is
Checkpoint Romeo. I have a late service arrival for the Tricare
entrance. Please advise on alternate. Over."

After a moment, a woman's voice replied. "Romeo, this is Gate Control.

Late-arrival entrance is the Corridor Three, South Terrace pedestrian
bridge. Over."

"Copy that. Romeo out." The sergeant pointed to the low white bus
terminal structure running along the Pentagon's southeast wall. "The
South Terrace bridges are right around the corner. The Corridor Three
entrance will be the second one you see on the far side."

"Thanks, Sergeant. I really appreciate that." Then Amy hesitated.

The sergeant looked as if he hadn't finished speaking. "Yes?"

"Go park the Harley. I'll get you a ride."

HEUPORT ENTRANCE Hector followed Major Christou into the Pentagon. The
morning's heat went with them. In the midst of rebuilding virtually
every interior floor, wall, and ceiling, the Pentagon's still-ongoing,
fourteen-year, "slab-to-ceiling" renovation program was also replacing
every environmental, electrical, and communications system in the
Building.

There were, however, many details still to be fine-tuned, and the air
conditioning system was one of them.

The Pentagon was one of the largest office buildings under one roof in
the world, with an interior volume more than twice that of the Empire
State Building. The maintenance and environmental controls it required
were more like those for a small city than for a single building.

Indeed, in one report Hector had seen cross the President's desk, he'd
learned it was not unusual for there to be up to thirty local power
outages in a typical day in the Building. Despite the Pentagon's
reputation for achieving military perfection, its domestic day-to-day
support services, from heating and cooling to plowing the parking lots
in winter, were seldom any more efficient than in most civilian
buildings.

The first thing Hector encountered in the renovated Heliport Entrance
foyer was a digital time-and-date sign, four feet by three feet, placed
prominently behind the raised security desk. The desk functioned as
visitor control for this entrance, and since use of the heliport was
restricted to military staff or dignitaries, no metal detectors or X-ray
scanners were in use. Under normal conditions, the two Air Force guards
on duty would confirm that each visitor swiped his or her pass through a
reader on a security turnstile, but no one seemed eager to ask the
President for his ID. He and his party continued through a special,
open-access path.

As Hector passed the guards, he saw that the digital sign also displayed
the entrance's location on a stylized Pentagon floor plan, and
identified the Building's current security condition: threat con bravo.

Hector caught up to Christou as the Army major strode briskly past the
Air Force guards to the left. She was heading for a wide passageway
marked by an overhead sign reading corridor four in a modern, severely
unornamented type style "Is that good?" he asked her.

"There're five threat condition levels, Mr. Macgregor. Bravo is level
three."

"Alpha, Bravo." Hector held up two fingers. "Shouldn't Bravo be level
two?"

Christou held up her hand, showing five fingers. "The sequence starts
with Normal, then Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta."

Twenty feet ahead, in Corridor Four, Hector could see the President,
Secretary Guilbert, and General Flores engaged in an intense
conversation as they walked along.

"How bad is Threat Con Delta?"

"A terrorist attack has occurred, or intelligence indicates an action
against a specific target is likely."

Christou increased the speed of her stride and Hector easily matched it,
not about to be left behind. From past experience, he had no desire to
find his own way through the labyrinth of the Building's confusing halls
and corridors.

Theoretically, it was supposed to be a simple matter to find any
location in the Pentagon. On paper, the system for numbering offices was
as logical as a city map laid out in a grid of numbered streets and
avenues. A typical room designation consisted of a single digit, a
letter, and then a three- or four-digit number. The position of each
number and letter signified a different subset of Pentagon coordinates.

But in Hector's introduction to the mapping system of the Pentagon the
theory had broken down quickly.

On his first visit to the Building, almost two years ago, a helpful DPS
officer at the Mall entrance had given him an explanation of the
numbering system. Hector had come at the request of the President's
Chief of Staff, who had asked him to attend an Air Force budget briefing
in Room 4E225--a number forever burned into his memory.

The officer had told him the number 4 indicated the briefing theater was
located on the fourth floor. The letter E meant the room was in the
Building's E Ring, the outermost one. The next digit, 2, indicated which
of the Building's ten spoke like corridors Hector should take.

Then, since the actual room number, 25, was under 50, all Hector had to
do was enter the E Ring from Corridor Two to the left.

"Quick and simple," the officer had said, as if he had actually believed
it. Then he had added proudly that the Building's arrangement of radial
corridors and concentric hallways was so efficient that no two offices
along its seventeen and a half miles of hallway were more than seven and
a half minutes apart--five minutes if the center courtyard was used as a
shortcut. But that day, Hector had managed to more than triple that
time, finding the correct theater only when a military guard on the
third floor of E Ring had personally escorted him from the corridor
checkpoint of a limited-access, high-security area.

By the time he'd reached the briefing theater, unacceptably late, he'd
been lucky enough to slip into the dark room, unnoticed. Inside, he'd
joined twenty-four others who were struggling to stay awake for an
endless chain of overhead-projector slides presented by a soft-spoken
major. Hector no longer recalled anything about the projected costs of a
proposed new system to give incentive payments to qualified Air Force
pilots to entice them to stay in the military rather than leave for the
higher-paid civilian sector. But he'd never forget the small theater's
room number.

Only later did he learn that getting lost was an honored Pentagon rite
of passage and that the common experience had helped inspire one of the
Building's alternate names--the Puzzle Palace. Despite what the civilian
guard had told him, the theoretical logic of the Pentagon's
office-numbering scheme was always breaking down because of the many
unmapped half-corridors, the constant rearrangement of modular office
space, and the deliberately out-of-sequence numbers assigned to areas
with classified functions. Adding to the confusion was the reality that
the only freely available floor plans of the Building were deliberately,
though, subtly, misleading. The layouts on the entrance display signs
and map handouts depicted an ideal arrangement of rings and corridors
that in reality had little to do with the detail of the actual floor
arrangements.

Hector's capitulation to the impossibility of ever truly understanding
the Pentagon's layout came several months after the infamous Air Force
briefing when, again, at the request of the President's Chief of Staff,
he placed an order for topographic maps of the region around the Chief's
vacation home on the Oregon coast. The Pentagon room address for the
Defense Mapping Agency was BG720, flagrantly violating the theory that
all Pentagon office addresses began with a number from one to five,
followed by a letter from A to E. Not only did the Pentagon have two
additional levels--the Basement and Mezzanine-it clearly had two
additional underground rings, F and G. Hector decided he wouldn't put it
past the Pentagon to have even more hidden rings and levels. All
unofficial, off the maps, and strictly classified.

The only sure way Hector knew to correctly navigate through the official
and unofficial Pentagon was to always have a guide. Thus, this Sunday
morning, he was determined not to let Christou out of his sight.

Fortunately, the march along Corridor Four seemed quite straightforward,
as the President's party continued directly toward the bank of new
escalators and elevators at the intersection where the corridor came to
an end at the Pentagon's innermost A Ring.

As the President's party reached the escalators, Hector and the major
remained a respectful twenty feet behind, out of earshot. Christou took
the opportunity to inform Hector that the original Pentagon had been
built with only five elevators--one V. I.P car to serve the River
Entrance offices, and four freight elevators. By 2010, the renovation
goal was to update the Building with twelve passenger cars and a bank of
new escalators at each apex of the innermost ring. In return, Hector
told the major that someone at a cabinet meeting he'd attended had joked
that, with all the new pedestrian efficiencies, elevator and escalator
shutdowns would probably push the famous seven and a half minutes
separating any two offices in the Building to fifteen. Christou smiled
politely, but didn't initiate any further conversation.

As Hector meditated on military humor, the President, General Flores,
and Secretary Guilbert took the A Ring escalators to the second floor,
immediately followed by Agents Zibart and Harrap, then Major Fielding.

After waiting a minute, Hector and the major also ascended the
escalator.

At the second-floor apex, the main A Ring corridor sported new
floor-to-ceiling windows every fifteen feet overlooking Hector's
favorite Pentagon feature, its central courtyard. The unexpected oasis
was, in effect, a five-acre park in the heart of the Pentagon. In the
past, Hector knew it had been a popular lunch spot and informal meeting
place for all but the coldest months. Now, because of its protected
location, the Courtyard was also the preferred site of formal ceremonies
that earlier were held on the River Entrance's Parade Grounds.

Evidently intrigued by something he saw outside those windows, the
President, hands informally jammed in his trouser pockets, had stopped
to look down on the Courtyard. General Flores and Secretary Guilbert
stood to either side of him. Waiting discreetly by the corridor's other
wall were the Secret Service agents and Major Fielding with the CAT.

Hector slowed his pace to match Christou's. When it was clear the
President was in no hurry to move on, they stopped, as well.

Hector hated silence. And he hated any missed opportunity to learn
something more about the people he met.

"Are you taking part in the ceremony?" he asked the major.

"This is a political event." Hector was finding Christou's continued
stiffness in his presence curious, especially for someone who had seemed
so affected by personally meeting the President. "This z's the Pentagon.
How much more military can anything get?"

"This-is the United States. Unlike some countries, our military serves
the political branches." "I thought the military served the people."

"Sometimes, politicians get in the way." Hector sensed the major was
suppressing either anger or frustration, but wasn't sure which, or why.

An instant later, her expression told him that she realized she had said
the wrong thing to the wrong person.

Hector knew an advantageous situation when he saw it. "It's all right,
Major. Everyone's entitled to an opinion. And privacy."

Christou's guarded gaze flicked over Hector, acknowledging his unspoken
promise not to pass on what she had unadvisedly shared with him. "I
appreciate that, sir."

Hector didn't need to respond. Power in Washington was most often
measured in number of favors owing. Christou now owed him for his
silence, and the unspoken contract between them was that someday he
might ask a favor in return. Hector's power base had just grown, ever so
slightly, and he and the major both knew it.

Suddenly, the President called out from ahead. "Hec, take a look at
this."

Hector obediently jogged over to the President at his second-floor
window lookout, leaving Christou behind.

The President gestured toward something in the center court. "General
Flores, tell Hec what you just told me."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff cleared his throat, signaling
to Hector his discomfort with his new assignment as tour guide. "Have
you ever been down there, young man?"

"Never." Hector had only seen the Courtyard in passing, the few times he
had walked past the windows of the A Ring corridor.

"Do you see the building in the center?"

The building the general referred to was a colonial-style structure,
whose black peaked roof was crowned by a cupola. It was the only
permanent structure in the Courtyard, situated dead center in the
pentagonal yard, at the intersection of six broad pathways cutting
through the vivid green lawn. Each of the eight outer walls of the small
building had two large, dark-tinted picture windows, bordered below by a
panel of bright red. The scarlet bands stood out in stark relief against
the lush vegetation of the park and the soft beige limestone walls of
the encircling interior walls of the Pentagon.

The usual scattering of park benches and bright red Adirondack chairs
lining the pathways were not in evidence today. Instead, the northern
half of the Courtyard, to Hector's left, was filled with round, wooden
dining tables that each could comfortably hold eight place settings.

The rather battered tables had been arranged in curved semicircles,
with their focus the center court's main entrance on the north wall.

That entrance, however, was now hidden by an enormous, blue fabric
backdrop framing an elevated, portable stage. Extending the length of
the stage was a long banquet table backed by a forest of tightly spaced,
eight-foot-tall flagstaffs. Without counting, Hector knew there would be
exactly twenty-one flagstaffs like everyone else, he watched NET-CNN. At
the moment, two young soldiers in green service uniforms were taking
great care in attaching the American flag to one of the center staffs.

Hector turned his attention back to the central structure and the
general's question. "It's a restaurant, right?"

"Well, '' is the formal designation. Most people call it 'the hot dog
stand.""

The President was like a little kid who could barely contain the punch
line to a joke. "Tell him what else it's called."

"Ground Zero."

Hector could guess why, but was not about to ruin the President's setup.

The President prompted Flores with a conspiratorial smile. "Because ..

. ?"

The heavyset general plunged into his story, as if eager to end the
conversation. "During the Cold War, the Soviets were convinced we had a
top-secret command post buried directly beneath the Pentagon, and the
center court became their DGZ-1 Desired Ground Zero, One. If they had
ever launched their missiles, the first warhead was aimed directly at
the hot dog stand down there." The President smiled broadly. And because
he was the President, his Joint Chiefs Chairman and Secretary of Defense
smiled, too.

"So do we?" Hector asked.

General Flores raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Have a secret command post under the Pentagon?"

General Flores regarded Hector as if he had just asked the world's
stupidest question. "Mr. Macgregor, why on God's green earth would we
build a facility of critical importance under a building that, at
minimum, would've been hit five times over in the first half-hour of a
nuclear exchange? The only secret being kept out in that building is
what they use to make the Pentagon's hamburgers."

The President chuckled, and slapped a hand on Hector's back, as if
telling Flores and Guilbert they should forgive his assistant's naive
questions because Hector was just a kid, after all. While Hector
shrugged good-naturedly for the President's benefit, he also considered
the Chairman's use of the past tense in talking about nuclear war. Maybe
General Flores didn't share Christou's skepticism about what was
happening here today.

Secretary Guilbert took the opportunity to intervene. "Mr. President,
there're still a few final details to go over." The Secretary took a
half step away from the window, to urge the President on.

"Of course." The President gave every appearance of leaving, then
hesitated. "Al ... ?"

"Yes, sir?" General Flores had not followed Secretary Guilbert's lead in
moving away from the window.

The President looked down again, into the Courtyard, but to Hector it
was as if he were contemplating something much more distant. "What was
our DGZ-1? In Russia. The Kremlin?"

"The northeast wall of the Kremlin, sir. Lenin's Tomb. A psychological
target." The President sighed deeply, as if imagining the missiles
flying, Moscow and Washington both vaporized from the face of the Earth.

"Sometimes, I wonder how we survived those years."

It was perfectly apparent to Hector that General Jaime Alvarez Flores
shared none of the President's morose sentiment about the past.

"We survived by not backing down, sir."

The President seemed to hear something in the general's tone that Hector
missed. The mood between the two men became discernibly cooler.

Secretary Guilbert filled the awkward silence. "We are not backing down
now, General."

"Of course not," Flores answered.

But Hector had heard the hesitation in the answer, suggesting that the
general did hold the same reservations as his aide, Major Christou.

Now Hector found himself wondering if everyone in the Pentagon was of
like mind. And if they were, if it mattered.

Nicholas Guilbert was becoming increasingly agitated. "Mr. President, we
really should ..."

The President looked sternly at General Flores, as if to let him know
the conversation would be continued later. Then he turned away from the
window, to continue along the A Ring corridor through the bright
rectangles of morning sun that punctuated the floor every fifteen feet.

Major Fielding, still carrying his undistinguished black case, quietly
walked past Hector and Christou where they remained at the window.

Fielding took up his usual position behind the President, staying well
to the side, avoiding the light altogether. In less than a minute,
Hector and Christou were the only ones left in the corridor. Hector
shifted the President's brown-leather briefcase under his arm and turned
to the major. He had to know.

"Why do all of you think this is such a bad idea?"

Hector could see that the major was judging him, asking herself if she
should stay with the Department of Defense's official position, or if
she could dare speak her mind again.

She made her decision. "We can't trust them."

But Hector had heard that argument before. It didn't hold up. "People
said the same thing about Germany and Japan after World War II."

The major was equally familiar with the counter argument "We occupied
those countries, sir. We rebuilt their economic base. Restructured their
political systems. And only then did ..." Her voice broke off as she
turned, distracted no, angered by something she saw outside.

Hector looked past her. On the stage, he saw more young soldiers in
green, attaching additional national flags to the row of twenty-one
staffs behind the banquet table.

Then he realized what was disturbing the major. Center stage, the
American flag had been hung immediately beside the utilitarian blue
and-white flag of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. But on the
next staff, framing the NATO banner and so close to the Stars and
Stripes that the fabric of all three flags had twisted together, hung
the newest flag to become part of NATO's colors the white, blue, and red
bars of Russia.

"Russia's changed, you know," Hector said.

"You mean ... it used to be totalitarian and corrupt. Then it was
bankrupt and corrupt. Then it collapsed, and had the Sixty-Day Civil
War, when no one had the time or money to be corrupt. And now there's a
coalition between the crime lords and the old hard-liners, it's back to
a one-party '' system with institutionalized corruption.

That's some change."

"At least the ruble is worth something again and they're not shooting
each other. By allowing them to join NATO, we help them reorganize their
military, and we clear the way for them to join the European Union in a
few years. And that will force them to adopt the serious market changes
that will cement their new economy."

The major did not respond.

"That's exactly what you just said we did for Germany and Japan," Hector
reminded her.

"We achieved a decisive military victory over those regimes. We never
beat Russia. Not militarily."

"What difference does that make?" Hector really wanted to know what the
major's reasoning was, because it would reflect another insider view,
this time of the military mind.

"They're still the enemy, sir. On the ropes but undefeated. And when
we've fattened them up and healed their wounds, they're going to be in
bed with us, buying our weapons, benefiting from our training, and
familiar with all our strategies."

Hector was finding it difficult to conceal his consternation. The major
was spinning a story that was a staple of the right-wing press, and
completely unfounded. "After that civil war, do you know how long it'll
take for Russia to regain anywhere near the economic power she had a
generation ago?"

"With our help, ten to fifteen years."

"Exactly. A lot can happen in all that time."

"I agree. That's about how long it took Germany to rearm between wars."

"Why are you so pessimistic about the future?"

"Not pessimistic. Realistic. There's a difference."

Hector wondered if Christou had heard a single speech the President had
given on the subject in the past year. "What's real, Major Christou, is
that the two biggest enemies of the last century, who could have brought
the world to an end if they had gone to war, are now at peace.

Haven't you been listening to the President? War is over."

"If you're going to quote the President, allow me to quote Plato.

"Only the dead have seen the end of war." If you'll follow me ..."

She turned and walked off in the same direction the President's party
had taken.

No comment Hector thought of seemed worth wasting on the major's back.

So, automatically making the most of this latest trip to the Pentagon,
he glanced out each of the windows he passed by.

Now, almost all the flags of NATO's current, twenty member nations were
on display on the stage, along with the flags of NATO and the Russian
Federation. White-uniformed naval officers had arrived in the Courtyard
to cover the round, wooden tables with white linen cloths.

Another few windows along, Hector corrected his first assumption.

Since he'd begun working with the military, he'd been studying their
insignia. The serious figures in white setting up the tables didn't have
standard rank markings on their cuffs and shoulder boards. All but one
of them wore thin diagonal stripes of gold, not wide bands.

Except for the single lieutenant who was directing them, Hector decided
the sailors must be the students from the Naval Academy who had been
invited to assist at the official proceedings.

At least they look like they know the importance of today's ceremony, he
thought. The fact that the hardworking midshipmen represented the next
generation of America's military personnel helped him ignore the
negative attitude of Christou, and everyone else at the Pentagon who
shared her view.

As part of the next generation himself, Hector felt proud that he was
with the President today. The Man had made the right choice in
tirelessly pushing NATO to accept Russia. The Cold War was finally over.
It was time for the Pax Americana to begin.

Confident in his own ability to perceive the true situation, Hector
followed Major Christou deeper into the Pentagon's maze.

A maze whose center was now held by the enemy.

NINE THIRD FLOOR, E RING

"You want to know what I've done?" Vanovich said. "Okay. This afternoon,
after the festivities, I'm going to give a briefing."

"A briefing on what?" Despite the powerful air-conditioning in the
sealed Red Level office, Tom felt overheated. His uncomfortably tight
chest made it hard for him to breathe.

"You know how many civilians have your level of security clearance in as
many areas as you do, Tommy?"

Tom didn't.

"Twenty-two," Vanovich said. "And three of them are former Presidents."

"I'm not following you."

"It's simple, Tommy Boy. You're still not high enough. I can't even tell
you what we have until you've signed on."

Tom worked out the logic of that statement. "You're saying not even the
President knows about ... whatever it is ... you've got?"

General Milo Vanovich put a shaky hand on a high-backed swivel chair in
front of the workstation's four main display screens. "I've got to sit
down." Tom took the chair beside him. At the side of the workstation, he
noticed where a section of the console cover had been swung open.

Inside he could see a laser printer unit with a dislodged circuit board.
Maybe there were repairs to be made to the photocopier after all.

Shoulders rounded, Vanovich settled into his chair, sighing deeply.

"Geez, remember when we'd work all night?" "Seven nights a week," Tom
said. Ten years ago, the general had been a brigadier general at Hanscom
Air Force Base in Massachusetts, one of the few bases with no
acknowledged flying mission. It was, instead, headquarters for the
Electronic Systems Center of the Air Force Materiel Command and home to
several research labs that ostensibly belonged to private industry.
Hanscom was committed exclusively to cutting-edge research and
development of Air Force C4 systems--those necessary for command,
control, communications, and computers.

When Tom had been there, Hanscom had had almost as many civilian
employees as Air Force personnel. He'd been one of those civilians, an
electronics engineer and systems designer shuttling between Va novich's
advanced concept lab on the base and Hughes Electronics in
California--his actual employer.

"We did some great things together," Vanovich said.

Tom nodded. Hanscom had been the rare military-industrial complex that
both acknowledged and understood the future. There'd been no
twentieth-century dinosaurs at that base who felt it was their mission
to fight World War II all over again, only this time with the weapons of
the twenty-first century. Hanscom was aware the world had changed.

To Tom, the future of warfare wasn't the use of overwhelming force after
war broke out, it was the use of overwhelming surveillance before a
situation led to war. He increasingly believed the key to a world
without misunderstanding had to be a world without secrets. The United
States had proved that innumerable times when it had provided
intelligence to both sides in potential regional conflicts. More than
once, India and Pakistan both had scaled back their rhetoric when
American satellite photos had been able to show that neither side was
massing armies or preparing missiles for launch against the other.

Many confrontations in the Middle East, in Africa, and in Eastern Europe
had been similarly defused. And every time the United States took the
step of pulling back the curtain of suspicion and deception, she had
delivered another, more subtle message: If a country had no secrets from
the United States, it was a country the United States could attack with
devastating precision.

Tom and Vanovich, in their time at Hanscom, had both come to believe
that surveillance--visual or electronic--was the ultimate big stick.

But, while Tom had been proud of their work to help develop the
technology currently in use, he'd done his part. Five years ago, he'd
moved on. He didn't want to rethink that decision now.

He stated that fact as bluntly as he could for his friend. "I got out of
the game, Milo."

Vanovich's answer was to spin around in his chair to face the work
station and slip a keyboard and track ball out from a hidden shelf in
the workstation's counter. "Just take a look at this for me, will you?"

The center screen directly in front of the general carried a realtime
feed from a surveillance satellite, showing about one square mile of
terrain. In the middle of the image was the unmistakable shape of the
Pentagon. At the bottom of the screen, Tom could detect individual cars
moving on Interstate 395. "One of the new Keyholes?" he asked, not
surprised by the image's acuity. During high-profile events involving
international cooperation, it was usual practice for the National
Reconnaissance Office to re task its satellites to observe American
soil. The image did, however, seem somehow different from similar views
Tom had seen in the past. He pulled his chair closer to the station.

"Something better, Tommy. You've never seen one of these in action."

As Vanovich proceeded to show off his multibillion-dollar toy as if it
were a new stereo system, his earlier mood of despair disappeared. Tom
welcomed the change.

"Fully digitized product," the general began. "Constant multi spectral
and hyper spectral datastream from the target coordinates. We can make
all the adjustments to the data on the ground, on the fly, without
sending commands back up. This is coming from the same feed that's going
to the FBI and the boys in the basement. They can manipulate it any way
they want, and at the same time we can do this ..."

Vanovich's stubby fingers swept over the keyboard, and the track ball
disappeared beneath his hand. Suddenly, the Pentagon zoomed up until the
center courtyard filled the screen. Round tables in the court looked
like checkers arranged on a free-form board. Leaning closer, Tom could
see uniformed figures moving among the tables, spreading out
tablecloths. Then he realized what was wrong with the image.

"It's hot out there. How come I'm not seeing atmospheric turbulence?"

Vanovich held up a finger like a lawyer delivering a summation. "Look
more closely! What you should be asking is, How come you're not seeing
any pixels?"

The general was right. At this extreme level of magnification, they
should have been seeing the image break up into flickering squares of
pixels--the smallest imaging element of the charge-coupled device in the
satellite that served as electronic film. The image on-screen now should
have resembled a photo blown up from a newspaper--an image composed of
dots.

Certainly, Tom was aware, imaging computers could manipulate those dots,
build up variations over time, even enhance contrast and edge sharpness
so that ever-more-detailed views could be produced.

But Tom knew even the NRO's most sophisticated computers couldn't yet
operate fast enough to handle that task on live, moving images.

"This is coming from an observation aircraft, right?" It was the only
explanation that made sense to Tom. Something like the Darkstar UAV
model on the general's desk. Something designed to circle over target
sites for days, transmitting surveillance data from only a few miles
overhead, without the expense of a satellite launch.

"No, sir. This is coming from three hundred miles straight up."

Tom stared at the screen. A satellite at that altitude would be moving
at almost 18,000 miles an hour. "But I'm not even seeing image drift."

At this level of magnification, the angle of the image should have been
visibly changing as the satellite passed by.

"It's there, Tommy. Angle drift. Atmospheric turbulence. Even pixel
breakup."

"Okay, Milo. You got me. I'm confused."

"Watch this." The general typed in a series of commands. Instantly the
image of the Pentagon twisted on an extreme angle, degraded to a smear
of rippling gray blotches, and broke up into pixel smears. The
five-sided shape was still discernible, but other than that, no other
details were present. It's what Tom would have expected to have seen
coming from a small, twenty-year-old, low-resolution satellite straining
for maximum magnification.

"And now, this," Vanovich said. He hit a key. Before Tom's eyes, the
image began to subtly change. The Pentagon's shape straightened slightly
and became a bit more pronounced. "And this." Another improvement. The
sequence reminded Tom of the stages of an eye exam, each new lens
bringing the letters into better focus. "And this ... this ... and this
..."

Vanovich shot a side glance at Tom. "You understand now?"

Tom nodded slowly. "Multiple imaging sources."

"Bingo." In a voice in which Tom could hear no trace of Vanovich's
previous exhaustion, the general rapidly outlined for him the specs of
the latest space-surveillance platform in America's intelligence
gathering arsenal--MAJIC. According to Vanovich, Multiple Aperture,
Joint Imaging Capability was a classified implementation of advances in
multi-mirror telescope technology and distributed-array satellite
design.

On Earth, the size of mirror that could be constructed for astronomical
telescopes was limited by manufacturing techniques. The largest,
one-piece, light-collecting mirror yet built was the 324-inch mirror in
the Subaru Telescope, built on Mauna Kea, Hawaii, for the National
Astronomical Observatory of Japan.

Mirrors of that size were extraordinarily difficult to cast and polish
to the required tolerances. And even assuming a perfect mirror could be
reliably made, at those larger dimensions the dynamic distortions in the
mirror's base material, caused by temperature changes and sagging due to
gravity, were also more pronounced. The mirror in the Subaru Telescope
required 261 sensitive pistons to constantly apply changing amounts of
pressure to different points beneath its reflective surface in order to
achieve distortion-free viewing.

However, the general continued, advances in high-speed computing had now
made possible a new approach to optical-telescope design. Many small,
easier-to-manufacture mirrors could be networked together to act as a
single, giant, impossible-to-manufacture mirror. Each of the thirty-six
mirrors in the Keck Telescope, also on Mauna Kea, had been only
seventy-two inches across. But linked together by a computer-controlled
actuator system that kept each mirror focused with a precision matching
the width of a single wavelength of light, those thirty-six mirrors had
been able to function with the same light gathering capability as a
386-inch mirror.

With a familiar edge of excitement returning to his voice, Vanovich
rambled on about how the challenge of building individual mirrors for
use in space-based telescopes had nothing to do with size. How the
largest mirrors ever placed in orbit were the 94.5-inch mirrors used in
the civilian Hubble Space Telescope, and the classified Keyhole
surveillance satellites. And how the limiting factor on the size of
space mirrors was not one of manufacturing technique, but of
transportation --larger mirrors would not fit within the cargo holds of
the Space Shuttle or the Air Force's expendable launch vehicles.

But just as the military breakthroughs of the Keyhole satellites had
given birth to the Hubble Space Telescope, the multiple-mirror
technology of civilian telescopes had given birth to MAJIC.

As Vanovich described it for Tom, each fully deployed MAJIC platform
consisted of sixteen identical imaging cells orbiting in a square
formation as a distributed-array satellite. The cells were kept in
perfect alignment with each other through the use of solid-state,
silicon mi crorockets--in principle, each cell was covered in computer
chips with special circuits containing microgram-sized pockets of
explosive propellant. Whenever orbital perturbations upset the
formation's alignment, selected propellant pockets were electronically
ignited to microscopically adjust the cell's position with the same
light wave accuracy achieved in ground-based installations. And, because
each cell contained a thirty-six-inch mirror, the combined power of the
array was equal to a twenty-foot mirror, more than two and a half times
more powerful than the Hubble.

The solar-power requirements, apparently, were minimal. Each cell only
had to communicate with the others, and with any currently available
satellite within the MIL STAR system. Furthermore, if antisatellite
weapons were used, during a time of hostilities, to disrupt U.S.
surveillance capability, the distributed cells of the MAJIC array were
small enough to be almost impossible to target individually. And,
because there were no physical connections between them, even if
two-thirds of the cells in each array were destroyed, the remaining
cells would still provide the same observational capability as a
traditional, single-mirror Keyhole satellite, at a quarter the price.

Thus, Vanovich concluded enthusiastically, because of the low
implementation cost of each array that resulted from its ability to
mass-produce identical cells, six MAJIC platforms were already on orbit,
with two more to be added each fiscal year until a full constellation of
twenty-four platforms was deployed.

The fact that six MAJIC arrays were already operational explained to Tom
why he had noticed no image drift on the surveillance shot of the
Pentagon, despite the speed with which the arrays were moving. The NRO's
imaging computers had been able to build a three dimensional model of
all the fixed elements in the landscape from previous observations of
the Pentagon terrain over the past few hours or days.

Tom studied the image again. The buildings, grounds, roads, and
vegetation that he was looking at, as if from directly overhead, were an
extrapolated virtual image composed of hundreds, if not thousands, of
previous images from all angles. Since the unchanging part of the
landscape was fixed in the imaging computers' memories, all the imaging
computers had to process were any visual elements within the
observational area that changed rapidly over time. That list would most
often be moving vehicles and people. When the imaging computers analyzed
the moving elements and combined the results coming from two or more
orbiting arrays, no matter what the angle of observation was, they then
mapped the moving elements onto the existing virtual model.

All the computers had to do then was correct for the constantly changing
angle caused by the arrays' movement. The advanced technology was all
the general said it would be.

"Can you imagine what it will be like when all the MAJIC arrays are
operational?" Vanovich asked. "We will have complete, realtime coverage
of every square inch of the globe, on demand." He typed in another
instruction into his keyboard.

The screen image of the Pentagon's Courtyard once again expanded until
it was as if Tom were ten feet directly above five people in white
uniforms standing together, obviously engaged in a conversation. At this
level of magnification, the resolution was soft and the movements of the
people were jerky, but Tom had no doubt that an hour or two of computer
image-enhancement could produce photos detailed enough to allow specific
individuals to be recognized.

"Too bad they weren't using this on downtown Washington last night,"
Vanovich said, shaking his head. "Could've seen the bastards who hit the
Archives. I mean, look at the detail, Tommy." The general tapped the
screen, indicating a shoulder on the one figure to whom the other four
appeared to be listening. "He's an officer, see?" Sure enough, there was
a slight discoloration on each of the speaker's shoulders, exactly where
officer's shoulder boards would be. "And these others," Vanovich
indicated the other four people whose shoulders carried no discernible
markings, "ah, ... I can't tell what they're supposed to be."

Tom had an idea. "A busload of way-too-serious midshipmen pulled in when
I got here. They were in white uniforms with narrow stripes that
wouldn't show up on this."

"Well, there they are, then," General Vanovich said with a satisfaction
that Tom didn't share. "And think of what comes after this, Tommy. The
next generation of MAJIC arrays will have twice the number of cells and
incorporate laser holography so we can image air turbulence at a
microscopic level."

Tom was truly startled by the implications of that technology, and he
knew his expression showed it.

Vanovich understood. "That's right, we're going to be able to
reconstruct sounds from orbital observations. Another ten years and
we'll be able to listen to what those guys are saying. Ten years past
that, we'll be doing it with micro-imaging radar and there won't be a
window, wall, or roof we can't hear through. Hey, the President wants a
Brave New World? We're going to give it to him. And I do mean we,"
Vanovich said. "Tommy, your chips are on board in each cell."

Tom wasn't all that surprised. "That must explain the fortune in royalty
checks I've been getting." When he'd worked on Vanovich's projects at
the Hanscom base, all of his designs had been so classified that none
could be submitted for patents by Hughes. The company hadn't even been
able to resort to the common technique of fragmenting classified
breakthroughs among hundreds of innocuous patents covering minor
modifications to unclassified products. As a result, when Tom had left
Hughes, he'd had no body of work to show for ten years' work, no
published papers, and no income from his share of patents.

Other than money, he'd gotten what he wanted, though. The last five
years, he'd been there for Tyler, and their time together was more
centered, less disrupted. Money had been a problem at first, so he'd
accepted Vanovich's offer to keep him on retainer as a Department of
Defense consultant. Until today, the deal had worked out for the most
part, even if the general's definition of consulting included making
repairs on office equipment within high-security facilities.

Vanovich patted his arm. "Someday, Tommy. People will know what you
did."

Tom wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"Huh," the general said. "That's odd."

Tom looked at the screen, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"They're saluting."

Tom watched as four midshipmen saluted the officer, and then, with a
blurred, jerky movement, the officer returned the salute. "So?"

"You don't salute in the Pentagon. Including the Courtyard."

Tom didn't see the importance of the action or inaction. To him,
saluting was an arcane art to anyone but those in the military.

"Ah, whadda they know," Vanovich sighed. "They're just kids. You know
the old saying about saluting."

Tom didn't know any sayings about saluting.

"When in doubt, whip it out," Vanovich said. Then he entered another
command and the extreme close-up on the Courtyard slowly shrank to a
wider view in which the Pentagon took up only the middle third.

The image changed. The four midshipmen moved toward a stairway against
one of the Building's walls encircling the center court.

Tom thought again about the midshipmen he had seen get off the bus.

Actually, they had seemed more like reservists of some kind than kids to
him. Of course, anybody under fifty was a kid to Milo Vanovich.

He watched as the general continued to work his keyboard and check the
screen. Maybe the old guy's body was failing, but his mind was still one
of the best. And it was time Tom found out just what had his old friend
so worried. He began gently. "So, if you can tell me all about MAJIC,
what is it that you can't show me?"

Vanovich stopped typing and slowly spun his chair around. "Come to the
briefing, Tommy."

"Not if it means I have to sign up again."

The two friends studied each other, and Tom knew each was thinking how
far they could push this dance of offer and rejection.

"I like teaching. I like being home for my son. If you want me to
consult on a classified project, I'll start work today. But I've done my
Paul Revere ride. I'm not leaving Quantico."

Vanovich leaned over to pat Tom's knee. "You will. I saw your eyes light
up at MAJIC. You won't be able to sleep tonight wondering what else it
is we've got up there." "You've already told me," Tom said. "Something
you've made has turned into a weapon you haven't even told the President
about. I'm not leaving Quantico. And I'll sleep just fine."

Vanovich slowly shook his head. Tom just as slowly nodded his own, until
both men laughed.

Tom stood up. The meeting was over. "I've got Tyler for the summer.

Come down for a weekend." Tom left the last part of that invitation
unsaid. Before you die ... Vanovich remained seated. "You can't go."

"Milo, I won't go to the briefing."

Vanovich pointed behind Tom. "The printer. Broken."

"That wasn't a ploy?"

"Tommy, do I really need a ploy to get you to come see me?"

Tom laughed again. The old guy was shameless. "No."

"Good. You bring your tool kit?"

"Right here." Tom reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled
out his Maxxum-model Swiss Army knife. Like that of many actual repair
technicians, it was Tom's experience that if any electronic device could
not be fixed by using some combination of the eighteen tools in this
particular model, then the problem was in the circuitry itself, and the
only practical solution was then to replace the faulty components, not
repair them.

Vanovich smiled nostalgically. Tom knew the general was remembering all
the times he'd seen that knife in action before.

To begin, Tom selected the small, flathead screwdriver and asked
Vanovich to try to print something from his Red Level terminal.

As the general turned back to face his keyboard, Tom glanced at the
surveillance screen again. White dots randomly milled around the
luncheon tables like characters in a videogame. Then the workstation's
photocopier printer began to hum as it responded to Vanovich's print
command, and Tom turned his attention to something more important than
watching midshipmen.

On the screen, another four white dots clustered around a single one for
a few seconds, then moved toward another of the Courtyard's stairways.

Within direct sight of the world's most powerful surveillance system,
Team Two was being deployed.

And no one noticed.

CENTER COURTYARD As Team Two executed its menial work in the Pentagon's
Courtyard, Ranger thought again about his unexpected meeting with Tom
Chase.

Though he was confident the civilian would have no way of recognizing
him, that unexpected random event held the possibility of jeopardizing
one of the mission's crucial objectives to keep its sponsors hidden.

But on reflection, Ranger ultimately dismissed Chase as unimportant.

Team Two had penetrated the heart of the enemy's stronghold, without
suspicion and almost without effort. Successfully seizing control of
that stronghold must be the only focus of his attention now. Since Chase
hadn't recognized him, he did not pose a threat. Ranger moved on.

So far, the only other deviation from plan had come from the enemy.

One of the original midshipmen, a female, had not arrived in time for
the bus's scheduled departure.

Ranger had discovered the absence as the security passes had been
distributed to his forty-one commandos. He'd based Team Two's
composition on the list of Academy volunteers from 12th Company the same
number of males and females, the same skin color.

Racial characteristics and faces could not be matched identically, of
course, and the members of Team Two were somewhat older than the callow
midshipmen they replaced. But when Ranger had led his troops through the
limousine garage to the entrance of the mezzanine-level Tricare health
facility, careless security officers had merely glanced at his
commandos' passes, without closely inspecting their photographs. Thus,
the Pentagon's security guards had waved an enemy force inside, even
allowing Team Two to bypass the metal and micro-imaging radar detectors,
since who would even imagine the possibility that an entire company of
midshipmen could be so easily replaced?

However, since Ranger could not be certain that some form of security
screen might be in operation, none of his troops had carried traditional
weapons. Instead, other arrangements had been made to ensure that what
they would need would already be in place.

As for the missing female, Ranger and the mission planners had
anticipated that few Americans would possess their sense of duty and
commitment. From the beginning, the plan had accounted for the
possibility that one or more of the midshipmen might not show for the
company's assignment. Consequently, four miles from the Pentagon, Ranger
had stopped the bus at a scheduled staging corner by the railroad tracks
on New York Avenue. The young soldier matched to the missing female, Amy
Leanne Bethune, had left the bus and entered the waiting support van.
After the mission was complete, she would rejoin her squad at the
primary extraction point.

Her absence would not degrade Ranger's force, though. Casualties were
expected, and redundancy was part of the mission plan. In each team
within each squad of four, the same task had been assigned to two
soldiers of each specialty. The female soldier had merely been the first
to be lost. She would not be the last.

Now, with the mission's penetration phase completed, Ranger had little
to do except appear to be directing his team as they spread out linen
tablecloths according to the wishes of a condescending major in charge
of the NATO luncheon. So Ranger used the time to walk the pathways of
the Courtyard, surreptitiously counting the Special-Forces snipers on
the roof, verifying there had been no change in the number he had been
informed would be on duty: ten on the inner walls in five teams of two,
with two Secret Service agents for support. The number outside, which he
couldn't verify visually, was reported to be twenty sharpshooters in ten
teams of two, with two Secret Service agents as liaison.

However, the outside sharpshooters could be discounted at first. They
would take a minimum of two minutes to respond to Team Two's attack in
the Courtyard, even longer if the three planned diversions were
successful. And though Ranger had no reason to believe that the
diversions would not be successful, those two minutes would be more than
enough for Team Two to secure its position and gather its hostages.

As he strolled the pathways in the morning sun, secure and focused,
Ranger compared the Courtyard's current condition--the size of the
trees, denseness of foliage--to the most recent SPOT satellite photos he
had openly purchased from the French government less than a month ago,
and to his own memories. He had been in this courtyard before, years
ago. He had sat beneath an umbrella at an outdoor table. He had heard
the story of the hot dog stand called Ground Zero. He had even eaten a
hot dog here, washed down with Coca Cola. It had seemed the patriotic
thing to do, and it was a new experience for him.

But the war he would begin here today would not break new ground,
because the war against tyranny and injustice was as old as humanity.

Instead, Ranger and his troops would merely--and proudly--take their
place as the latest in a line of heroic warriors who fought for all that
was most noble in humankind.

This was a day when right would triumph over might. When the weak would
persevere over the strong. When the United States would be forced to
remember the ideals with which it had been born, and by doing so restore
true freedom to the rest of the world.

Ranger regretted only one requirement of the plan: to go into battle
without honor, disguised, in false colors. But the enemy no longer
understood even the concept of honor. It would take today's actions to
redeem it.

Ranger stood in the heart of the enemy, in the center of the Pentagon,
surveying Ground Zero.

Only one element was missing before the battle could begin.

The President.

TEN "THE TANK." SECOND FLOOR, E RING

In his time on the President's staff, Hector Macgregor had heard the Man
raise his voice once, to cut off the Secretary of Commerce as she tried
to explain that a rise in unemployment was actually a good thing because
it increased the enrollment in job-skills upgrading courses.

But Hector had never seen the President explode in outright fury until
today in the Gold Room--the Joint Chiefs' exclusive conference room
unofficially known as the Tank, with its imposing environment of thick
gold carpeting, gold drapes, and heroic military paintings. To make the
event even more memorable, the object of the President's anger was the
Chief of Naval Operations, and the confrontation was being witnessed by
four other four-star officers--more gold stars than Hector had ever seen
massed together in one place before.

But the President wasn't behaving as if he were intimidated by his
surroundings or his audience. He sat at the head of the spit-polished
conference table and actually thumped a fist on its shining wood grained
surface. "This action is a wake-up call, Admiral! Something those people
have been needing for the past ten years!"

Hector and Major Christou were sitting well away from the action at the
table, along the Gold Room's north wall. But Hector had a good view of
both the President and Admiral Hugh Paulsen. The four-star admiral was
just as furious as his commander in chief, though he was not allowing
himself to express his emotions at the same volume. Paulsen's soft,
rounded face was white with anger, but his voice was firm, with no hint
of indecision. "With respect, sir, it is a provocation. Needless.

Senseless. And if you want my resignation--"

The Secretary of Defense, on the President's left, interrupted sharply.
"That's enough, Admiral."

Nicholas Guilbert stared witheringly at Admiral Paulsen. Then he turned
to give the same hard look to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, seated
directly across from him. But General Flores, who had remained silent
throughout the protracted and unexpectedly emotional argument, showing
no sign of support for either the President or the admiral, made no move
to participate now, either.

The President didn't wait for anyone else to join in. "No," he said
emphatically. "That is not enough." Hector's eyebrows lifted in surprise
as he observed the President's cheeks flush red. Another first. "For the
first time in modern history, the world is on the brink of global
political peace. There will always be terrorists. I do not argue that
point."

The President looked down at the other end of the long table, and Hector
saw him make deliberate eye contact with the short, intense Commandant
of the Marine Corps, General Oliver Kline. "But their actions will not
be the state-sponsored campaigns of the past." Then the President looked
to his right, at the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Philip
Janukatys, a former fighter pilot, still whippet-thin and fit. "And I
concede that China is on the horizon, though it will be at least ten
years before she can threaten our shores, and I remain convinced that
when that day comes, she will see no need to do so.

"There will also be regional conflicts in Africa and South America.

But your own reports tell me they will remain localized, and should
continue to drop in number and severity the more we tie our climate
relief efforts to a firm requirement that those regions find diplomatic
solutions to the problems they face.

"Make no mistake, those climate-relief efforts, those ' other than war'
you people dislike so much, are going to be our country's mission for
the next fifty years. We've all seen the studies. We know what's coming
as this world continues to grow warmer. The greatest movement of
refugees in human history, eclipsing that of World War II.

The transformation of equatorial regions into parched dead zones. Our
maps will be redrawn by the rising sea level. We're going to lose our
major coastal cities."

His entire body conveying the conviction of one who has discovered
absolutely what his mission in life is to be, the President continued
without pausing for response from his audience. "We aren't facing the
apocalypse. America will survive this new century. But for us to prosper
in it, for us to prevent mass starvation, rampant disease, rioting, and
war from engulfing half the nations in the world and dragging us down,
it is our duty--America's duty--to ensure that order is maintained in
the face of chaos. To do that, we have to establish that order now,
while there is still time."

The President took a moment to fold his hands before him, and slow the
tempo of his impassioned address. "Maybe it's not in human nature for us
to ever arrive at an age when there will be absolutely no conflict
between nations. But one thing is certain, gentlemen, and Major"--the
President suddenly nodded at Major Christou and Hector across the
room--"for the first time in more than half a century, the next
generation in this world is no longer threatened by conflict that could
end in global destruction ... except in Europe. So Europe must be ova
first priority."

Hector had heard the President express these views before, but always
among small and select groups who would not repeat his warnings to the
press. Just as Franklin Delano Roosevelt had never publicly lobbied for
America to enter World War II before Pearl Harbor, this President
understood the political realities of alarming voters about events that
seemed to have no immediate connection to them. Thus, he had not forced
the issue of global warming on the American people. Instead, he had
signed a series of secret executive orders authorizing additional funds
for climate-relief planning operations which were never detailed in the
published budget.

In fact, Hector knew that the initial global-warming studies to which
the President had just referred had been commissioned by Presidents
George Bush and Bill Clinton, also by secret executive order. Both
Presidents had read those reports while still in office, but neither
they nor their predecessors had ever dared reveal the reports' sobering
conclusions to the public. But give that same public another decade of
worsening winter storms and record-breaking floods and hurricanes, and
Hector believed as the President did, that they would be grateful that
their leaders had begun to secretly plan for surviving the coming
climactic chaos as far back as the 1990s.

But Admiral Paulsen was not a believer of the President's dire
predictions.

"As far as Europe goes," the admiral said through clenched teeth,
"Russia is contained, sir."

Hector glanced sideways at Christou. The Army major had used the same
words to describe Russia. Somewhat uneasily, he found himself wondering
whether General Flores's chief aide had been present for similar
discussions among the Joint Chiefs.

The President held his ground. "Russia is dying, Admiral Paulsen. The
peace that embraces it now is the peace of paralysis." Hector heard the
Man's voice deepen. Here it comes, thought Hector.

Thefourscoreand-twenty speech.

"Two hundred and thirty years ago," the President said gravely, "our
forefathers fought for democracy, built a unique form of government, and
each generation since has learned from the past and made refinements for
the future. But democracy and free markets have been thrust upon the
Russians. Literally overnight, they were expected to accept what took us
centuries to achieve. It is not enough that they are contained, Admiral
Paulsen. Continued isolation will only lead them to another round of
self-destruction that will make their Sixty Day Civil War look like a
minor family spat."

"Good," the admiral said.

The President would not accept that attitude. "And when they are gone,
Admiral, who divides the spoils? Do we let Ukraine march in? They're
rich. They could do it. Do we let Russia become the battlefield in a
resource war among the other independent states as the crops begin to
fail? There are still nuclear weapons over there. Do you honestly think
some Russian general is beyond lobbing one into Germany to expand the
conflict?"

The admiral lurched to his feet at that. "Jesus Christ, Mr. President,
that's exactly the scenario you're putting into play. By bringing Russia
into NATO, it's covered by Article Five--'the Parties agree that an
armed attack on any of them in Europe or North America shall be
considered an attack against them all." What'll you do when some goddamn
Russian general '' a nuke onto Beijing just to drag us into a shooting
war?"

"Admiral Paulsen, war is waged when one side or another decides it has
something to gain and nothing to lose. It is the goal of my
administration--no, it is my personal intention to see to it that Russia
has something to lose. To see that her military forces are brought up to
NATO standards, to see that her remaining nuclear-force structure is
made more secure under NATO command-and-control guidelines, and that by
bringing this internal stability to her, the way will be paved for her
eventual entry into the European Union.

Because once her people are secure, once they have prosperity, they will
not want to give that up. And when that day comes, they and their
generals will no longer be a threat to us, to Europe, or to themselves.

They will be our level allies in coping with the climatic disruption to
come." "Mr. President," the admiral said, "in this room there is a
tradition of being forthright and blunt. And in that tradition, I say to
you that you are wrong, and your actions here today threaten the
security of this country not fifty years from now, but today."

The tension in the room was palpable. If the President and Admiral
Paulsen had not been separated by the conference table, Hector was
certain they'd be settling their differences physically.

All eyes ~were on the President now. He spoke slowly and clearly.

"Admiral Paulsen, I accept your resignation, as Chief of Naval
Operations, and from the Navy, effective now."

It seemed to Hector that the admiral almost reflexively began to draw
himself to attention, then stopped, as if such a formal response wasn't
worth the effort. Then Hector saw an odd expression slide over the
admiral's face as he looked across the table to the Chief of Staff of
the Air Force.

As if a private signal had been sent, Air Force General Janukatys got
heavily to his feet and stood at attention. "Mr. President, I share the
views of Admiral Paulsen. Our concern must be for our country today, and
not undermined by implausible scenarios of what might or might not
happen half a century from now. Therefore, I also tender my resignation
as Chief of Staff, and from the Air Force."

Hector saw the President look sharply from one man to the other in
disbelief.

"What the hell is going on here!" The Secretary of Defense had reached
his limit. "Russia has been in the works for a year! It's been debated
here in this room. You all testified before the Senate NATO Observer
Group. The President is not making a capricious move! But for you two to
pull this crap now--it's verging on treason!"

Hector half-turned to Christou. Her dark eyes revealed the same startled
shock he felt. She was staring apprehensively at the Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff--her boss, General Flores--as if worried about the
action that he might take in the heat of the moment.

The President was staring at the Chairman, as well. "Anyone else?"

Admiral Paulsen and General Janukatys remained standing, both men
silent.

That was when General Flores pushed back his chair and stood to both
men. "If we had done this six months ago, we'd be forgotten today. No
one would listen."

The President shook his head. "I do not accept that."

"That's your prerogative ... sir." Hector heard a gasp. He wasn't sure
who had made it or if, in fact, it had come from him.

"You sons of ..." The President bit his lip. Hector wondered if he even
knew how to finish the phrase.

Secretary Guilbert took over now. He rose smoothly to his feet and spoke
formally, all emotion banished. "Mr. President, with your permission."
The President gave his assent. "Admiral Paulsen, General Janukatys, as
of this moment your resignations have been accepted and you are relieved
of duty on the Joint Staff. Until such time as your retirements can be
processed, as Secretary of Defense, I order you to refrain from speaking
with anyone about your opposition to Russia's membership in NATO.
Failure to abide by this order will make you subject to immediate
arrest, general court-martial, and possible forfeiture of all retirement
rights and benefits. Is that understood?"

The two men replied in unison, "Yes, sir." Though Hector sensed they
doubted the Secretary would be able to follow through on any of his
threats.

Guilbert sat down again. "You are dismissed."

The two former Chiefs gathered their papers and left the Gold Room.

The President, the Chairman, and the two remaining Chiefs still stood in
position around the table. Fascinated spectators, Hector and Christou
kept their seats against the wall. The cold controlled rage Hector heard
in the President's voice almost frightened him as the Man glared at
General Flores. "Why was I not told?" f The Chairman held up his empty
hands in a gesture of helplessness. ;' "Sir, I didn't know." , f "How
could you not?!"

it "I mean, I knew they were opposed to Russia's entry. I presented
their views to you last year. They spoke against it at the Senate.

But ... s' after the vote, their objections meant nothing. Our job is to
carry out " the policies of the people."

/ The President placed his hands on the table and leaned forward.

"You're against this, too, aren't you?"

"Sir, I am not against it. That would be a violation of my orders. I I ,
admit I have misgivings, which I have shared with you at your re' their
east and west borders, we are risking destabilization of the region in
the short-term. In five years, I'd hate to be seeing the equivalent of a
new Warsaw Pact spring up between Ukraine and the central disaffected
nations. If that happens, all the studies show that new pact would look
south, to Iran, to Iraq. By moving so quickly, I believe we may heighten
tensions, not ease them. But I see the mission of our armed forces as
doing everything we can to help NATO make this new transition as orderly
and as nonthreatening as possible."

The President remained silent for a few moments, as if analyzing the
General's statement for any undercurrents. Then he slowly sat down in
his gold-upholstered chair. "I appreciate your candor, and your
support." And then the President's rare anger was suddenly gone,
replaced by his usual calm focus. He checked his watch. "How are we
doing for time, Hec?"

"Twenty minutes till your opening remarks, Mr. President. The First Lady
and the Vice President are already in the reception area."

The President accepted Hector's information without comment. He waved to
the others to take their seats at the table again, then turned to
Secretary Guilbert. "All right. Nick, you get Bobby started on a press
statement to cover us on this." To General Flores: "General, I'll want
my press secretary to work with the Pentagon spokesman on a joint
statement. Make sure we're on the same page. I want new chiefs announced
right away. Should we consider their operations deputies?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," the Chairman answered dryly. "When the king
dies around here, it's usually better to bury the retainers, too."

Hector saw the President raise an eyebrow at the Secretary of Defense.

"Maybe you'd better watch your back come the next election."

Hector then admiringly watched the Man show why he was the Man. To
General Flores, the President said, "I want your recommendations to be
on Nick's desk first thing tomorrow." To Secretary Guilbert: "Nick,
we'll meet tomorrow at noon to go over whatever names you work out with
the general. I want to be able to talk to the candidates by tomorrow
night and make announcements on Tuesday." And then back to the Chairman:
"Does that work for you, Al?"

"I'll make it work, sir. Most of the people who'd be on my short list
are in the Building today, anyway. I can introduce you after the
ceremonies and before the NIA briefing."

"We'll do that, then." The President used his index fingers to play an
impromptu short drum roll on the edge of the table. Hector knew the
gesture meant he had just made a decision.

As if reading his mind, the President looked across the room at him.

"Hec, I need to make some changes to my speech."

Hector leapt out of his chair at once, with the President's brown
leather briefcase in his hand. "Eighteen minutes, sir."

The President reached into his jacket for his reading glasses. Hector
placed the briefcase on the table beside the President, snapped it open,
and without being asked, handed the President a pen. Hector kept at
least five in his own jacket at all times, as did most of the other
people on the President's staff. The Man was always giving them away, or
else people took them.

Secretary Guilbert had regained his usual intense demeanor. He was
almost dancing with impatience as the President began sorting through
the stacks of papers in his briefcase. "Sir, we should be at the
reception area by now. You have to meet the ambassadors before your
speech. And the generals. And the--"

Instead of responding to the Secretary, the President cut him off by
speaking to Hector as he held up a stapled sheaf of pages. "This isn't
the copy I was working on in the helicopter."

Hector blinked in surprise, berating himself for not paying closer
attention. "Sir, weren't you doing the crossword?"

"I was using the newspaper for support, Hec. For writing. I need the
copy of the speech I made notes on."

"In the helicopter, right, sir?"

"You haven't got much time."

Hector wheeled and sprinted for the main doors, frantically trying to
remember the fastest route connecting the Tank to the heliport entrance.

General Flores called after him. "Just a minute, son."

"Me?" Hector stopped and looked back from the doors.

"Do you have the slightest idea where the heliport is?"

Hector knew when not to bluff. "None at all, sir."

General Flores hefted himself to his feet. "I'll call for one of the
guards at the Corridor Four entrance to bring the speech." "Won't work,"
the President said. "No entry to Marine One. By the time we go through
Secret Service channels for clearance ..."

General Flores turned to his aide. She was still sitting against the
north wall. "Major Christou."

Christou was on her feet and at attention at once. "Yes, sir."

"Escort this young man to the heliport, then bring him back here."

Christou immediately turned in Hector's direction. "Yes, sir."

But Secretary Guilbert countermanded the general. "No, Major, take him
to the reception area. That's first floor, A Ring, between Corridors Six
and Seven. Mr. President, we really do have to be going."

Hector held the door open for Christou.

"Can I trust them?" the President's voice said.

Hector exchanged glances with Christou. He kept his hand on the open
door.

"Trust who?" Hector heard the uncertainty in General Flores's voice.

"Admiral Paulsen. General Janukatys."

Hector felt a flash of relief as he realized the President hadn't been
talking about him.

Flores answered, "In what way, sir?"

"Are they dangerous?"

Christou tried to continue through the door, but Hector put a hand out
to slow her down. The implications of the President's question were
chilling.

The general's response was untroubled. "They're not in the operational
chain of command, if that's what you mean."

Hector didn't hear any more of whatever conversation was about to take
place, because Secretary Guilbert noticed the still-open door. "Mr.
Macgregor, we're all running late."

Hector followed Christou through the door. Then he and Christou walked
quickly past the two Marine guards in the entrance foyer, and through
another set of glass doors to E Ring. Clearly knowing her way, the Army
major led the way toward Corridor Nine.

Hector lengthened his stride and easily kept up. He wanted to ask
Christou what she thought of the President's last question. He wanted to
know what Paulsen and Janukatys might have said to Flores during
meetings in her presence. He wanted to know if it was at all possible
that in this day and age the United States military might represent a
threat to the United States President.

But Hector asked no questions of Christou as they began their race to A
Ring.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know which side the major was on.

THE PENTAGON "G" PARKING LOT CHECKPOINT ROMEO Amy revved the Harley into
a one-eighty turn and shot into the parking lot. It was one of the
smallest at the Pentagon, other than the V. I.P and dignitary lots at
the River and Mall entrances. At the far east end was cluster of
utilitarian, limestone-faced buildings resembling a small but modern
factory--the Pentagon's new heating and refrigeration plant. At the far
west end was a short footpath leading to the lower level of the River
Entrance Parade Grounds, right at the edge of the Boundary Channel
Lagoon. A tall flagpole there carried a large Stars and Stripes,
undulating slowly in the slight breeze.

Now that Amy had achieved her goal, and was no longer in motion, she
suddenly became aware of the moisture trickling down her back. The day
was even hotter and more humid than the weather reports had warned it
might be.

As she walked back to the sergeant, she was doubly glad she had packed
her uniform instead of wearing it. Her gray Navy sweatshirt was already
a mess.

A HUMVEE rolled to a stop by the sergeant. It was a basic Scout version
of the High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, flat Army green,
stripped of its plasticized canvas doors and roof.

"Yo, Navy," the driver called out, a cute corporal whose cocky grin let
Amy know he knew how cute he looked. She didn't like the way his eyes
dropped to take in her damp sweatshirt and tight jeans. "Someone call a
taxi?" he asked, then winked. Amy hoped she wouldn't have to hurt him if
he tried to act up.

Fortunately, the sergeant didn't appear to appreciate the corporal's
flip attitude any more than she did. "Corporal, you will drive
Midshipman Bethune directly to the Corridor Three entrance. You will not
speak to the midshipman during transit, and the midshipman will use your
vehicle's radio to contact me when she arrives, to tell me that her trip
was uneventful. Is that understood?"

The corporal's smile vanished at once and he sat up stiffly, as if
trying to come to attention. "Yes, Sergeant."

Amy threw her bag into the passenger foot well then pulled herself up
through the open door. She saw the corporal react to the sudden sight of
her bare, muscled midriff as her sweatshirt rode up, but an instant
later he snapped his eyes front, knowing the sergeant was still
watching.

"Good luck, Midshipman," the sergeant said. "Don't spill any soup on the
President. And don't swear at any more cops."

"Not today, sir!" Then the HUMVEE pulled out and drove away from the
Pentagon.

Amy immediately turned in her seat, looked back at the checkpoint. The
sergeant was talking to another soldier, paying no attention to the
unexpected direction the corporal had taken. Amy prepared for the worst.
She slipped her right hand to the back of her waist, getting ready to
unsnap the leather sheath she wore on her belt. "This isn't the way to
the Pentagon."

She saw the corporal grip the HUMVEE's hard, black steering wheel even
tighter as he heard the steel edge in her voice. He opened his mouth,
hesitated, repeated the odd, choking display, then: "Uh, permission to
speak?"

"Make it good."

The corporal responded as if he had been jump-started, words flying out
of him. "The River Entrance roads are all closed down. We have to loop
around the heating plant. See? We're just doubling back."

Amy checked the road ahead. It did continue around the buildings ahead.

"On the level, ma'am," the corporal hurried on. "See? We turn in again
..."

The HUMVEE bore to the right, went under an overpass, then entered a
curving ramp that was directly across the G parking lot from Checkpoint
Romeo.

Amy said nothing for the rest of the ride. The HUMVEE crossed the
overpass, then looped down again by the bus terminal, finally hitting a
road that curved around to the pedestrian bridges.

When the corporal brought the HUMVEE to a full stop by the Corridor
Three entrance, Amy pulled the microphone from the dashboard radio and
looked at him. The corporal immediately selected a frequency and told
her to check in with the sergeant, which she did.

Then she jumped down from the HUMVEE's high seat and grabbed her sports
bag from the floor. But she didn't walk away at once. "Look, I'm ... not
having a good day, so ... I didn't mean to get the sergeant all over
you." She gave the corporal a half-smile. It was the closest she'd come
to a real apology in almost three years.

The smile came right back at her. "Bitch."

Amy instantly knew why he did it. She'd already reported to the
sergeant. What was she going to do now? Complain that the corporal had
used a bad word? With her record?

She made her smile even sweeter. Then she made a fist with her thumb
sticking out between her first and index fingers and flipped it at him
once as she spat out, "Eb tvoju mat, zalupa."

For a moment, the corporal's sudden look of shock almost made Amy think
he'd understood what she'd said she'd done to his mother. Without
wasting time to find out, she spun around and headed for the staircase
running up to the pedestrian walkway. She thought she heard the corporal
mutter "Bitch" one more time, showing a pathetic lack of imagination and
vocabulary; then the HUMVEE roared off, gears grinding between first and
second.

The Defense Protective Service officers at the entrance were expecting
her and let her through the security turnstile after manually checking
her pass. They told her that all she had to do to catch up with her
company on catering duty was to stay on this floor and follow the
corridor all the way to where it ended at A Ring, then turn right. When
she reached the main cafeteria between Corridors One and Ten, she'd be
able to check in with food-service personnel or servers. They could tell
her where to change.

The renovated corridor seemed dark after the sunshine. A double row of
perfectly aligned, recessed fluorescent-light panels ran along the
middle of its wide ceiling, but perhaps because of weekend power
conservation rules, only one in every pair was switched on. At the very
end of the corridor, about four hundred feet or so, Amy saw a bluish
glare of what had to be outdoor light coming in through a window.

The light at the end of the tunnel, she thought. The only person in the
corridor, she picked up her pace, her Reeboks squeaking on the smooth
terrazzo floor. She thought about what she might say to Annika Marsh
when they crossed paths. After a few choice statements came to mind, she
gave herself the challenge of coming up with curses that did not
actually use swear words.

Just as she sprinted through the D Ring intersection, Amy saw that her
long chase was finally over. Up ahead, at the next intersection, four
midshipmen rushed by, their white uniforms unmistakable to her.

"Yo, guys!" she shouted, waving to get their attention. "I made it!"

The mids looked at her but didn't slow.

Amy turned her sprint into a run, at the same time trying to figure out
who she was chasing. One of the four looked something like Joey Fisher,
but she was pretty sure it wasn't him.

The midshipmen passed through the intersection and out of sight. Amy
began to run even faster. Was it possible a second company had been
brought in from the Academy? Without telling 12th Company? That didn't
seem right.

"Guys! Wait up!" Amy skidded around the intersection corner expecting to
see the four midshipmen still racing away, at least a hundred feet ahead
of her.

Three of them were.

But the fourth was ten feet away, and he stood facing her.

He was no one she knew.

Amy stumbled to a stop, gasping for breath. "Hey, thanks ... I'm in
Twelfth Company ... what company are you guys with?"

The midshipman's answer was not one she expected.

With a swift move he reached behind his back, drew a gun and fired.

ELEVEN FOURTH FLOOR, D RING. CORRIDOR SIX

There were 7,754 exterior windows in the Pentagon, more than seven acres
of glass in all.

For the first diversion, it was necessary to break only one.

The task had been assigned to Bird Dog Four. She was twenty-eight years
old, but with her blond hair dyed auburn and cut short she had easily
passed for the ID photo pass of Midshipman Annika Marsh that hung from
the chain around her neck.

At 1045 hours, fifteen minutes before the President was scheduled to
address the crowd in the Courtyard, Bird Dog Four exited the women's
rest room just off the intersection of Corridor Six and D Ring. Some
areas of the Pentagon were more critical to the security of the United
States than others, and this recently renovated section was one of the
least--a bureaucratic no-man's-land of support offices dedicated to the
management of the military, not its operation. On this floor, Washington
Headquarter Services gave out windshield decals for more than nine
thousand Pentagon parking spaces. The biggest storeroom of blank forms
for the Department of Defense was also located here. Thus, exactly as
planned, the corridor was empty when Bird Dog Four reached A Ring and
the selected window overlooking the Mall Terrace Entrance.

The three-foot-by-four-foot window, too, was exactly as shown in the
exterior confirmation photographs taken last month. Before the
renovations, almost every exterior window in the Pentagon could be
opened--at least, those that hadn't been sealed by decades of crusted
paint and screwed shut--and more than thirty percent of the Building
heat had been lost through the uninsulated glass. But this window was
one of the new ones--a permanently sealed sheet of blast proof
dual-layer thermopane. Still, it would not be a problem.

Bird Dog Four had prepared her equipment in the rest room. Except for
one metal device, the materials she required for her diversion had been
easily concealed beneath the white skirt of her midshipman's uniform and
in her white jacket. She had practiced deploying the materials so often
that the action no longer required conscious thought. She had been timed
at thirty-two seconds. The schedule allowed her a full minute. More than
enough.

First there was the insulated glove. It had been sewn into the lining of
her uniform jacket, and she had pulled it free in the rest room. Its
multilayered Mylar construction was similar to the thermal-insulation
blankets used in the construction of space suits. Bird Dog Four pulled
the glove onto her right hand, then slipped the modified cutting torch
from her jacket pocket. The torch consisted of two small gas cylinders,
three inches long by three-quarters of an inch diameter, topped by a
thin metal nozzle. Normally, the gas cylinders held pressurized butane,
and could create a flame with a temperature of 1,200 degrees for eight
minutes.

Ranger had carried that one piece of equipment into the Pentagon in his
soft-sided attache case. If the torch had been detected by an X-ray
scan, the guards would have found it packed inside a small, blue-plastic
tool case with the crest of the Naval Academy embossed on the side--a
common gift item sold in the Academy store.

The glass in the Pentagon's windows was also heat resistant. It could be
penetrated by a torch, but not in the time required, and not with
equipment that could be smuggled through in a tool kit. But heat wasn't
the only useful force at Team Two's disposal.

Bird Dog Four turned the safety valve on the torch's small nozzle, stood
sideways, held her gloved hand out straight so it was six inches from
the lower-left corner of the window, then pressed the flow valve switch.

Instantly, a steaming jet of liquid nitrogen sprayed from the nozzle and
Bird Dog Four moved her hand in a small circle. After five seconds of
spraying, she released the valve and waved away the thick white vapor
swirling from the base of the window. Then she tapped the bottom of the
miniature cylinders against the small target area on the glass which was
now cooled to a temperature of320 F. That circle of glass, manufactured
to resist an explosive overpressure of 800 pounds per square inch,
cracked like a thin layer of ice, then disintegrated silently, fragments
falling free like grains of sand.

Bird Dog Four could feel a chill though her insulated glove, but L.

repeated the process for the second layer of thermopane. Another five
seconds of liquid-nitrogen spray, another gentle tap, and there was a
five-inch-wide hole through the Pentagon's blast proof window.

She placed the modified gas torch on the windowsill, tugged off her
ice-frosted glove, then looked down through the window. Two HUMVEEs and
a DPS patrol car were the only vehicles parked in the North Mall lot.
Two soldiers in jungle-camouflage battle dress talked beside one of the
HUMVEEs. Neither soldier was looking toward the Pentagon.

Bird Dog Four felt a gust of hot outside air blow in through the hole
she had made. She reached under her jacket and pulled the diversion
device from her waistband. It looked exactly like a pipe bomb-a
foot-long piece of black, two-inch pipe, capped at both ends, with a
small digital clock timer and set of batteries taped to its midsection.

But all the pieces of the device had been molded from plastic to be
invisible to metal detectors. They had been hidden in the shoulder
padding of Bird Dog Four's uniform jacket, and angled to disappear in
the edge-thickness effect of any micro-impulse radar scanner that
Pentagon security might have used.

Bird Dog Four had snapped the pieces of the fake pipe bomb together in
the rest room, like assembling a model kit. Now she flipped open its end
cap, inserted two fingers to find the sealed plastic bag inside, and
checked her watch.

At precisely 1047 hours, she pressed her fingers against the outer bag
in the pipe to burst the smaller bag inside it.

Instantly, she felt the outer bag begin to expand as the vinegar she had
released reacted with the baking soda. It was a simple trick of
childhood, but one which no chemical sniffer looking for explosives
would ever detect.

Bird Dog Four snapped the end cap back into position and shoved the
simulated pipe bomb through the hole in the window as if she were
loading a miniature torpedo tube. Then she stepped back and waited until
she heard a sudden loud pop from outside, like a small caliber gunshot.
The plastic bag inside the pipe bomb had filled with enough carbon
dioxide to burst like an overinflated balloon.

As Bird Dog Four stepped away from the window, she saw the two soldiers
crouched down by their vehicle, quickly scanning the surrounding area,
guns drawn. Clearly, the bursting plastic bag had sounded like a gunshot
to them as well. One of them was urgently speaking into a collar
microphone.

Bird Dog Four retreated the way she had come, avoiding the escalators
and elevators and entering the first stairwell on the right, to report
to her staging area. She checked her watch as she jogged down the
stairs.

The President was due to speak in eleven minutes.

But Bird Dog Four and forty-two others already in the Pentagon knew what
none of the Preisent's guests did.

He'd never have the chance to say a single word.

SECOND FLOOR, C RING, CORRIDOR FOUR "So, why's the Gold Room called the
Tank?" Hector asked.

It was the only question he dared ask Major Christou on their errand run
to the heliport. He was reluctant to begin any further discussion of
politics until he knew more about where Christou stood.

The major answered promptly, as if she, too, were relieved to talk about
something other than the high-level confrontation they'd both witnessed.
"Goes back to World War II. The Joint Chiefs--they were called the
Combined Chiefs back then--they used to meet in the basement of the old
U.S. Public Health Building over on Constitution Avenue.

They had to duck under some kind of archway and one of them said it
reminded him of getting into a tank. The name stuck."

"You know a lot about this place."

"It's a historic building. A lot of good stories in it."

They came to a side stairwell but just as they were about to enter it,
Christou stepped aside as four midshipmen--two men and two women--rushed
noisily up the stairs. As they charged by, the one in the lead nodded at
Christou to thank her, presumably for giving way.

Then they were gone and Hector watched Christou step into the staircase
to stare after them.

"Something wrong?"

"They smelled like they just came from the shooting range. Did you catch
that?"

Hector had no idea what a shooting range might smell like. "I think
they're the guys helping out in the Courtyard. Maybe someone burned
something in the kitchen." He started down the stairs.

When he realized the major was not behind him, he turned and put his
hand on the railing. "Major, we've got to get moving here."

On the steps above him, Christou paused in thought for just a moment
longer, then started down the stairs.

The stairway ended on the first floor, where the major set a fast pace
to the Heliport Entrance in E Ring.

"Any ghost stories?" Hector asked breathlessly, almost on the verge of
wheezing. This enforced exercise of getting around in the Pentagon
clearly required military stamina.

Christou didn't break stride as she glanced at him, puzzled.

"In the Pentagon," he said. "You know, haunted meeting rooms, the spirit
of Patton wandering the halls? Off the record, of course."

"You like ghost stories?"

Hector decided to come clean. "The President really goes for oddball
stories. Like the hot dog stand at Ground Zero. He'd love to hear there
were ghosts in the Pentagon."

For the briefest of moments, Hector saw a wry smile tug at the corners
of Christou's mouth. "So, all of this interest in what I know about the
Building is all about helping you butter up your boss."

"I like my job. And anyone can give him the stuff in the manuals."

"Okay, there are ghosts."

"Really?"

"I've never seen them, but I've heard the stories." Christou smiled
again, as if she couldn't quite believe the topic of conversation. This
time Hector found her expression warmer, more natural. The major's
attitude to him was definitely changing, as so many people's did when
they found out that his interest in what they knew was genuine. Even her
voice sounded different--younger, more animated. Maybe the major wasn't
as old as her reserved attitude had suggested.

"Okay, this whole place was built at warp speed. Back at the beginning
of World War II, the War Department was spread out over twenty different
office buildings, so they needed to be consolidated. Plus, we weren't in
the war, but the writing was on the wall and everyone knew they'd have
to expand drastically, and soon.

"Basically, a team of engineers and architects came up with the overall
concept in a single weekend in July 1941. One of them, incidentally, was
the fellow who designed the Hollywood Bowl. The five sides were because
they had to fit it in between some existing roads on the original site.
But President Roosevelt had them relocate the Building so it wouldn't
block the view from Arlington Cemetery, and the shape never changed.

"Anyway, a month after that weekend, Congress approved the funds for
construction. Less than thirty days later, September 1, the
ground breaking ceremony took place. Sixteen months later, that's January
15, 1943, they had the dedication ceremony. But since they built it in
wedges, there were people already working here as early as April of
'42." Hector was impressed, and said so. Both with the information and
Christou's easy delivery of it. As they cut across the D Ring
intersection, Hector saw up ahead the interior glass doors leading to
the

Heliport Entrance. He checked his watch: It had taken the major six
minutes to get him here. They only had ten minutes to make it back.

"So," the major continued as she pushed one of the glass doors open,
"you do anything that quickly, you make mistakes. The accident rate was
something like four times higher than the standard for Army construction
at the time."

Hector followed her through the doors, and read between the lines.

"How many people died?"

"Eight on site."

"They're the ghosts?"

"Down in the basement, especially. Just the place for that kind of
thing. To speed up making the foundation, they poured concrete right
onto the soil, so after fifty years, before the renovation, there were
holes in the basement floor, concrete slabs heaved up. Really damp,
dark, smelled like a swamp now and then. That's what this whole area was
when they started construction. A swamp."

As they hurried to the exterior doors that would lead out to the
heliport, Hector saw the major glance around, but he didn't know what
she was looking for.

"So that's where the ghosts are, even after the renovations?"

"That's what they say. Especially at night and on weekends ... when
there's no one here to see them. Which, of course, begs the question:
How does anyone know they're there?"

Hector and the major had reached the set of doors leading outside and
Hector opened them this time. The torpid outdoor air was once again
heavy with the scent of newly mown grass manicured for the President's
brief walk through

"And it's not just the basement," the major added as she and Hector
almost ran along the path leading to the heliport support buildings.

"I've heard stories of something up on the fifth floor, in what used to
be attic storerooms. And I haven't even started on the ancient Indian
burial ground."

Hector couldn't help himself. He broke out laughing. "Get out of town."

Christou's matching laugh was almost a giggle, startling Hector with its
infectious quality. He and the major were getting on better than he'd
ever anticipated. It seemed lots of people besides the President needed
a different point of view to loosen them up. He wondered if his
continued contact with Christou could get her to similarly open up her
thoughts on world politics. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Captain John Smith, early 1600s, he wrote about visiting an
Indian village here. They used to be all up and down the Potomac.

Fishing villages." And then the major reverted sharply to her earlier,
tight attitude. She halted abruptly. "No guards."

That was what the major had been looking for. Hector suddenly recalled
there had been no Air Force guards at the security desk inside.

He and the major were right in front of the helipad now, where the
presidential helicopter waited for the return flight to the White House.
There were no Marine guards at either side of the stairs leading into
Marine One.

"It's really hot," Hector said hesitantly, not even convincing himself.

"Maybe they're inside with the air-conditioning?"

Christou motioned Hector to retreat with her, to the shade of the
helipad's two-story control tower. "The helo engines aren't idling. No
air-conditioning in there." She looked up at the tower. "Oh, shit."

Hector followed her gaze. One of the green-tinted, outward-slanting
windows was cracked. No personnel were visible through it. His sense of
unease escalating, Hector looked past the tower. He could no longer see
the black-clad riflemen or the Secret Service agent stationed on the
roof.

Christou grabbed him by the shoulder. Her voice cut through Hector's
confusion like a laser. "Go inside, go to the security desk, call 5555.
Tell them there is a Cloudy Office scenario at the Heliport Entrance."
As if expecting his immediate response to her order, the major turned
her attention back to the helicopter. But Hector had no idea what a
Cloudy Office scenario was supposed to be. He had, however, been briefed
often enough about what to do if he ever noticed suspicious activity
around the President. "No--you call. You know what to tell them. I know
how to use the Secret Service radio in the helo."

The major nodded, accepting his suggestion without question. She whirled
around without saying anything else and ran for the Heliport Entrance to
Corridor Four.

Hector sprinted across the grass toward Marine One. In five seconds the
metal stairs clattered noisily as he rushed up them and to the left to
the cockpit.

The two pilots' bodies lay slumped in their flight chairs, still buckled
in. Dark blood dripping from their heads onto the cockpit floor.

The dashboard instruments had been smashed. Behind the two dead pilots,
on the cockpit rear bulkhead, dangled what was left of the Secret
Service ECOM link. The handset was on the deck, crushed. Its wires had
been severed.

Fearing what he would find, Hector turned and looked into the passenger
cabin.

Two dead Marine guards. Their blood staining the thick, beige,
soundproofing carpet beneath them.

Between the two Marines was a cardboard carton whose label marked it as
containing twenty-four cans of tomato soup. Its top flaps were open.
Without even thinking of how foolish he was being, Hector found himself
walking slowly forward to look into the carton. Something wrapped in a
gray plastic bag filled the bottom of the box. Set into the middle of
the bag was a digital time display, black numbers against a pale green
background. Wires from the display disappeared into the gray plastic
bag.

The time on the display was 10:52.

The President was scheduled to speak at 1100.

Hector knew what he was looking at without even voicing the word. He
just didn't believe it.

He focused on the time display. I'm going to be late, the only conscious
thought in his mind. Something more instinctual made him turn and run.

But he was late.

The display ticked over. 10:53.

The bomb in the President's helicopter exploded on schedule.

It was the second diversion.

RIVER ENTRANCE PARADE GROUNDS The third diversion weighed forty-seven
pounds. Except for its electronics package, the device had been built in
a small machine shop in New York at a cost of $2,300. That did not
include the $5,000 promised to the American undergraduate who had
constructed the device over the course of a week. When Ranger's
operatives took delivery of the device, they killed its maker, but not
to save the money. In principle, Ranger's funds for the mission were
unlimited. Rather, it was critical to the success of the mission that
the enemy have no means of determining who was responsible for today's
actions. Ranger, like the mission planners, was convinced that true
world stability depended on secrets.

The device was called a Flux Compression Generator. The basic technology
it was based on dated back to the forties. The effect it produced had
first been described in the sixties. The Semtex explosive that powered
it had been developed in the seventies. And a surplus Pentium II
computer chip from the nineties and the series of off-the shelf,
rechargeable batteries originally designed for use in portable medical
equipment enabled the FCG to be made small enough for concealment in a
thirty-cup, brushed-aluminum coffeemaker.

The coffeemaker had been installed in a white, television transmission
van-rented to an Italian news bureau. For the past five days, the white
van had been parked on the Pentagon's River Entrance Parade Grounds.
Throughout that time, it had been subjected to daily examinations by the
Defense Protective Service's K-9 unit, using German shepherds trained to
detect the volatile solvents given off by virtually every known type of
explosive, even Semtex. But the FCG was still in place.

Encased in a fiberglass shell that had been molded around it without
seams, and that contained no openings, the concealed FCG released no
molecules of Semtex volatiles. Ranger's engineers had methodically
eliminated any which had come in contact with the exterior surface of
the shell with a decontamination procedure involving repeated acid
washes followed by storage in a vacuum chamber. Semtex was already one
of the hardest explosives to detect, and after the acid-vacuum
treatments, neither dogs nor chemical detectors carried by the other
security personnel who constantly patrolled the parade grounds had a
chance of detecting the device.

Thirty minutes before the President was due to speak, a Baltimore based,
freelance television technician hired by the Italian agency when it
rented the white van took the aluminum coffeemaker outside and placed it
on a small folding table. Beside the coffeemaker, he placed a stack of
Styrofoam cups and a plastic bag. The plastic bag was filled with
packets of Equal and white-plastic stir sticks. An orange extension cord
ran from the coffeemaker into the back of the van.

Twenty minutes before the President was due to speak, two Defense
Protective Service officers walked past the van, not even glancing at
the coffee table.

Seven minutes before the President was due to speak, the DPS and Secret
Service radio channels filled with messages reporting the discovery of
an apparently amateur pipe bomb in the bushes along the wall containing
the Pentagon's Mall Entrance. Army personnel had cleared the area and
were waiting for delivery of an Explosive Ordnance Disposal robot.

Outside the Pentagon, roof-positioned Special-Forces snipers and Secret
Service personnel moved rapidly to the Mall Entrance side to sweep the
area in case additional devices had also been deployed. Inside the
Pentagon, the Secret Service agents accompanying the President in the
reception area remained at heightened level of readiness. With three
hundred guests already in attendance, including diplomats and
high-ranking military officials from all the NATO countries, the
ceremony was not an event that could easily be canceled.

Immediately upon the withdrawal of the snipers and agents from the roof
overlooking the heliport, four of Ranger's commandos emerged from
Corridor Four to eliminate the two Air Force guards at the heliport
security desk. Thirty seconds later, at the heliport control tower, one
of the commandos tossed a flash-bang grenade up the short staircase.
Simultaneously, at the heliport's fire and first-aid station building, a
second commando did the same. The other two commandos dropped the guards
outside the President's helicopter and threw a second flash-bang grenade
into its cockpit. At each of their target sites, Ranger's commandos
neutralized the unconscious personnel with single shots to the head.

Then the two commandos in Marine One activated one of ten Semtex time
bombs, which had been delivered to the Pentagon's main kitchen in a
cardboard carton of soup cans. The bomb's timer began a three-minute
countdown.

One minute later, five minutes before he was due to speak, the President
of the United States decided not to delay his appearance until Hector
Macgregor and Major Christou returned with his annotated script.
Instead, with the First Lady's blessing, the President decided to speak
extemporaneously, a decision anxiously questioned by the President's
press secretary. But this President was known for always being on time.
He would not make an exception today.

That was what Ranger had counted on. All was still unfolding as it
should.

The Secret Service agents in the Pentagon's Courtyard reported that all
three hundred invited guests were in position, seated at the forty round
tables set up before the stage. There was no indication of trouble
within the safety of the Pentagon's inner walls.

The Marine Band was given a five-minute warning. They would open with
"Hail to the Chief," then the national anthem. Following the President's
opening remarks, they would then play the Russian National Anthem as
General Yuri Kerensky joined the President's party on the stage.

In the reception area, the President, the Vice President, the Secretary
of Defense, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were
assembling in position, before the glass door leading to the stage
entrance. The President and General Flores took the opportunity to shake
hands again with Russia's General Kerensky.

Four minutes before the President was to speak, the bomb in Marine One
exploded.

In the Courtyard, the blast's concussion was magnified by the hard
surrounding walls. Fully half those invited were military veterans.

They knew the sound of an explosion when they heard it.

At the River Entrance, the blast was almost as loud. But most of the
media could not identify what they had heard.

Except for one technician, in a small white van rented to an Italian
news agency.

Holding his watch in his left hand, the technician counted off thirty
seconds, waiting for the security radio channels to become overloaded.

Waiting for the smoke from the destroyed helicopter to be noticeable for
miles. And for the President's Secret Service to realize that evacuation
by Marine One was no longer an option, forcing them to fall back to one
of their contingency plans. Not that the mission would allow any of
those plans to succeed.

Twenty-five seconds after the Marine One bomb detonation, after ongoing
radio updates announcing that both the Heliport and the Mall Terrace
Entrances had been compromised, two Secret Service agents raced down
Corridor Six to B Ring, each with an arm hooked around one of the
President's, dragging him forward despite his protests. The President
was shielded by the beige raincoat lined with Kevlar and ceramic armor
that a third agent had thrown over him. A fourth agent led the way, his
SIG-Sauer semiautomatic pistol already drawn.

A second team of four agents dragged the Vice President down Corridor
Five, following a second planned evacuation route.

Two additional agents, sandwiching the First Lady between them,
propelled her along the A Ring corridor to the kitchen and her own
evacuation-path exit.

Of the three backup extraction points still available, Special Agent
Zibart chose the roof option. He called for an Air Force Special Ops
Pave Low III to descend to the extraction point on the C Ring roof in
the Mall Terrace wedge. The helicopter would hover forty feet above the
roof to drop two hostage-retrieval operators on rappelling ropes.

As soon as the operatives reached the roof, they were to snap a Fulton
harness around the President and two Secret Service agents, and the
helicopter would immediately ascend and move off. The Secret Service
Agents and the Special Ops soldiers would be human shields around the
President until the five could be winched aboard.

Thirty seconds after the Marine One bomb detonation, the pilot of Black
Angel One began to radio his confirmation of the Secret Service's
emergency extraction request and banked over the Potomac, as he began
his descent to the roof of C Ring.

At the same time, in the Italian news van at the River Entrance, the
technician pressed the black switch he held in his right hand. The black
switch was connected to the orange extension cord, which was connected
in turn to the brushed-aluminum coffeemaker on the table outside the
van.

In the coffeemaker, a compressed CO2 gas cartridge suddenly fired,
turning the cylindrical container into a mortar tube that launched the

FCG. The only sound it made was the sudden whump of the gas release and
the clatter of the coffeemaker lid as it landed on the roof of the news
van.

The forty-seven-pound Flux Compression Generator capsule reached its
operational altitude of 110 feet in less than two seconds. At that
point, a timer started by the impact of the launch ignited one end of
the capsule's Semtex core so that an explosion began to propagate along
the length of the device.

The Semtex core was wrapped in a helical coil of copper wire through
which traveled a battery-supplied current. In the hundreds of
microseconds the explosion took to consume all the Semtex, the magnetic
field produced by that current was violently compressed by both the
explosion and the resulting short circuit that progressed through the
coil.

The instant before the Semtex disintegrated the FCG and its fiberglass
shell, the strength of the compressed magnetic field in the capsule
approached that generated by a small nuclear bomb. The electromagnetic
pulse that resulted radiated outward at the speed of light over an area
with a diameter of 1,500 feet.

Instantly, every television light on the parade ground blew out in
smoking, sparking explosions. Instantly, every cell phone, every radio,
every electronic device from the ignition systems of the parked
limousines to the Palm Pilot organizers in the pockets of the reporters
and the radio mikes clipped to soldiers' shirts burned out as their
circuits and power supplies--designed to operate at currents of only a
few tens of volts at most--were subjected to a blitzkrieg surge of
thousands of volts.

The antennae and satellite dishes of the news trailers and vans absorbed
that pulse, amplified it, then drove it down into the equipment that was
wired to them. Simultaneous explosions resounded across the parade
grounds as gouts of smoke and streaks of flame shot out of every camera
and monitor. Miniature lightning displays shot from antenna to antenna
and snaked along the power cables that had been laid out across the
parade grounds' grass.

A hundred small fires broke out at once across the makeshift television
city. More serious explosions erupted to the side of the River Entrance,
where the power-generator trailers blew out with enough force to ignite
their diesel fuel supplies.

And even before the reverberations of these explosions, large and small,
had faded, they were replaced by the screams of the reporters and
technicians and security personnel caught in the path of exploding
equipment, or those more fortunate who struggled to pull smoldering ilk,
and flaming electronic devices from their pockets before their clothing
and hair could ignite.

The confusion and panic were so great at the River Entrance that no one
witnessed the spectacular death spirals of the circling black
helicopters, whose engines had failed with the sudden death of all
onboard electronics.

In less than five seconds, the detonation of one forty-seven-pound bomb
costing $2,300 destroyed more than five million dollars' worth of
government and private equipment. It killed ten people at once,
seriously injured fifty-two others, and, true to its nature, disrupted
absolutely the complex systems that guarded the safety of the President,
the leaders of NATO, and the headquarters of the Department of
Defense--the most secure building in America.

The third diversion had served its purpose.

The siege of the Pentagon had begun.

GROUND ZERO ONE

SECOND FLOOR, D RING, CORRIDOR THREE If Amy Bethune had stopped to think
about what she had to do to survive, she would have been dead in less
than a second.

But Amy had been trained to operate in an environment in which thought
was not required. Her instincts had been honed. The reflexes of youth
had been refined. And in that split second as her attacker raised his
pistol to aim and fire at her, Amy found out just how good her training
had been.

Even before she consciously recognized the gun in her enemy's hand, she
began to pivot sideways to decrease the target area she presented. At
the same time, she used her momentum to swing up her dark blue sports
bag and make it her weapon, launching it on a fast, straight trajectory
toward the gun.

The sports bag absorbed the first silenced shot, and the impact
deflected it in a puff of haze and dark-blue fibers.

Amy lunged forward, below the enemy's sight line making use of the
tumbling bag's cover and distraction.

The second shot hissed through the space her body had occupied only an
instant before. By now she was airborne.

Her left hand struck the gun broadside as it fired a third time, while
her right-hand knuckles punched the enemy's throat.

They fell together, Amy's hand clutching the gun and twisting it back
against her enemy's thumb so that as they hit the floor, the weapon was
out of his grasp and in hers.

She landed on her side beside him as he swept his open left hand up to
her jaw with such force her vision was mottled by explosions of color.

She felt him start to roll away. She grabbed his jacket to slow his
motion, to keep him close. She felt him twist, sensed him as a shadow in
her clearing sight, rising above her to strike.

She drove the gun forward from her shoulder, directly into his groin.

He groaned. She swept her empty hand against his head, driving him back
to the floor, then swung the gun into his face and heard the crack of
bone.

That sound brought her an intense moment of clarity. She recalled Marine
Sergeant Major Gilden and her hand-to-hand combat training: Once they're
down, the sergeant major had told her, make sure they're never getting
up.

Amy rolled to her knees beside her enemy as he shriveled into a fetal
curl. It didn't matter. Mercy had never been an option. The gun went
into her right hand and became a club she used to crush his exposed
temple.

His body jerked once, then lay still as blood welled up and escaped his
smashed skull like a drain overflowing. Amy looked down at the first
person she had ever killed. Possessed by a strange sense of calm, she
wiped the bloody gun on his white trousers.

Then a silenced shot spit past her and she slapped both hands around the
gun, rolled over her enemy's body, and fired up from the floor at the
three hostiles in midshipman white who were almost upon her.

The weapon kicked in her hands again and again. She heard one shot
scream as it etched a furrow in the corridor's terrazzo floor. A ceiling
light exploded. The three hostiles flattened against one wall, then
disappeared. Into an alcove or a corridor--Amy couldn't be sure which.
But she was sure that, as good as her hand-to-hand skills were, she
sucked as a marksman. She hadn't hit one of them.

Amy scanned the empty corridor. She had no picture of how this deserted
ring section connected to the rest of the Pentagon or where she could
find reinforcements quickly. And she had to be ready for the three
hostiles to double back on her.

She looked at the man who'd tried to kill her, at his uniform. His
single stripe said he was a Youngster, but the remains of his face said
he was ten years too old to be in second year at the Academy. Then she
saw the Pentagon security pass on the chain around his neck. She bent
down to yank it from him, snapping the chain. The blood spattered
photograph showed Midshipman Joseph Fisher. There was only one way this
man could have taken Joey's pass.

She rapidly calculated her odds of setting an effective ambush if the
three hostiles tried to double back. The odds weren't good. Especially
since there could be up to forty more enemy in her murdered classmates'
uniforms.

Amy ransacked the dead man's pockets for spare magazines and found one,
fully loaded with fifteen 9mm rounds. She shoved the spare clip into the
front pocket of her jeans. That was when she checked the manufacturer's
stamp on the grip of the pistol. It was a Beretta. But it wasn't like
the standard M9 model she had trained with at the Academy. This one was
jet black and had no cut marks or lines on the sides of its frame. It
was more a smoothly curving sculpture than a lethal machine. And there
was no silencer, though the pistol had barely made a sound when it had
fired. She examined the clip still inside the Beretta. Four cartridges
left. She tried not to think who'd been the targets of the eleven
expended rounds.

Right now, she needed those reinforcements. That meant finding a
phone--in a defensible position. She saw a stairwell just a few yards
down the corridor.

In the same instant--the lights flickered, then a muffled echo. An
explosion, Amy knew. Something big.

Again, training dictated choice of strategy. Her heart pounding madly,
Amy ran for higher ground.

HELIPORT, CORRIDOR FOUR ENTRANCE Hector Macgregor was inside Marine One
again. Washington spun crazily past the windows. Rotors scattered the
pages of the President's speech, curling them into a vortex of lost
paperwork. The President was furious with him. And it was all Hector's
fault. Because he went in--because he opened the--because he Hector fell
onto the helipad, gagging, head throbbing, each scrape and cut stinging
as he was dragged by' Major ... ?" He coughed, then almost threw up as
Christou rolled him roughly onto his back, onto soft grass. He saw a
swirl of black smoke rising behind her, into unmarked blue sky. He felt
small shocks of pain in his back, down his legs, in one foot. "What--?"

"The helicopter went up. You almost went with it." She threw herself on
his body, her arms flailing at him. Then Hector realized that some of
the black smoke came from him.

He sat up as if spring-loaded, throwing her back to her knees. Then both
their hands flew as they patted down the burning embers still igniting
his once-white shirt and gray trousers. Hector groaned as he saw the
gray wad the major was using to extinguish the worst of the flames: his
favorite cashmere, hand-tailored jacket. He had no idea when she had
taken it off him. He looked down at his new tie. The slate-gray silk now
had holes. Hector loosened the tie, tugged it off, threw it away. He
looked up at the major, who, incredibly, was now standing up,
reflexively straightening her uniform and brushing off soot.

"When?" he asked. All he could remember was going into Marine One for
the President's speech. Then ... nothing. He looked over at the helipad.
At what was left of Marine One, listing to one side, its middle fuselage
bulging, buckled, every window blown out. Oily black smoke poured from
its engines, despoiling the glossy white paint just above them.

Then Hector remembered ... the bomb in the soup carton ... the ... He
lurched to his feet. "The President!" He wobbled as he struggled to lift
and move his feet in the direction of the Heliport Entrance.

But Christou easily restrained him. "There was a second explosion.

The phones aren't working. You don't belong in there."

Hector pushed her away, shook his head, almost fainted. "The hell I
don't." He forced his legs to obey him but his left foot hurt like hell
with every step. This time the major stopped him by twisting one of his
arms, hard, as she spun him around.

"Sir the President is already gone. He has to be. The Secret Service
would extract him at the first sign of trouble."

Hector didn't believe her, and for good reason. He swayed but stayed
standing, wondering what he'd done to his left foot. It felt more
sprained than broken, but his black Italian loafer was getting tighter
by the second. "You're going back in. Why can't I?"

He read the answer in her eyes. "There is a hostile force inside. You "

"What hostile force?" A wave of nausea nearly overwhelmed him but he
managed to suppress it.

"Those midshipmen we passed on the stairs. They smelled like gunsmoke."

Hector suddenly forgot all about himself. Midshipmen! The Courtyard was
filled with them! Adrenaline surged through his body and he turned and
broke into a half-running, hopping lope.

Christou charged after him. "You're a civilian!"

"So you can't give me orders!" He pushed open the glass doors, but
Christou rushed through before him.

Then they both ran for Corridor Four and the President.

THIRD FLOOR. E RING "Here's the culprit," Tom said.

Vanovich glanced over from his high-backed swivel chair in front of the
Red Level workstation monitors. "Something expensive, I hope."

Tom straightened up from the exposed print engine and clicked his Swiss
Army knife closed. "The charging wire snapped, so the paper won't pick
up any toner."

Vanovich eased out of his chair, his movements slow and careful. "That
never happens."

Tom crossed his arms, trying not to show the distress he felt seeing his
old friend's lack of mobility. "It does if someone snaps it on purpose
to get a repair guy up here when he could be at a ball game."

He still wasn't certain if Vanovich had actually sabotaged his own
printer or not.

"Tommy boy, that's a terrible thing to say." Vanovich's soft brown eyes
were guileless. "Can you fix it?"

"I can replace the charging assembly if you have a spare."

"Since they never break, I doubt building services has them in stock."

Vanovich rubbed at the back of his solid neck. "Could you take one from
another printer?"

"If you can get me into another Red Level ..." Tom stopped. "Did you
feel that?" There had been a tremor in the floor.

"Goddamn helicopters. They've been flying all over the place. When the
President comes in--all five of those big green monsters going over at
once--it feels like the roof's about to blow off."

Tom relaxed. "Right. He was landing just when I got here. Felt like
Dorsey's car was going to blow off the road. Anyway ... from what I
remember of the paperwork for secure printer parts, you might as well
wait for--"

The ceiling lights flickered once, in time with another small tremor.

"Okay, Milo. Now, what the hell was that?"

General Vanovich looked up at the ceiling of his sealed Red Level office
with a thoughtful expression. "That was a power outage. We've switched
over to storage batteries and in about ninety seconds the backup
generators will take over."

"This whole section's been renovated. How can you have a--"

"Will you look at that?" Vanovich pushed his swivel chair aside to reach
for his keyboard.

On the center screen above the general's keyboard, Tom saw the MAJIC
space-surveillance image of the exterior grounds of the Pentagon.

There appeared to be a cloud distortion over the helipad and an even
larger one over the parade grounds.

^

"What's that? Rain clouds?" That might make some sense, Tom thought.

A good old Washington thunderstorm. A nearby lightning strike could have
affected the power stations. The tremors might have been caused by
thunder.

But Vanovich was a more experienced image analyst than Tom was.

"That's smoke. Get Dorsey in here." The general started typing very
rapidly. The monitors began winking out as Tom watched. "Get him!"

Tom had just entered Vanovich's outer office when he heard the
unmistakable but improbable popping of gunfire from the corridor beyond.

For a timeless, confused moment, Tom stared at the closed door to the
corridor.

Then came the splintering of wood ... more gunfire. And a strangled gasp
just beyond the outer door. Tom knew it had to be Dorsey.

He turned back to the green door. It had already shut. Now the outer
door was rattling. Someone was trying to open it. Dorsey must have
locked it somehow, before he was shot.

Tom quickly leaned into the retina scanner and jammed his proxcard
against the metal plate, as behind him, someone began pounding on the
outer door. It took all the self-control Tom possessed to keep his eye
to the scanner and his back to the door. But he couldn't run and hide.

He couldn't leave the general.

Another burst of gunfire. He heard the metal doorknob crash to the floor
in pieces.

Just then the green door clicked.

Tom rushed through just as the outer door began to open.

In the Red Level office he whirled around and pushed at the door to
swing it almost but not quite shut. Then he forced himself to slowly
close the door that last inch. Whoever was about to enter Vanovich's
office must not hear the click of the green door's lock.

Vanovich was still on his feet, holding a phone receiver in one hand.

He held a finger to his lips in warning. "The outside lines are gone,"
he whispered. "We've still got internal lines on the fiber-optic system,
but security isn't answering. Where's Dorsey?"

Tom mouthed his bad news more than voicing it. "They're in your office.
They shot down the door."

The general nodded, not even bothering to ask who Tom meant by "they."

He kept his voice low. "We're going to be okay, Tommy. Whatever this is,
it can't last long."

Tom heard a crash in the outer office and felt the first touch of panic.
Vanovich was a desk soldier. His old friend didn't understand.

"Dorsey may be dead. I think I heard him get shot."

The general put down the receiver, put his hands on Tom's shoulders.

His voice was calm, controlled. "The Pentagon knows how to deal with
this kind of thing."

"What?" Tom felt sweat drip into his eyes, and shook it away. The small,
sealed room was feeling hotter despite his short-sleeved polo shirt. The
air-conditioning was no longer working.

"They call it Cloudy Office. It's a training scenario. Every two years "
Vanovich paused, listened as the sound of another crash penetrated the
door, then resumed whispering. "Every two years, they've been running
it. Invite the press. Get the local police in.

Then they simulate this kind of stuff."

The green door shook violently as if the intruder were trying to jar it
off its hinges, but Vanovich kept talking. Tom felt his heartbeat
steadying. He concentrated on slowing down his breathing, to conserve
oxygen.

"They have soldiers act like terrorists, you know. Sometimes they take
over the Secretary of Defense's office downstairs. One time they
released fake nerve gas in the Tricare facility. Did you see all the
little dental offices they have down there? They double as
decontamination rooms." Vanovich pointed to the ceiling just above the
green door. "You see that slot?"

In more control of his reactions now, Tom looked up, saw a broad, squat,
U-shaped opening as wide as the door.

"This is also a safe room," Vanovich said. "If they try to force that
door, bang, a composite-armor blast shield shoots down and the air vents
are sealed. We've even got emergency rations. Tommy, trust me.

They'd need a tactical nuke to get us outta here. Everything's going to
be fine. We're going to be okay."

Tom didn't enjoy the thought of being sealed in with no air supply, but
it was better than being shot. "They've trained for this?"

Vanovich nodded, reassuring. "We got the operational centers of the
Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the fucking Marines in this building.
Maybe those assholes out there can get into my office. But they sure as
hell can't get anywhere near those other ones. All those Cloudy Office
exercises, there're just a cover so the press doesn't start wondering
what all the helicopters and troop activity is about.

The real deal is Operation Cloudburst. It's part of Atlantis Rising.

And ... look, Tommy, everything I'm telling you, this is classified
beyond even your need to know, okay?"

Tom had recognized the last code name. "Atlantis Rising ... as in
PROJECT ATLANTIS? You've got it in here?"

General Vanovich nodded and leaned forward, conspiratorially, as if
about to tell Tom even more. But then, from the other side of the green
door, a voice called out, the words muffled, but discernible.

"Major General Milo Vanovich!"

Vanovich looked warily at the door, one hand warning Tom to let him
handle this, as if it was Tom who needed protection, and not the other
way around.

"General. We have control of the Building. We know exactly where you
are. And we know what will happen if we force the door to your Red Level
facility."

The general's bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise, in response to the
intruders' revelation. Tom no longer found the movement humorous.

"Speak to us, General. We have accessed the security logs. We know you
signed into your office at 6:07 this morning."

"Ah, shit," Vanovich muttered. Tom wondered if the simulation scenarios
had included this stage.

"General, no one needs to get hurt. If you do as we say, no one will get
hurt. But if you remain in there, we will start executing hostages. From
today's guest list."

The answer to Tom's question about the completeness of the Cloudy Office
simulations was in the expression on Vanovich's face.

"General, I'm going to make this easy for you."

Tom heard the sound of scuffling outside the green door, heavy
footsteps, harsh voices.

"My men have just brought me the President of the United States. He is
not the person I'm interested in today. He is expendable to me. Do you
understand?"

Tom stared at Vanovich. The President was here today. Was it really
possible that he could have been taken hostage? In the Pentagon? But
then, how had anyone managed to smuggle weapons into the Building and
get as far as Vanovich's office?

"They're lying ..." Vanovich said.

Then Tom's questions became moot as a very familiar voice called out
hoarsely: "General! This is your commander in chief! Do not open that--"
The shout was  by a loud thud, then a groan.

Vanovich took a step forward, but Tom caught him by the arm. "Milo, no!
The President said no!"

"This won't last long, Tommy. All we need to do is buy some time.

I'll be okay." The general pushed Tom's hand away and shouted at the
green door. "I need guarantees."

"I will give you five seconds to open the door. Then I will kill the
President and go looking for another officer with Red Level clearance."

Vanovich turned to Tom and whispered urgently. "You have to think of
Tyler! Hide behind the workstation! I'll be okay. All they want is me
and my Red Level access. It won't do them any good."

Before Tom could stop him, the general was opening the green door,
shouting, "I'm coming out."

With no other option, Tom ran for the Red Level workstation and squeezed
himself into the space between the console and the wall. The space was
just big enough for a technician to work in. All the renovated sections
of the Pentagon included design features like the console workspace to
facilitate upgrade and repair.

The green door clicked open, brightening the light in the sealed inner
office.

Crouched in his hiding place, Tom tried to convince himself that the
general was right. That the Pentagon knew what to do. That in just a few
minutes, the Marines would come to the rescue.

Through the open door, he heard Vanovich's indignant voice clearly. H
"Where's the President?" <*

"Tango?" the intruder replied. "A demonstration for the general."

"My fellow Americans," a second voice said, "welcome to the Brave New
World of the Brave New Century." Tom realized how they had been tricked.
Every standup comic in the country could do the President.

So, it seemed, could at least one terrorist.

Vanovich's voice trembled, but Tom recognized the underlying emotion was
anger, not fear. "Who are you?"

"I am a patriot, General. You can call me Ranger. Who else is in that
room?"

"Why don't you go in and look?"

Tom tensed. The general was trying a trick of his own--to provoke the
intruder into triggering the Red Level room's automatic security
measures. But the tactic was not successful.

"That won't be necessary," Ranger said. "Grenade."

Just for an instant, Tom heard the beginning of Vanovich's cry of
protest. Then the green door slammed shut and something hit the
inner-office carpet.

Tom stopped breathing. He heard a faint hissing, like a large fireplace
match igniting. 1 He thought of Tyler. I \ The grenade went off. '

TWO ERING

Five minutes after the third diversion, Ranger had no idea where the
President was and didn't care. He never had.

General Milo Vanovich was the mission's prime target: a two-star general
who had never faced combat; who would disobey a direct order from his
commander in chief; and who, as director of the NIA, enjoyed absolute
Red Level access to every asset owned and operated by the National
Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office. So much power in
such ineffectual hands. Only in America.

Ranger quick-marched General Vanovich along the newly wood paneled
corridor of E Ring, twenty-five feet beyond the River Entrance Parade
Grounds, where panicked confusion still reigned. Close beside Ranger
were the other three members of his squad, Tango, Hotel, and Bird Dog
One, all three men still in midshipmen white, all toting Heckler & Koch
9mm MP5 submachine guns with integral silencers, and wearing web
harnesses loaded with flash-bang grenades and extra clips. With long,
bulky barrels and no stocks, the silenced H&Ks were easier to use in
close-quarters combat than basic-combat versions and, because of their
compact size, had been much simpler to smuggle into the Pentagon's
special-events kitchen.

Seconds after the grenade detonated in the general's inner office,
Ranger had heard the pulsating shriek of an alarm giving the signal to
evacuate the Building. That the Building's automatic alarm system
continued to function despite the second diversion on the outside parade
grounds was no surprise to Ranger. Most of the Pentagon's critical
aboveground power and communications systems were hardened against
electromagnetic pulse. It was the dozens of antennae clustered on the
roof of the River Entrance wedge of the Pentagon that would most
certainly have been knocked out by the EM pulse generated by the FCG
device. Ranger knew the only EMP shielding at the Pentagon was where
those antennae's wire leads entered the Building through electromagnetic
traps. The traps were designed to dissipate the pulse and protect the
equipment inside. Yet, for all that the Pentagon's designers had tried
to keep the interior layout of the Building obscure, even a casual
inspection of aerial photos of its exterior confirmed the relative
importance of a section. The roof of the most important section held the
greatest number of satellite dishes and transmission antennae. And it
was above that roof that the FCG had been detonated. The Pentagon had
many other meticulously detailed options for self defense and security
of significant sections and, during his tour here, Ranger had been
allowed to review most of them.

He had been particularly interested in the classified reports analyzing
the effectiveness of all the Cloudy Office and Cloudburst
security-training scenarios that were run every two years. That was when
Ranger had detected a weak point in the Pentagon's defense exercises:
the unquestioned assumption that local area forces would have access to
instant communications, by phone or radio. Yet, today, merely by
detonating a simple, garage-built EMP bomb over the parade grounds,
Ranger had been able to completely isolate the Pentagon from outside
help.

When he had returned from that tour and was back at his regular duty
station, Ranger had even managed to obtain, illegally, an abstract of
the Above-Top-Secret Atlantis Rising scenario. Since then he had learned
that the Pentagon had classified all the implementations of PROJECT
ATLANTIS at such a high level that fewer than one hundred people in the
Building even suspected the existence of the defense forces they had at
their disposal.

For now, however, it was enough that he and his team had cut the
Pentagon off from the outside world. Most of the internal systems would
only have to function for the next twelve hours, after which time the
operational ability of any interior or exterior systems would cease to
be important. Twelve hours from now, the Pentagon itself would cease to
exist, along with half of Arlington County.

In fact, based on his study of the Cloudy Office and Cloudburst
documents, Ranger knew it would be at least thirteen more minutes before
sufficient working communications nodes could be brought in from outside
the affected area. Until then, the Defense Protective Service could not
even set up an Incident Command Post, let alone begin to put together an
overview of what had happened to their Building.

And without that overview, the DPS could not begin to make choices from
its extensive menu of countermeasures.

The weak point in the Atlantis Rising scenario had been its assumption
that its existence was unknown outside a chosen, select circle. A circle
that now included Ranger. And he had deliberately sized the scope of
this attack to force the initiation of the Atlantis Rising scenario.

Ranger, his three commandos, and one prisoner moved quickly toward the E
Ring stairwell. Tango kicked the stairwell door open, checking to make
certain the first wide and brightly lit landing was clear.

Then Ranger led the descent to the two levels and two rings that had
never appeared on any map of the Pentagon. He did so secure in the
knowledge that Team Two, in the Courtyard, would complete their part of
the mission without him.

Because Team One was standing by.

And it was almost time for them to strike.

C RING, ROOF For the Team Two commandos in the top five floors and five
rings, their first stage had been diversion. Their second was
distraction.

Thus, where General Milo Vanovich was the plan's prime target, the
President was the prime victim. And, as his protectors rushed to get him
out of the Pentagon, their choice of path was inevitable, predetermined.

The fake pipe bomb had denied Presidential escape via the Mall
Terrace--other bombs could be present in the area. The destruction of
Marine One had denied Presidential escape via the heliport. And the
planned, backup roof extractions had been rendered impossible the
instant the circling Air Force helicopters were exposed to the
electromagnetic pulse generated over the River Entrance Parade Grounds.

As it was, all electrical systems on board the circling Air Force
helicopters had burned out at once, from the fly-by-wire flight controls
to the fuel pumps and engine-ignition systems. One Pave Low III had been
in the midst of a sharp banking turn when the E-bomb had exploded, and
had crashed in the Potomac, nosing in so forcefully that no one aboard
had a chance to ditch. Another impacted spectacularly with the North
Parking Lot, also with no survivors.

Only moments after that explosion, Secret Service Agents Zibart and
Harrap, who had reached the roof of C Ring just before the President,
saw the crashed helo burning in the parking lot. Both agents were unable
to report their next move because their radios were no longer
functional. The main Secret Service retransmission van had been parked
outside the River Entrance, on station, in order to overcome the
radio-dampening effects of the Pentagon's dense, concrete walls. The
van's equipment had not been able to withstand the pulse.

Like doors slamming in a maze, Ranger's actions were progressively
narrowing the agents' options for extracting the President.

From the only two remaining routes, Agent Zibart selected his next
option: escape through the South Terrace pedestrian entrances. Only
after reaching the second-floor, Corridor Three entrance would he decide
whether to go forward into the South Parking Lot or retreat into the
safe room by the security desk, the protective facility disguised as a
power-switching utility room just off the escorted-visitor waiting area.

Though the First Lady's agents had their orders to take her to a River
Side safe room in the event of danger, the President's agents knew using
a safe room to protect the President was a decision of last resort. At a
time when the Chief Executive's leadership was crucial to the country,
there was no acceptable excuse for keeping the President contained and
incommunicado in a high-risk environment. Still, given the severity of
the attack upon the Pentagon, Agent Zibart's final decision hinged on
whether he felt he could risk the President's life in a run across an
open parking lot.

The two on-point agents charged down the C Ring roof-access stairway to
intercept the other two secret agents who were rushing the President
upward, along with Air Force Major Fielding. In one hand, the major
carried the black CAT case, in the other, a collapsible Uzi submachine
gun that had been concealed in the case's false bottom and withdrawn the
moment the President's agents had pulled out their guns. The President
was gasping for breath, but still showed no signs of fear or hesitation.
The new plan was to take the President back to the fifth floor and to
Corridor Six. They would then run him along the B Ring corridor, well
away from all windows, until they reached the Corridor Three stairway,
which led to the way down, and out.

The four Secret Service agents, Major Fielding, and the President
hurtled on.

Like rats in a maze that was anything but random.

Following an exact route worked out months ago.

A route whose path and conclusion had been chosen by Ranger.

FIRST FLOOR, A RING, CORRIDOR FOUR For the first time in his life,
Hector Macgregor heard the sound of real gunfire, live and in person. It
was coming from the Courtyard, and so was all the screaming.

Major Christou grabbed his arm to pull him down to his knees.

Crouching down beside him, she fiercely gestured to him to stay where he
was. Then she pulled off her black pumps and elbowed forward on her
stomach across the A Ring floor, heading for the short flight of stairs
that led up to the Courtyard doors.

Unable to do much more than catch his breath, Hector sat back against
the wall, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the stabbing pains in his left
foot, not to mention the mass of small, oozing burns on his back and his
legs. He cringed as he heard more gunfire and the high pitched screaming
that accompanied each burst.

Christou crawled up the half-flight of stairs until she reached the
Courtyard doors on the landing. Sitting with her back to one of the
doors, she edged upward until her head was next to the small window in
its center. Hector could see where dust from the floor had streaked the
front of the major's dark-blue jacket and trousers.

Then, holding position for only a second before she pulled back,
Christou jerked her head sideways to get a quick glance through the
Courtyard-door window. Hector counted to five before she repeated the
maneuver, as if she were waiting to confirm she had not been seen. The
second time, it seemed to him she was able to hold her position a few
seconds longer.

Then there was more gunfire. More desperate cries. And, suddenly,
Christou was in full flight down the short staircase, yelling at him to
make a run for the escalator, and not stop for anything. As the major
leapt from the stairs to the highly polished terrazzo floor, her
stockinged feet skidded as she landed.

This time, Hector did as he was told immediately. Heaving himself to his
feet, he hopped over to the out-of-order escalator, then placed his
hands on the escalator's black-rubber railings and half-jumped up each
unmoving step. Light-footed, Christou raced up behind him, pushing at
his back to hurry him along.

Just as they were almost at the top, a sudden metallic bang from below
rang out, followed quickly by garbled shouts and cries and much louder
gunfire.

Still doing just as the major had ordered, Hector did not turn around.

But he had a good idea what must have happened. People fleeing the
Courtyard must have flung open the doors through which the major had
been looking and were now attempting to make their escape.

On the third floor of A Ring, the major stopped for a moment, to listen.
Hector could still hear the sounds of people running, but the cries
seemed more distant now. No one had chosen to escape up the escalator.

"The midshipmen ... they were only shooting the civilians." The major's
voice was perplexed. But Hector was beyond even trying to make sense of
what was happening. He asked the only question that still seemed to
matter. "Did you see the President?"

Christou shook her head. Her cap of straight black hair swung forward
with the motion. "I didn't have time."

The abrupt clanging of an alarm like a fire alert followed quickly by
the thump of heavy footsteps on the metal stairs of the escalator
spurred the major into action again. She pointed ahead toward Corridor
Four and set off at a run. Hector did his best to match her fleet stride
but his increasingly taxed left foot began to throb with almost
unbearable intensity.

At the B Ring intersection, Christou slid to a stop, looked both ways,
then ran off to the right, toward a stairwell. This time, Hector
followed her up the stairs, doing what he could to support some of his
weight on the stairs' metal railing. The major had pulled considerably
ahead of him by the time they were two levels higher.

Hector caught up to her on the fifth-floor landing. The major had
already flattened herself against the wall beside the door that opened
onto the B Ring corridor. Though the shrilling of the alarm on this
floor was loud enough to mask almost any other noise, the major still
held up a hand, clearly advising him to keep quiet and stay where he was
on the landing. Grateful to comply, Hector concentrated on breathing
slowly and quietly through his open mouth.

He watched as the major placed a hand on the door's metal push bar and
silently moved it forward. Only a faint metallic snap announced the
opening of the door.

Then she edged slowly to the side to peer through the opening crack.

Hector watched her adjust the door a fraction of an inch at a time,
every movement without sound.

There could be no doubt that Christou was no longer the restrained aide
he'd been with earlier this morning. Her entire being was now charged
with energy. Her eyes, her ears, and likely all her senses seemed alert
to dangers that Hector knew he did not have the training or even the
instincts to perceive. There was no trace of the quiet assistant to
General Flores or of the accommodating guide who had helped him
negotiate the Pentagon. This is who she really is, Hector realized.

What her training has helped her become. He wondered if all the other
military personnel he'd encountered in Washington had another face like
this, another radically different persona concealed beneath the mask
they adopted for civilians.

Hector fervently hoped so. If he was going to get out of the Pentagon
alive, he wanted a warrior at his side, not a bureaucrat.

Suddenly, Christou stood up, with no concern for stealth, as if she had
seen something unexpected through the door. Then she pushed it open,
with no concern for noise.

Hector didn't understand why until he saw the hand that emerged through
the doorway, holding a pistol pointed at her head.

With no glance in his direction, the major raised her hands in the air.

And Hector understood that she was giving him his chance to escape.

But the door to the B Ring corridor was open wide now. Hector knew he
could not escape. With his foot, he'd never make it down the stairs in
time.

The major started moving backward as someone Hector could not see
advanced through the doorway.

And then Hector heard a familiar voice say, "Major Christou?"

He and Christou responded simultaneously. "Mr. President!"

Joyfully, Hector dragged himself forward as the President's senior
Secret Service agent came fully through the doorway and lowered his
weapon.

Behind Zibart were the President, Agent Harrap, two more agents unknown
to Hector, and then Major Fielding and his black case. For just a
moment, the President's bulky beige raincoat puzzled Hector until he
remembered the armor plates it contained.

"Do either of you know what's going on?" the President asked.

"They're midshipmen, sir," Christou said. "At least, they're in
midshipmen uniforms." Her dark-blue uniform was no longer pristine, and
she had no shoes, but her erect bearing, to Hector, was still that of an
officer.

"You and I saw them in the Courtyard, sir, when we came in," Hector
added. "They were just setting up the tables."

The President nodded, grim. "I remember."

"Major, do you know where they are now?" Hector didn't recognize the
cold-eyed agent asking the question. That meant he had to be one of the
advance agents stationed inside the Pentagon before the President had
arrived. For all the good that had done.

"I saw some of them in the Courtyard, about two minutes ago, firing into
the civilians. They had the NATO officers up on the stage."

"Sweet Lord," the President said. "My wife ..."

"I didn't see her, sir. I'm sorry. But some of the civilians did make an
escape."

Then Hector saw the President look over at him, where he leaned heavily
against the railing, in his scorched and grass-stained clothing. "Hec,
are you all right? I know they got my helicopter."

"They killed everyone on board, sir."

A dark shadow passed over the President's drawn face. "So I heard."

Agent Zibart interrupted the subsequent somber silence. "Major, is there
an open way out?" "Not down there," Christou said. "The River Entrance
is the best chance for cover on the way out."

Zibart shook his head. "Something went off at the River Entrance. We
have no communications. No contact there. What's the second choice?"

Hector was just now realizing that, in an emergency, even the President
of the United States was second to the Secret Service. The hard faced
senior agent was the leader now, not the President, and everyone would
be looking to Zibart to make the next decision.

"That would have to be the Metro Entrance and concourse. We stay on the
B Ring corridor, follow it past Corridor One, then get down to the first
floor. The far half of the Metro wedge is still under construction. The
office walls have been torn out."

"More room for an ambush." Hector heard the reservation in Zi- bart's
tense voice.

"But no blind alleys," the major countered. "And more ways through if we
need them."

Hector noticed then that, during this entire time, Zibart's steel-gray
eyes were in constant motion, scanning the B Ring corridor from one end
to the other. "What's past the construction?" I' "The medevac wagons.

Far end of the bus terminal." j,"
"Those are big targets," Zibart said. 1 "Or good cover." / "Either of
you have a cell phone?" Hector immediately thought of his ruined
cashmere jacket out on the lawn by the helipad. His cell phone had been
in its pocket.

Christou shook her head. "They won't work in here. Security jams them in
the critical areas, and there's too much concrete in the rest of the
Building."

"Okay, let's move out." Zibart had made his decision. The group entered
the B Ring hallway, turning to the left, toward Corridor One.

The President, the three other agents, and Major Fielding formed in a
line behind Zibart--Harrap first, then an agent on either side of the
President, and Major Fielding in the rear.

"The bus terminal, Major," Zibart prompted. "Which exit?"

"The subway security gate's closed, so there's only one exit we can get
to on that side. It's right in the middle, on the ground floor."

*

Zibart frowned. "A single exit. That's a pinch point. It's like they
want us to go there."

Once again, the major countered his concerns. "We have other options
when we get there. I'll take point."

Zibart hesitated for only a moment before reaching under and behind his
gray suit jacket to pull out a small pistol, which he handed to
Christou. Hector watched as she immediately held the pistol sideways,
flipped two small levers on its side, then slid the top part of the gun
back and forth with a practiced motion. Her familiarity with the weapon
was reassuring. Hector felt relief that he and the President were
surrounded by people who knew what they were doing.

In Hector's opinion, the major was behaving magnificently. Despite her
decidedly negative views of the President's military-policy decisions,
which she had shared so frankly this morning, she was trying to do
everything she could to get the President out of the Building safely.

The combination of her professionalism with her political views, though,
was still unsettling.

A new, unwelcome, thought struck him. What if this terrible attack
wasn't about the President after all? What if it was some sort of
protest about Russia joining NATO? What if Pentagon officers hostile to
the President's policies were involved? Hector pushed the disturbing
scenario from his mind. It was inconceivable that patriotism could
become so twisted.

"I suggest two groups," the major said to Zibart. "If we stay to the
sides, we can drop into offices and alcoves if we have to. There are
stairwells at every intersection. We'll have to check each one before we
pass." "We've been briefed," Zibart said. Then Hector saw the agent give
the President a sharp look. "Mr. President, stay between Agents Buhl and
Redmer. And keep your coat buttoned up."

Obediently, the President pulled the collar of his beige raincoat tight
around his throat. Then Zibart gave Christou the sign to move out and
she crossed the corridor quickly, proceeding at once to edge along the
wall. Zibart pointed for Fielding, then Hector to follow her. Hector
understood why he'd been put last: He was injured and could slow the
group down. There was only one person who had to make it out of the
Pentagon. Everyone else was expendable.

Remaining on the other side of the hall, Zibart started forward, Agent
Buhl close behind, then the President and Agents Redmer and Harrap.

Zibart's look of intense concentration was repeated in all three agents'
faces.

Even taking the time to check the stairwell doors, it took the eight of
them--three on one side, five on the other--less than five minutes to
cross over the intersections with Corridors Three and Two, and into the
under-construction Metro wedge where the B Ring corridor ended.

Various room signs indicated that the extra space where the B Ring
corridor should have continued was taken up by theaters and briefing
rooms. Jogging now, Christou led them along Corridor One to C Ring, then
turned left into the C Ring hallway.

Less than a hundred feet up ahead, Hector saw a temporary wall blocking
the middle of the corridor. A sign beside the small, wood framed doorway
in the center of the wall warned: authorized personnel ONLY. HARD HATS
MUST BE WORN.

Zibart ducked through the small door first, disappeared for a few
seconds, then waved in the others. Somewhat behind the others, Hector
was the last to go through.

On the other side of the temporary wall, Hector could see what the
Pentagon had looked like before its renovation. Here, the outdated
linoleum floor was worn through every few feet, still highly polished
nonetheless. In places, one, sometimes two, layers of linoleum tiles had
been installed right over older tiles.

The light was also dimmer in this section. Only a single line of narrow
fluorescent fixtures running down the center of the ceiling.

Out of alignment, like a badly painted center line on a bumpy road, the
line of lights appeared to weave back and forth.

On either side of this section of the C Ring hallway, the dingy brown
walls were marred by lighter, rectangular or square splotches revealing
cracked-plaster spaces where paintings had hung. The walls' mottled-wood
wainscoting had been repaired with different colors of wood, and most of
the offices along this section of corridor were missing doors. Through
some of the open doorways, Hector saw bare, ' concrete-floored rooms,
some with piles of rubble inside, others with "

large, plastic-wrapped cardboard boxes on wooden skids. At least this
section was quieter. The Building's alarm system " seemed to be
disconnected here and the still-active sirens and bells from the other
sections were more muted.

Then Christou held up her hand and the group stopped to rest. " Making
the most of the respite, Hector leaned against one wall, carefully
keeping the weight off his left foot. He no longer had any sense aj1 of
where his dress loafer left off and his grossly swollen foot and ' ankle
began.

As the major conferred with Zibart, her words caused some of Hector's
newfound sense of security to start slipping away.

"Corridor Ten is the next main intersection. If they're waiting for us,
they're going to be there, one level down, on the first floor, covering
the entrance from the security station. We won't have a chance."

"You said we'd have other options."

"We can go to the second floor, move into the center of the Metro Side,
then go through a window onto the roof of the covered walkway. It's ten,
maybe twelve feet high. Trees on either side. We can use them to get
down from there. The President can follow. If they're inside waiting for
us, we'll bypass them completely."

"How do we get through the window? It's blast proof "This is one of the
old sections. It'll be a single pane of glass and a rusted frame."

Zibart's response was to lift the small earphone that dangled from the
collar of his shirt and slip it into his ear. Then he flipped up his
collar to expose the microphone pinned there. "Top Hat to Rainbow Base,
do you copy?" After a moment, the lead agent tugged the earphone out.

"Mr. President, you ever do any parachute jumping?"

"No. But since you're asking me that question, I surely wish I had."

"You'll do fine, sir. Listen up, everyone, we're going to keep following
the major."

Trying not to think how two broken legs would feel, Hector waited with
the rest of the group while Christou and Zibart scouted the upcoming
intersection of C Ring with Corridor Ten before waving the group on into
the corridor--the major looking ahead toward E Ring, Zibart looking back
toward the Courtyard.

The farther down the corridor they proceeded toward the outside wall of
the Pentagon, the louder the incessant shriek of the Building alarm
became. But Hector was almost getting used to the sound.

As they passed signs pointing to ramps, Hector remembered more from his
first visit to the Pentagon. With so few elevators installed in the
original version of the Building, long, sloping corridors running
between the floors had been considered a more efficient way to travel
through the Building. In the new version of the Building, all the Ramps
were being removed. Too bad, he thought. With his bad foot, he'd much
rather slide down to the first floor than risk jumping.

The stairwell to the second floor was clear. As soon as they reached E
Ring, via Corridor One, the major urged both groups to move as fast as
they could. This time, both groups were on the same side of the E Ring
hallway, away from the outside-wall windows, Hector only ten feet
behind.

Just before reaching their goal--the midpoint of the Metro Side of the
Building--they passed two boarded-up windows. The midpoint was marked by
another temporary wall that cut across the corridor. When they reached
it, Christou waved everyone to a stop.

Hunched over, the major ran across the hall to the windows on the
outside wall. Rising up slightly, she looked outside, then back across
the corridor at Zibart as she jammed her gun into the waistband of her
dark-blue trousers. Next, she pulled off her matching jacket and wrapped
it tightly around her right fist. Her newly revealed long sleeved white
dress shirt with its black neck tabs was still startlingly clean.

Now Zibart, also hunched over, ran across the corridor, to look out
through the window himself. A moment later, he motioned to Agent Harrap
to join him. As soon as Harrap crossed over, Zibart nodded once at
Christou, who then swung her protected fist at the window.

As glass shards clattered down from the window's metal frame, the
wailing alarm rose to deafening volume. Hector guessed it was being
broadcast from the Building's exterior now as well as from its interior.

For a count of at least five seconds, Zibart, Harrap, and Christou
remained flat against the E Ring wall beneath the shattered window. A
warm, moisture-laden breeze touched Hector's cheek teasingly. He stared
across the hall at the bright, blue sky of freedom. Almost there.

Then Zibart sprang up in front of the window, gun held ready, roughly
elbowed a few last shards from the frame, and leaned over the sill to
look down.

Whatever he saw must have been acceptable, because he next pointed at
Agents Harrap and Buhl, who instantly leapt out the window. At once,
Hector realized that the two agents must have dropped f, no more than
four feet--not ten or twelve--to the roof of the covered walkway below.

The windowsill only came up to their chests.

That I can make, Hector thought with upwelling relief.

Then Zibart waved the President over and had him glance quickly out the
window and to the side. "Sir, Agent Buhl is going to drop over the side
by that tree. As soon as he's down, you follow. Just jump into the
branches. The raincoat will protect you, and Buhl will break your fall."

"Then what?"

"Then, sir, we're going to transition to the medical evacuation buses at
the Metro terminal. And then we're going to get the hell out of Dodge."

Hector saw the President take a deep breath. "Let's do it." The
President stepped in front of the window.

Just as Harrap and Buhl fell back in a double explosion of blood.

Just as the thunder of gunfire struck the President down.

Too late, Hector realized he'd had it all wrong.

This was about the President. And now the President was gone.

,\

THREE FIFTH FLOOR, D RING

Amy moved swiftly along the empty D Ring hallway, listening to the
sirens and the gunfire and the screams. Continuing without hesitation,
she kept close to one wall, the Beretta held ready. She was one person
against at least forty. She still needed those reinforcements.

But not a phone in the Pentagon was letting her make outside calls.

She had tried three offices already.

The door to the first office had said navy. Inside she had found a
service counter and behind it a cluster of desks and low office
partitions. A standup poster on the service counter had explained how to
fill out a request for the Navy to move household goods. Beside the
poster had been a gray, four-line phone set. Amy had immediately dialed
911, but only one line could give her a dial tone, and that line
wouldn't accept a 911 call. A sticker on the base of the phone set gave
an internal extension--5555--to call in the event of emergency. So she'd
tried it, learning that the internal phone system, at least, was
working. The call had rung for more than a minute, though no one had
picked up.

Past the next intersection, she'd tried a second office. Its door label
had proclaimed it to be a joint-procurement-filing office and she still
had no idea what that meant. There had only been two desks inside, each
with a phone, but she'd had the same results as in the Navy office.
She'd even tried dialing out on the second office's fax machine, but she
still couldn't get a dial tone.

The third office had been unlocked and cryptically identified only as
jsubmilcomfltspec/navdevcon. Here, Amy had found a desktop

computer with an external modem. When the phone on the desk hadn't
worked big surprise she'd disconnected it and reattached it to the modem
line. Still no results.

Amy was no fool, and, despite what her fellow mids might have thought of
her, she knew she was no grandstander. She needed help, and there was
still another place she might find it the parade grounds near the River
Entrance, where the reporters' television trailers and broadcast
equipment had been set up. She'd seen them there when she'd driven up on
her Harley. Even if someone had sabotaged the Pentagon's entire phone
system, wherever there were reporters there had to be cell phones. She'd
even settle for a direct microwave uplink to a news studio.

In the Metro wedge, Amy came to a temporary wall in the middle of the D
Ring hallway. The important thing about reaching the Metro wedge was
that the signs she'd seen just before the temporary wall confirmed she
was going in the right direction for the River Entrance. Cautiously
looking through the doorway in the center of the wall, she saw stripped
concrete walls, floor, and ceiling beyond. The sirens weren't working in
this section yet. She recalled Lieutenant Roth's Saturday briefing just
yesterday in which he had joked that by the time the Pentagon
construction crews were finished renovating the fifth wedge, it'd be
time to start renovating the other four again.

The lieutenant had been on the bus with her company. No matter what had
happened, Amy was sure he wouldn't have been easy to kill.

She returned her attention to her mission.

Focus, she told herself as she jogged through the bare concrete hallway,
as she heard the echoes of more gunfire, another high scream.

There is nothing but the mission. Amy's jogging became sprinting.

Coming to another temporary wall, this time she ran through its open,
center doorway and emerged into a wide and freshly painted beige-walled
hallway where the sirens were clearly operational. She'd reached the
River Side. Pausing for only a fraction of a second, Amy realized that
that meant she'd missed a staircase somewhere behind her one that could
have taken her down to Corridor One. Without slowing, she decided
against returning to the under-construction Metro wedge. The well-lit
corridors of the renovated sections felt safer.

She ran faster toward the next intersection Corridor Two. There'd be a
staircase there. She'd take the stairs to the third floor, rather than
go down to the first. She'd look for a window on its exterior ring where
she'd be able to observe the situation on the parade grounds.

Surely, even forty enemy hostiles couldn't have cleared all the news
personnel she'd seen there when she'd arrived.

But she would still have to assess the terrain before she ventured out
into it. In combat, even assumptions that seemed as reasonable as the
one she'd just made could be deadly.

She reached the third-floor landing in less than a minute. The door that
led onto the corridor was much more solidly constructed than the other
stairwell doors she'd passed. Opening it only wide enough to check the
corridor beyond, she glimpsed the intermittent flaring of what appeared
to be warning-light signals coming from the ceiling.

Looking up, she saw embedded in the ceiling tiles a device she might not
have noticed if it had not been activated--a two-foot-long plastic tube
flashing with yellow pulses, each as brilliant as a photographer's
flash. The warning signals were intense enough to be seen through thick
smoke.

She could see more of the flashing yellow lights at regular intervals
along the corridor ceiling. Mbst of them seemed to be positioned above
doors.

The alarms told Amy that she would be unlikely to find any Pentagon
employees still in the River Side section. They'd already have been
evacuated by now. Only the enemy would remain.

Counting on the flashing lights and fluctuating wail of the siren to
provide sufficient cover, she pushed the heavy door open and entered
Corridor Two. After visually checking up and down its length, she headed
in the direction of E Ring, the outermost ring of the Pentagon, in
search of a window overlooking the parade grounds, where the
communications vans had been.

But at the intersection of Corridor Two and D Ring, the alarm sound
changed abruptly from a fluctuating warble to a series of sharp,
earsplitting squeals. Twenty feet beyond the intersection, Amy paused
as, after five squeals, a calm female voice on the same speaker system
announced pleasantly, "Ten seconds to Threat Con Echo."

Amy didn't know what Threat Con Echo meant, but she did recognize the
voice. She'd heard it in the flight simulator she'd flamed out on last
summer. Those same reassuring tones had informed her she would impact
the ocean in twenty seconds, nineteen ..."Five seconds," intoned the
voice. Amy jerked her attention back to the present. "Three ... two ...
Threat Con Echo has been established."

Typically, the bases Amy had been on had had five levels of threat
condition, from Normal to Delta, the last of which meant an attack had
occurred or was imminent. So what could be worse than Threat Con Delta?
Amy thought. Then the alarm changed again.

Now it was as if she had been trapped above decks beside a gun
battery--the booming noise that assaulted her was bone-jarring in its
rhythmic staccato pulse and intensity.

Only at the last second did she realize what was happening.

From each section of the ceiling where a yellow light flashed, an
explosive charge now drove down a black-armor blast door. On either side
of her, a line of black armor plates shot toward her, dropping over
every door in the corridor almost like cards being shuffled in a deck,
each explosion rocking the floor beneath her feet. Sharply twisting
around to visually follow the line, she was just in time to see a giant
blast door slam down across the intersection of Corridor Two and D Ring,
where she'd just been.

And then the yellow ceiling lights stopped flashing, and the floor no
longer shook.

"Section One is secure," the female voice announced.

The trapped air in Corridor Two went flat, somehow dead. In complete
silence now, Amy could hear nothing but her own rapid breathing. No
sirens, no alarms, no gunfire, no screams.

Amy knew she'd been sealed inside the Pentagon.

What she didn't know was how many of the enemy were sealed off inside
with her.

'" THIRD FLOOR, E RING Tom didn't know how long he'd been waiting for
the grenade to go off, but slowly it began to make sense to him that it
already had gone off, and he just didn't remember.

There was a sharp, smoky scent to the air. His ears itched with a
buzzing hum that ebbed and flowed around him as if he were being circled
by bees.

And he couldn't move.

With that realization he became fully conscious.

He focused on remaining as still as possible. If his spinal cord had
been damaged ... , He concentrated on his hands. He moved his fingers a
fraction of an inch; all fingers responded. He took a deep breath and
felt his chest expand. Felt the sensation of pressure in both of his
legs. He could feel all his limbs, so what was holding him down?

i That was when he sheepishly realized the back-access panel of the Red
Level workstation had toppled over on him. It must have weighed all of
... he shrugged out from under the panel ... ten pounds.

Tom emerged from the small niche he'd taken refuge in between the
workstation and the wall, to view the destruction of Vanovich's Red
Level office.

But the Red Level room was intact.

A yard-wide scorch mark blackened the beige carpet. A blue haze swirled
in spirals in the air. Tiny shreds of what might be paper or cardboard
were spread evenly throughout the room, on every surface.

Three of the four ceiling-light panels were out, explaining the low
level of room light. The lone remaining panel, flickering erratically,
was the source of the crazily shifting shadows that danced from wall to
wall.

And a black and gray blast door was in position in front of the room's
only exit. Just as Vanovich had said it would be. It was cool to the
touch. Tom studied the texture beneath its thin, clear coating.

Carbon-composite fiber, woven into sheets, like an artist's canvas. He
had seen similar material used for the skin of aircraft and satellites.

He had no idea how many layers there would be in the door, or what other
materials those layers would be made from. Likely everything from
blast-absorbing aluminum honeycomb to unbreakable layers of Vectram
cloth supported by steel plate. Vanovich's assessment had been that it
would take a tactical nuke to blast into this room. Tom decided he
wasn't far off.

Either the terrorists' grenade had been a dud or they'd only intended to
stun him. In any case, Tom thought, he'd been snugly sealed in, secure
and protected in a Pentagon safe room, complete with emergency rations,
waiting only for the rescue operation his old friend had been so certain
would arrive. While the general had been taken by unknown intruders to
some unknown location for some unknown purpose.

Tom took a moment to review what he did know. Dorsey's killers had come
for Vanovich, specifically. They'd known both his name and his clearance
level. And by not stepping into this room, they'd revealed that they
were familiar with the Pentagon's security systems.

What if they also knew about ... Tom struggled to remember the super
classified program the general had been so anxious to talk to him about.
Not Cloudy Office. Not Cloudburst. But ... Atlantis Rising.

Vanovich had said something about it being here in the Pentagon.

That last hurried conversation all came back to Tom, now. Atlantis
Rising ... it was most likely some Pentagon-specific implementation of
the larger ATLANTIS project Tom had worked on years ago, at Hughes. One
of his first big contracts. But he'd only been cleared to work on a few
portions of ATLANTIS, so his view of it had been heavily
compartmentalized. All he really knew was that it was one of the
biggest, if not the biggest, civil defense projects in the country,
begun in the 1960s. By the time he'd joined the project, ATLANTIS was
being redesigned, to focus less on nuclear war and more on environmental
catastrophe. Reading between the lines at the time, Tom had had
suspicions, though they were never confirmed, that the U.S. government
had learned something about the global environment that it wasn't
telling the rest of the country, let alone the world. His team's
assignment had been the upgrading of all the communications links in the
entire ATLANTIS system. At the time, no one in authority had been
willing to tell him exactly where all those links would be installed.

Tom checked his watch. 11:22. The power outage he'd noticed, just before
the attack, had occurred about 10:56. The terrorists took Vanovich by
11:05, maybe 11:10. He'd already lost more than ten minutes. He wasn't
going to lose any more.

Tom looked for the phone. It was on the Red Level console, beside
Vanovich's keyboard. As he picked up the receiver to place a call for
help, Tom felt an aching in every muscle in his body, as if he were
coming down with the flu. For a moment, as he held the receiver to his
ear, he was sure he heard a dial tone. But the ache in his muscles and
the buzzing in his ears were just the residual echo of the grenade.

The phone was dead, just as it had been for Vanovich.

It was time to leave the safe room.

Tom returned to the blast door. Fortunately, blasting wasn't required
for what he had to do. Nor was a retina scan required for exit. He
pulled his proxcard from his jeans' front pocket and touched it to the
ID terminal beside the door.

After a five-second delay, a motor in the ceiling hummed and the blast
door obligingly rose back into the ceiling.

When it came to the Pentagon, Tom Chase had complete access.

To save Milo Vanovich, he intended to use it.

THIRD FLOOR, E RING As more bullets sprayed up through the open window,
Agent-in Charge Zibart instantly threw his body over the President's and
forced the President to the floor. Still beneath the window, Major
Christou pulled out her weapon and stayed flat against the wall. The
remaining Secret Service agent, Redmer, charged across the E-Ring
hallway and threw himself on Zibart. Major Fielding was already there,
Uzi in hand.

Hector stayed where he was, against the other wall, without moving.

Not because of fear, but because he had absolutely no concept of what to
do. Christou leapt up in front of the open window and fired down and to
the left, then jumped back as a burst of return gunfire smacked into the
limestone-facing outside the window. "We've got to move!" she shouted.
"They're running back inside!"

Now Zibart had the President sitting up against the wall of the hallway.
Hector was relieved to see only black burn marks on the

President's beige, Kevlar-lined raincoat, no blood. But only luck had
kept the Man from being shot in the head.

Zibart took a fast, hard look to the right, toward the temporary wall
and the doorway leading to the renovated half of the South Terrace
wedge, then left, along the unfinished half of the E Ring hallway.

"They'll come at us from both sides. We have to pull back into the
offices."

But Christou disagreed strongly. "Then we'll be trapped." Hector saw
inspiration light her face. She pointed left. "We go that way!"

Next, she jerked her head at Hector. "You, too! Move!" Then she ran so
fast she almost flew along the unfinished concrete floor, toward one of
the two large, boarded-up windows they had passed only minutes ago.

There, she clawed frantically at a twisted loop of yellow wire holding
one side of a large plywood sheet to the window.

Major Fielding covered Agents Zibart and Redmer as they dragged the
President down the hall.

By the time Hector caught up to them, the major had jerked the yellow
wire free and swung the plywood sheet open like a door to reveal the
opening to a wooden chute. Hector knew at once what it was--a garbage
slide to one of the waste bins outside, used for hauling away
construction debris. The slide would be a rough ride, but it would be
better than jumping. And even more important, the major had found a way
out.

Christou reached out for the President, to shove him down the chute.

"Go!" she urged him.

But Zibart pulled the President back. "We don't know what's at the
bottom of that! There could be glass! Or spikes of re bar

"Who the hell cares?" the major shouted.

Then they heard the sound of running footsteps. The sound came from both
ends of the hallway. Zibart had been right and the major had been wrong.

All but Hector and the President moved into defensive position against
the outside wall, guns ready. The major was on Hector's right and Major
Fielding on his left. The two Secret Service agents beyond Fielding
formed a protective shield around the President. Hector backed up
against the wall, beneath the opening to the chute, knowing he was the
only one without a purpose. He had no training and no weapon. And at
this moment, he was the only one who was expendable.

Then Hector had his inspiration. But there was no time to explain it,
just to do it.

"I'll go!" he said and turned toward the opening to the chute. To the
President he shouted, "Whatever you do, sir, land on me!" Holding onto
the edge of the opening, Hector began to pull himself up into the chute.

Then the plywood sheet beside the chute disintegrated in a rattling
burst of gunfire.

Fielding went down on one knee and sprayed his Uzi toward the temporary
wall. Half in, half out of the chute, Hector saw Fielding fall forward,
groaning, shot from behind, the Uzi skittering out of his grasp, the
black CAT case under him. As Zibart had predicted, the attackers had
taken positions on both sides of them. The President would be caught in
the crossfire. Hector hesitated, unsure, then began lowering himself
from the chute.

The major and Redmer were firing in opposite directions down the
hallway. Zibart reached over to push Hector back up inside the chute.

"Go!"

Then a blossom of blood flowered at the agent's shoulder and he wheeled
to return fire.

As if watching a replay of old news footage of a well-known event on
television, Hector saw at once what was going to happen next.

The President was all alone. Unprotected. Out of reach. A target even
Hector couldn't miss.

The rest happened all at once.

He heard Christou's primal cry at the same time he saw her lunge for the
President as dark shadows sprayed red as they stitched across her back,
and then he felt her hand grab his leg as she shoved him up and
backward, side by side with the President, through the opening of the
chute, her eyes black-pupiled with pain, blood flowing from her mouth as
she screamed something he couldn't hear in the waterfall roar of the
gunfire as he and the President tumbled back and down the chute.

He landed on his back and struck his head on something sharp and hard.

But he had time to snap out his arm so the President fell on that and
not on whatever was in the bin of rubble.

Gunfire from the hallway above echoed down the plywood chute.

The bin was dark, steamy, hot.

Hector struggled to right himself, coughing on the choking dust of their
impact, even as his feet refused to keep their footing. Beside him, the
President coughed uncontrollably and fell sideways as he, too, tried to
stand.

Balanced on his one good foot, Hector called on his extra six inches of
height to punch and flail at the thick plastic tarpaulin overhead that
glowed blue from the bright daylight outside.

The gunfire above them stopped suddenly just as Hector finally snagged
an edge of the tarp, and tugged it to the side. He squinted in the
sudden blast of light.

He pulled himself just high enough to peer over the wide rough edge of
the bin to see the bus terminal past the construction fence, the four
dark green Army medevac buses still in place. He looked back at the
President. "Over here!"

The President pushed forward, reached up and placed his hands on the lip
of the bin, then hauled himself up until his waist rested on the edge.
Pivoting his body, he sat on the edge and reached a hand down for
Hector.

Hector tried to jump up to match the President's move, but it was as if
his left leg was jelly.

"Go!" Hector shouted, like Zibart before him.

But the President just crooked his arm and held it out for Hector to
grab. The look in his eyes told Hector that the Man had no intention of
leaving until Hector was with him.

The President hoisted Hector up an dover the edge of the bin. Then he
threw an arm around Hector's waist and dragged him away from the bin
toward the construction fence twenty feet away.

They fell into an expedient pace, with Hector using the President's
shoulder as a crutch. At the chain-link fence, covered on the other side
by green plastic sheeting, the President climbed up without hesitation,
his hands soon bleeding openly from the rough metal links.

At the top, he again reached down, and Hector took his arm and scrambled
to the top as best he could with one free hand and foot.

Then the President leapt off the top of the fence. But his beige
raincoat caught on an exposed twist of wire, throwing him off balance,
making him swing back, momentarily off his feet. He slid out of his
raincoat like Houdini escaping from a straitjacket, then reached up both
bloody hands to Hector. "Roll and I'll catch you!" the President
ordered. "Don't land on that foot."

Hector jumped and rolled as the President commanded.

Then he was up again at the President's side, a three-legged race to end
all three-legged races, running and hopping toward the shelter of the
Army buses, both he and the President wheezing, panting, swimming in
sweat.

As the first fusillade of bullets sought them out, the pavement to
Hector's side erupted with clouds of dust and stone chips. The gunmen
had found them. They wouldn't make it after all.

Hector felt a sharp stinging in his eye from a flying fragment. The pain
threw him off stride The President stumbled as they lost their rhythm
and Hector was thrown onto his left foot. A loud crack sent a lightning
bolt of pain up into his knee and his hip. His stomach churned. He
couldn't stay upright. He fell against the President and felt the
President fall with him just as the pavement blew apart, right before
them.

For an instant, as the bullets flashed over their heads, Hector realized
his fall had saved the President's life.

But now they were both sprawled out in the open. And the President no
longer had his bulletproof raincoat. They were going to die. Like Zibart
and Fielding and Christou ... Hector pressed his face into the pavement
as he waited for what he knew must come. But then he saw the President,
beside him, turn to look back at the Pentagon with such elated defrance
that Hector had to look, too.

To the second-floor windows, where the bullets had come from.

To where a sudden straight line of violent explosions now sprayed across
those windows, hurling stone and dust and glass shards and wood and
twisted metal frames spinning into the air--even the twitching body of
someone who one second wore white and the next split in two in a
fountain of red. "Someone's firing back ... And then a giant hand shoved
him to the ground and a black shadow cut off the sun, and Hector looked
up to see a dark angel come to rescue him--a black angel, sixty feet
long, smoke pouring , from its cannon ports, spitting fumes and
screaming as its rotors tore the sky.

And then he realized what their angel was.

The major had already told him its name.

That's a Pave Low III. One of ours.

The huge, ungainly Air Force Special Forces helicopter touched down
between them and the Pentagon, an impenetrable shield against whatever
danger dared threaten the President.

The side of the helo slid open and six figures in black flew out before
the machine had even settled.

Two went to one side, two to the other, all four crouching with weapons
ready to fire.

And two more ran for Hector and the President and swept them into their
arms as if they weighed nothing and, before Hector even accepted that
somehow he was going to live, he was on his back in the Pavelow's cabin,
feeling the force of the helo's engines drive him down as the machine
kicked off from the ground to the safety of the skies. And then he
realized just who it was who was squeezing his hand.

"You look after this boy first," Hector heard the President of the '
United States shout over the roar of the engines to the Special Ops
medic who knelt beside him. "This boy saved my life."

Hector heard Christou's voice one more time: It's our job. He only
wished he could tell her she'd done it.

FOUR THIRD FLOOR, E RING

Tom had never heard of Threat Con Echo.

When the automated voice recording began its ten-second countdown, he
was in the E Ring corridor, just down from Vanovich's trashed office,
about to choose an appropriate site where he could safely work on the
Pentagon's phone lines. So he could try to summon help.

From his vantage point, he was able to see yellow ceiling lights
flashing at both ends of the glassed-in sections of the wood-paneled
corridor. That was right where security desks and checkpoints marked the
Joint Staff section of the Pentagon. He was well aware that each ceiling
light identified the site of a blast door that would be activated at the
end of the countdown. He'd suffered through enough drills at Hanscom Air
Force Base's high-security labs to know he risked being crushed if he
strayed into one of those yellow-light areas.

But Tom also knew he was in no danger of being trapped, thanks to his
proxcard and Milo Vanovich. There probably wasn't a door in the Pentagon
that his card couldn't open. Vanovich himself had arranged the encoded
security in the card's chip so Tom could work in any of the dozens of
classified departments and projects in which the general was involved.

But just to be certain, by the time the countdown had advanced to the
five-second warning stage, he chose an unlocked office on the inside of
the ring--which meant it had no windows--and which had a proxcard reader
by the door. Tom could tell by their absence of flashing yellow ceiling
lights that none of the outside-ring offices were rigged with blast-door
protection. For those offices to be made secure, their windows would
need fast-deployment blast shutters, and not even the Pentagon had
pockets that deep. Though it was likely that at least a few of those
outer offices would have self-contained safe rooms like the general's.

It seemed odd to Tom that this office, and all the others along
Vanovich's section of the E Ring corridor, was unlocked. And even though
he understood that there would be few Pentagon staffers in the Building
today, he wondered where those few might be. Almost 26,000 people worked
in the Building on a weekday, and ten to twenty percent of them could be
counted on to show up during any weekend. To be sure, the security
arrangements for today's NATO ceremony would have cut that number back
to the bare minimum required to staff the National Military Command
Center and the service operations centers. But, still, in addition to
the guests and workers at the ceremony, plus the Building's security
personnel, there should be at least a thousand people in the Pentagon
today. It was a mystery why some of them had apparently abandoned their
work places without following the Pentagon's strict rules for keeping
all doors secured. Unless the evacuation had been so rapid, SOP protocol
had been set aside.

Fortunately, Tom thought, what he planned to do now did not require the
assistance of another person. Even if the entire Pentagon was deserted,
the complex networks left behind were like the enormous nervous system
of some great, mindless beast, capable of impressive actions if only
prodded in the right direction. And he had yet to find a communications
system he couldn't bring to its knees. For ten years, his job had been
to design them.

At least, in the inner office he had chosen, the protective blast door
meant he'd be able to work on the phones without worrying about one of
the bad guys coming back.

Bad guys. Now he was thinking like Tyler. But what else could he call
them? They hadn't acted as terrorists. Terrorists would have blown up
the Pentagon by now, or spread engineered anthrax through the Courtyard
the day before the ceremony.

Maybe they're mercenaries working for the Chinese, Tom thought, as he
waited inside the office for the countdown to conclude. Or even
industrial spies. That couldn't be ruled out either. The technologies
developed by the Department of Defense represented billions of dollars
of research expenditures and the possibility of billions more in
revenues when it came time to make key breakthroughs public. With
incidents of industrial spying on the increase at military research labs
across the country, even the Pentagon was finally realizing that its
future enemies wouldn't just be nations at cross-purposes with America
or the usual madmen intent on destruction. The U.S. military had already
become the target of pan-national corporations who were simply after
proprietary information and simple profit. After all, Ranger or whoever
it was who had killed Dorsey and taken away the general was after
something supposedly requiring Red Level clearance.

Maybe that's it, Tom thought, as the countdown reached its end. The guys
who got Milo are working for General Motors.

Then the blast door slid across the office door, and Tom sat down at
what he took to be a secretary's desk. In layout and furnishings, the
room was similar to Vanovich's office, though it had no windows and no
green door to one side. Two large dry-erase boards stood on easels
against one wall. The boards were covered with color-coded flowcharts,
dates, and indecipherable military acronyms. Tom guessed he was in some
kind of scheduling department.

Among the items on the desk was a small photograph of a smiling woman in
uniform behind a birthday cake, all candles lit. The photograph's frame
was decorated on one side by a saluting teddy bear in a camouflage
battle-dress uniform, and on the other by red, white, and blue balloons.
Another incomprehensible memento of the sentimental war culture common
to the Pentagon.

Tom opened the desk drawers to look for a Pentagon phone book and found
it in the top left drawer. It was a small, ten-ring binder stuffed with
punched pages and ruffled with Post-It notes. He placed the phone book
in front of the desk's phone, just beside the bizarrely framed
photograph.

The gray phone itself was standard for unclassified use in the Pentagon
it had no secure line function. But it could access seven basic lines,
four buttons on one side, three on the other. Tom knew without even
trying that the four outside lines would be dead. However the "bad guys"
had done it, the Pentagon was cut off from normal communications.

But the red LEDs beside the three other buttons lit up as Tom tried
those lines and got a dial tone for each. Those were the internal lines
operating over the Pentagon's fiber-optic data system. Since they
continued to work, Tom made the assumption that Ranger and his friends
had used some kind of electronic jamming technique, maybe even an
electromagnetic pulse generator, to blow out the wire leads emerging
from the Building. However, there was still hope, he thought. If the
attack had been concentrated only on the Pentagon itself, then some
exterior lines must still be up and running at other locations. It was
just a question of patching into them.

From Tom's engineering perspective, the Pentagon consisted of four main
buildings, not one. The first was the Building itself; the second was
the Remote-Loading Facility in the North Parking Lot, where trucks made
deliveries without penetrating the Building's security envelope; the
third was the Heating and Refrigeration Plant; and the fourth was
Federal Building #2, also known as the Navy Annex. He'd been near the
Navy Annex earlier in the morning when he and Dorsey had been stopped at
one of the Pentagon's security checkpoints.

Poor Dorsey. Tom genuinely regretted having baited the captain. The guy
had given his life for Milo Vanovich.

All four of the buildings were connected by underground passageways,
through which ran the wiring, water, waste, and heating and cooling
pipes, all exposed for easy repair and replacement. Of most importance
to Tom now was the fact that that wiring included the fiber-optic cable
supporting the Pentagon's internal communications and data network. And
while he couldn't be certain of the phone setup in the RLF or the HR
Plant, which were relatively small support buildings, he was confident
that the Navy Annex would have its own outgoing phone service.

Despite the military's strong commitment to joint capability since the
Goldwater-Nichols Amendment, Tom knew that each military service still
maintained a parochial outlook that made some top officers believe that
combining operations with the others would lead to a degradation of
capability. From the Navy's perspective, the Air Force just didn't
strive for the same level of perfection that the Navy required as a
matter of course. The Air Force felt the same way about the Army; and
the Army about the Navy. The Marines graciously conceded that the other
services aimed for and achieved 100 percent in everything they did. But
the Marines themselves aimed for and achieved 110 percent, which left
the other services lacking from their perspective, as well.

Thus, the Navy Annex, or Federal Building #2, which had begun service as
a critical Naval operations center in the 1940s, still maintained its
own communications system. And even if it were still based on copper
wires, because it was more than half a mile away, Tom doubted the Navy
system had been exposed to whatever had happened to the Pentagon's phone
system.

The challenge he faced now was to connect the Pentagon's internal phone
system with the Naval Annex's external system. Normally, Tom knew, the
task would be impossible for someone who only had the equivalent of a
screwdriver to work with. However, for the Pentagon's computers, it
would be simple they did it thousands of times every day.

The key to Tom's tapping into that capability would be in the JSAMS the
Joint Staff Automated Message System, one of the most flexible and
capable messaging systems in use. The new JSAMS could accept a message
intended for anyone on the Joint Staff and, following the look-up tables
in its computer-driven operating system, automatically forward that
message in any format to virtually any communications system in the
world.

Tom studied his challenge. The secretary's phone could make no outside
calls, and it only had access to the Pentagon's internal phone lines.

However, that internal phone system could take messages for members of
the Joint Staff and use JSAMS to forward the message outside.

He had found a way to send a message out for help--as long as the person
he called was a member of the Joint Staff.

Feeling better than he had all day, Tom got ready to call his J-6
contact.

The newest member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

COURTYARD UTILITY CORRIDOR, BASEMENT LEVEL Ranger checked his watch.
Twenty-eight minutes since the third diversion --the electromagnetic
pulse over the parade grounds. The blast- door lights were exactly on
schedule. Somewhere, at this precise moment, in a command post hurriedly
established outside the Pentagon office building, a panicked junior
officer would be recommending a total escalation to Atlantis Rising.

The junior's decision would be considered proper and would not be
countermanded. And the first step in the Atlantis Rising defense of the
Pentagon would be to establish Threat Con Echo--sealing the Building off
in sections to contain both the enemy and any potential damage.

But the first step would do neither. The areas being sealed off held
nothing Ranger needed. And by the time Atlantis Rising reached the
full-implementation stage, the Pentagon defense strategy would be halted
in a way its designers had never thought possible.

But that event was at least another forty to sixty minutes away, and
responsibility for that action rested with Team One. For now, all Ranger
and his three soldiers had to do was wait in the basement level utility
corridor that circled beneath the Pentagon's central courtyard, and keep
Major General Vanovich in line.

Ranger encouraged Vanovich to rest on the three-foot-wide green pipe
that ran along the base of the utility corridor wall. On the back wall,
above the pipe, snaked brightly colored conduits of red and blue and
orange, in great contrast to the neutral, drab tones of the walls,
floor, and ceiling tiles.

The older man's color was not good, and he had lost considerable weight
since Ranger had seen him last. But in little more than an hour there
would be access to first-aid facilities, and the plan only required that
the general remain alive for half a day. Whatever happened after that
was of no concern to Ranger.

As he waited to be sealed into the Pentagon's basement, Ranger watched
the flashing-yellow ceiling light above the entrance alcove that
contained the freight elevators.

Originally, he knew, the basement of the Pentagon had been a no man-land
intended for light storage, building support, and little else.

It was dark, cramped, often wet, and frequently smelled of the swamp it
had once been. The basement had been one of the first areas of the
Pentagon to show its age as the Building's hurriedly built
infrastructure had begun to decay.

During his tour of duty at the Pentagon, Ranger had been told that at
the time of the Desert Shield and Desert Storm operations, a fire had
started in the Joint Staff area of the Pentagon, the same area in which
General Vanovich had his office. When the firefighters who had responded
to the emergency had pressurized a standpipe to deliver water to their
hoses, the fifty-year-old, blocked, and corroded pipe blew out with such
force that four feet of it disintegrated.

The resulting torrent had flooded 350,000 square feet of the basement,
severely compromising the operation centers of both the Army and the Air
Force at a time when they were functioning in wartime mode. And when the
water had entered a broken steam pipe and shot through the 1,190-foot
service tunnel running from the Pentagon to the old Heating &
Refrigeration Plant, the basement of that building had been flooded to a
depth of seven feet.

For that reason alone, Ranger had been told, the basement of the
Pentagon had usually been considered the office location of last resort.

Slowly, though, those in charge of the Pentagon's security had realized
that, failing pipes aside, the basement was also the most secure section
of the Building and covert changes began to be made.

Though the work beneath the Pentagon had been ongoing for years, the
first obvious reconfiguration of its lower levels was the closing down
of the bus and taxi tunnels that ran beneath the Building which served
the Metro concourse. At the time, Pentagon spokesmen had cited standard
security concerns such as removing tempting locations for potential
truck bombs. But in reality, as valid as those security concerns had
been, the area reclaimed from the closed underground roadways had been
about to become the office complex for President Reagan's Strategic
Defense Initiative Organization.

The advantages of the basement location were not missed by the
Building's other tenants, and the underground levels of the Pentagon
became the first to be renovated. By their completion in 1999, more than
2 million additional square feet of usable area had been added to the
Pentagon's original floor plan of 6.5 million. Ranger, however, knew
that those figures, like all the Pentagon's published figures, were
meaningless, because they referred only to the portions of the Pentagon
that the Department of Defense had been required to make public.

In stark contrast to the professed belief of America's political leaders
--that a world without secrets would invariably lead to peace--in the
government's military stronghold, duplicity was the rule, not the
exception. Ranger knew there were more secrets in this Building than
anywhere else in the country. After all, the Pentagon was the ultimate
command post to which every American military project and operation
eventually had to report.

At last the Threat Con Echo countdown reached zero. A foot-thick blast
door marked with diagonal stripes of yellow and black rolled swiftly
across the opening between the Pentagon's basement and the utility
corridor, thudding into contact with the mechanical locks that grabbed
and secured it.

Somewhere outside, Ranger knew, that panicked junior officer now
believed that the Pentagon and all its secrets were secure.

And in one sense, that was true. In only twelve hours, all the
Pentagon's secrets would be secure.

Because they would all belong to Ranger.

THIRD FLOOR, E RING Midshipman Amy Bethune stared out at the ruins of
the River Entrance Parade Grounds and saw a battlefield.

Open fires were everywhere among the television trailers and stages.

Curls of smoke rose up from a dozen other places, fires that were dying
out or were about to ignite. Off to the side on the ramp, two limousines
blazed, and there were visible soot marks around the engine compartments
of a handful of other vehicles, including a

HUMVEE.

She also saw bodies. Scattered, not just in one area. Smoke rose from
some of those, too, while others seemed untouched.

Her classmates had been casualties of some undeclared war. And now more
lives had been taken by the enemy.

A mile away, over the Potomac, where the spire of the Washington
Monument soared into the blue, unmarked sky to the north, and in

the air around the great white dome of the Capitol Building almost
directly in front of her, she saw another sign of war: helicopters.

The most distant were small and white, most likely belonging to
television and radio stations. Amy knew the only reason civilian air
traffic would hang back was because someone in authority had established
control of the Pentagon's airspace.

The helos in the foreground were huge, some gray, some green, some
Special Ops black. Amy recognized those as MH-60Ks and 53Js. She also
saw two 47Ds, both of them capable of transporting more than forty
troops, heading for the Washington Navy Yard.

A counterattack was being assembled.

But a counterattack against what?

Amy pressed against the E Ring window and strained to look past the
limestone pillars to the side, checking for any sign of enemy movement.

She saw nothing. She thought of smashing the glass and making a run for
the stairways beside the parade grounds that led down to the closed
highway. But when she tapped the grip of her Beretta against the window,
the dull sound it made let her know there wasn't much she could do to
break it. The window was a blast proof laminate. She could empty a full
clip at it without scratching the exterior bonding surface.

But the fact that one strategy couldn't be developed did not mean she
could give up the mission. "Survival, evasion, resistance, escape," she
recited to herself. SERE training. She hadn't been through it herself,
but some of the Marines she had trained with last summer had taken the
nineteen-day course and described it for her, when she'd pestered them
to. They'd told her the ordeal had been brutal. Nine days of nonstop
lectures and field exercises, then what was euphemistically called a
"practical test."

In the "test," SERE students, mostly soldiers or airmen in special
forces units, or pilots, male and female, were set loose in the woods
around the training camp, then hunted, captured, imprisoned, and
interrogated. Some students lost as many as twelve pounds during their
few days of imprisonment, the conditions of which were based on what
American POWs had endured in Vietnam.

Like most military training, SERE school was designed to permit
participants the chance to make mistakes in a nonlethal environment so
the mistakes could be corrected, theoretically increasing the odds of a
student surviving similar events in the real world. However, one of the
Marines Amy had spoken with told her the "test" had convinced him his
best response was to make certain the enemy never captured him alive.

Amy knew she wasn't even close to making such a radical decision.

Finding a safe place to hide was not one of her priorities. Her survival
situation was in an office building, not a tropical jungle.

She had survived the enemy attack, and she had evaded capture, for now,
at least. And since it seemed unlikely she could escape, that left her
with only one option: resistance.

The first thing she knew she had to do was provide behind-the lines
intelligence to the soldiers outside who were gathering for the
counterattack. She looked around for suitable materials. The wood
paneled room she was in had seen some action. Its outer door into the
corridor had been shot open and a few upended chairs gave evidence of a
struggle. Most likely from the gray-suited man whose body lay just
inside the door. She hadn't been able to find a security pass or a
weapon, not even dog tags on the man, but it looked as if he had died
defending this office. She'd chosen it for that reason.

As soon as she had entered, Amy had smelled the unmistakable, sharp
scent of an expended explosive, but she'd been unable to find any sign
of blood or gunfire other than the body and the damaged outer door.

Knowing she couldn't solve the mystery with the information she had, she
had wasted no more time thinking about it and had proceeded to the
window overlooking the parade grounds.

Now, in the massive, dark-wood desk that dominated the office, she found
what she needed: writing paper, a pen, and some adhesive tape.

She carefully printed a message in thick block letters. MSG FRM MID A.L.
BETHUNE, '06. ENEMY FORCE: ? 40 DISGUISED AS

MIDS, 12TH COMPANY. PISTOLS SEEN. AUTO GUNFIRE HEARD.

EXPLOSIVE USED. THIS SECTION SEALED. THREAT CON ECHO ESTABLISHED." NO
PHONE COMM. She checked her watch, then added the time. AS OF 1155 ZULU.

Then she chose the window with the least of its field of view blocked by
the pillars outside and taped her note to it. Above it, she used more
sheets of paper and the tape to fashion a large arrowhead marker
pointing at the note.

The commanders planning the counterattack would be sure to have the
entire building under surveillance, and the arrowhead would be easily
noticed by anyone with binoculars, though to read the note would
probably take a telescope, or a camera with an extreme telephoto lens.

Neither of those items, however, would be difficult to come by, given
the density of military establishments within five miles of the
Building.

With her first responsibility to her fellow service members discharged,
Amy decided on her next course of action.

She would reconnoiter the sealed area, looking for any sign of enemy
presence, as well as any other method to make contact with friendly
forces outside the Pentagon. If she looked in enough drawers and
cabinets, she was certain to find a forgotten cell phone or walkie
talkie. But most important, she had to do something. She had not
enrolled at the Academy in order to watch life pass by. She had enrolled
in order to take command and make a difference. That was exactly what
she planned to do now.

She switched the clips on her gun so she would start with a full fifteen
rounds, keeping the clip with only four shots in her pocket as a backup.
Carefully looking out into the corridor, she saw it was still clear,
then stepped out. Quickly assessing her options, she decided to go down
two floors, to the entrance level. It would likely be sealed, but
there'd be a security station there. With any luck, there'd also be an
equipment locker nearby with radios and additional firearms. Perhaps
even some kind of emergency communications equipment, like a ship's
sound-powered telephone, something which did not depend on external
electricity to operate.

But as Amy approached the end of the E Ring corridor, she saw she might
again have to revise strategy. The stairway she needed was on the wrong
side of the blast door that sealed off the corridor. She looked behind
her, at the other end of the hall. There was a blast door there, too,
but it was on the far side of a stairwell alcove.

She turned and jogged for the stairwell.

But halfway there, she heard the sound of an office blast door begin to
slide open, just as she passed it.

Once again, Amy's reflexes took over--before she even saw the figure
that stood in the doorway, the Beretta swung up and around as if under
its own guidance.

And Midshipman Amy Bethune faced the enemy it was her mission to kill.

FIVE THIRD FLOOR, E RING

Tom Chase threw up his hands and yelled, "Don't shoot!"

But the woman with the gun had gone into a half crouch and Tom saw her
hands thrust the gun forward and--he heard the gun's report and--he was
still on his feet, untouched, the neck chain from the proxcard he was
holding dangling in front of his face.

The shooter was looking at the gun in her hand in disbelief, as if it
hadn't gone off.

Tom couldn't believe it. "You missed me?" he said. "You're five feet
away and you missed me?"

The woman raised her gun again. "On the floor! Get on the floor now!

Hands behind your back!"

Woman? Tom thought. Not even close. She was just a kid in jeans, and
sneakers and a ratty-looking gray sweatshirt. A nice-looking kid. The
kind of kid he'd hire to baby-sit Tyler.

"Down on the floor!" the kid shouted. "NOW." NOW." NOW.""

Tom lowered his hands. "Or what?" he said. "You'll miss me again?"

The kid was probably a college student, working weekends on the cleaning
staff or something. "How about giving me the gun?" Tom asked. He held
out his hand.

All at once, the kid pointed the gun straight up and fired again, this
time showering Tom with shattered fragments of dusty ceiling tile.

"LAST CHANCE."" she screamed, leveling the gun at his chest. "GET YOUR

SORRY ASS DOWN ON THAT FLOOR BEFORE I KICK YOUR BALLS FROM HERE TO NEXT
WEEK YOU MOTHERFUCKING

ASSHOLE!"

Tom promptly dropped to the floor, stretched out, eye-level with her
sneakers. They were spattered with blood. Not a good sign.

"That your ID?" she asked loudly.

Tom raised his hand very slowly up. "Won't do you any good. It's keyed
to my retina." But the kid snatched his proxcard anyway.

"Thomas Paine Chase," she read out. "What are you doing here?" Tom
sensed a slight toning down of the false belligerence the kid had
used--successfully--to intimidate him.

Maybe she was ready to respond to reason. "I'm Tom Chase. I work as a
consultant for Major General Milo Vanovich, United States Air Force.

His office is down the hall. Whoever attacked the Pentagon came for him
and took him away. Now can I please get up?" Tom risked turning his face
to the side to see if his answers were having any effect on the kid.

She glared at him suspiciously. "Why didn't they kill you?"

Tom didn't like the implication of her question. It sounded as if she
knew of others, besides Dorsey, who hadn't been so fortunate. "They
didn't know I was with him, in the safe room. They threw a grenade in,
but ... looks like it was a dud. I'm still here."

She looked at his proxcard again, and Tom could see she was comparing
his photo with his face.

"I was in an office down the hall," she said. "I could smell an expended
explosive."

Tom grimaced. He was familiar with the term. Professionals used it.

"So it wasn't a dud," she continued. "It was probably a concussion
grenade. A flash bang

Hell, the kid's face still has baby fat, thought Tom, and they've
already taught her to talk like that. "You're a soldier, right?"

"I'm a sailor."

"Like there's a difference. May I get up now?"

She took a step back, lowered her weapon, and nodded.

Tom got to his feet. "That the new camouflage uniform?"

"Did you open that blast door?"

"Unh-uh, that's not how it works, kid. You're suspicious of me and now
I'm suspicious of you." He held out his hand. "Where's your ID?"

She stared at him, making no effort to comply.

"Look, no one got in here today without a pass. Except maybe the bad
guys."

That did it. She stuffed her gun into the waistband of her jeans.

Then she reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a laminated security
pass, looked at it, then pulled out a second and gave that one to him
instead.

Tom took it, read it, and all became clear. "Oh, shit ... You're a
midshipman."

"Yes, sir."

"Your crew was assigned to the center courtyard."

"Yes, sir."

"But whoever it was turned up there, they weren't midshipmen, were
they?"

The kid's face went blank. Tom knew the look well. The kid had a mission
and nothing but nothing was going to get in her way. "You saw them?" she
asked.

"I arrived the same time they did. A big Annapolis bus, right? They
looked kind of old for students ... they didn't ..." Despite her best
efforts, Tom saw a sudden shimmer in the kid's clear blue eyes. "You
missed that bus, didn't you?" he asked her.

He saw her unconsciously snap to attention as if reporting her failings
to a superior officer. "Yes, sir. I did, sir."

"I'm really sorry"--Tom checked the pass again--"Midshipman Bethune."

He held out her pass. She looked down at the second one she still had in
her hand.

"One of them had my friend's pass."

Tom knew what had happened to her friend. And to whoever had taken that
pass.

"Bethune--they've got my friend, now," Tom said. "And I'm on my way to
find him." He gestured toward the down staircase, offering her an
invitation to join him.

The midshipman hefted the gun in her hand, then nodded once. Now side by
side, they headed off together for the stairwell at the end of the
corridor.

"Have you seen any more of them?" Tom asked. "I mean, besides ..."
"Four," she said. "I dropped one. The other three withdrew."

"The one you ' I take it, you didn't shoot him."

"No, sir. I'm ... I'm working on that." She looked at the gun in her
right hand, then at Tom. "Are you a marksman?"

"Never fired a weapon in my life."

In the puzzled silence that followed, Tom could almost hear her
thinking, Why is someone with no military training working for an Air
Force general?

He answered her unspoken question just as they reached the stair well.

"I'm in electronics. Circuitry design. Communications. I do consulting
work on some of the general's projects."

The midshipman held back for an instant before entering the stairwell.

"What do you know about Threat Con Echo?"

"Never heard of it before," Tom said as he reached for the polished wood
railing. The staircase had an open, more formal design than that common
to the more utilitarian stairs scattered throughout the Building.

"Neither have I, sir."

"--but it looks like part of it involves sectioning off the threatened
structure." He started down the stairs. After a moment's hesitation, the
midshipman followed.

"Like watertight doors on a ship."

"Right. I think part of the idea might be to isolate the bad guys, keep
them contained until they're attacked." Tom noticed the midshipman
automatically move to the opposite side of the stairway, scanning ahead
with every step, ready to react to whatever might be beyond the landing
half a floor below them.

As they reached the first landing, the midshipman and Tom both stared
down at the next set of stairs that ended on the second floor. Then Tom
saw that blank look settle on the kid's face again.

"I saw a lot of helicopter traffic outside, sir. Troop transports.

Attack helos. You think our side'll be coming in soon?"

"Not from outside." Tom tried a long shot. "At Annapolis, did they ever
tell you about PROJECT ATLANTIS?" The midshipman paused before
answering, as if her brain had just sent a search request into the
Internet. "Not in the classes I've had, sir."

"It's ... part of the civil defense plan for what they call the National
Capital Region. Washington, Arlington, all around here. From what I've
been told, years ago, when they realized they could never evacuate
politicians and military leaders from the area fast enough to beat
Soviet submarine-launched missiles, they started going underground."

"Bomb shelters?"

"That's part of it. It's a whole shelter and evacuation system.

There's an Atlantis facility under the White House. Another under the
Capitol Building. And from what Milo--General Vanovich told me, I'm
guessing there's one under the Pentagon, too. Makes sense if you think
about it. Anyway, the general seemed to think that that's where a
counterattack would come from. And that it would come pretty fast."

Midshipman Bethune was frowning. "Why would anyone keep an armed force
under the Pentagon? It's not a good use of people and equipment."
Inwardly, Tom sighed. The kid was already trying to think like a
general. Or in her case, an admiral. "I don't think the general was
telling me they have an army down there, Bethune. But when you think
about it, this place is riddled with tunnels going from here to the Navy
Annex, and the Heating and Refrigeration Plant, and ... you do know the
operation centers for each branch of the military are down there, too?
That's pretty valuable property, so it's a certainty they've got
contingency plans for getting troops in here fast if there's a hostile
takeover."

The kid checked her watch, still frowning. "Sir--it's been almost an
hour since the takeover began. The longer the enemy is unopposed, the
better he's able to dig in and the stronger his position becomes. If
there were a counterforce on standby in some shelter or tunnel under the
Pentagon ... why haven't they attacked by now?" A good point, Tom
thought. But quarterbacking the military wasn't something he had time
for, now or ever. Milo Vanovich was still being held somewhere in the
Building and Tom's first priority was to find him. What happened after
that was after that.

"Bethune, I don't know why the military does half the things it does.

All I can say is, if they haven't done anything yet, it's because some
four-star thinks it's a good idea to not do anything yet. Why that would
be, I haven't a clue. Nor do I care to look for one." Tom started down
the stairs again.

But the midshipman didn't follow him. "There's another possibility, sir.
It could be that the situation isn't considered serious enough to reveal
the presence of a hidden force."

That stopped Tom. He turned around to look at her. "Bethune-what the
hell is more serious than a hostile takeover of the Pentagon?"

"I don't know, sir. But if you're right about there being a counterforce
on site that hasn't been activated yet, there could be a worse situation
still to come."

Tom didn't like that idea one bit. What had already happened was bad
enough without the kid thinking up even worse things to scare them.

For a moment, unbidden, he remembered what Vanovich had said about the
briefing he was supposed to hold later today. Something that had scared
the general so much he hadn't even told the President about it.

But the connection wasn't obvious and Tom put it out of his mind.

All that mattered now was finding Vanovich so he had the location ready
for whoever answered his phone message.

Tom didn't want to know what could be worse than Threat Con Echo.

SIX WEST POTOMAC PARK, OHIO DRIVE

By the time UPN Associate Program Director Danny Assad screeched his
WDCA Uplink Live! news van to a shimmying stop on the short spit of land
that jutted out into the Potomac, a third of the distance between the
Washington Monument and the Pentagon, the mystery of what had happened
had escalated into a full-blown morass of confusion.

At 11:58 a. m." all live news broadcasts from the Pentagon had cut off
at once. For the first minute, news directors around the world, from CNN
in Atlanta to NHK broadcast studios in Tokyo, had thought it was just
their own crews who had been affected. Perhaps a satellite had gone
down, or an on-site generator had blown a relay.

But every news organization monitored every other news organization, and
when the baffled news directors had looked up from their own blank
screens to see what the competition was reporting, all those other blank
screens told the story.

Something had happened at the Pentagon.

First confirmation had come within three minutes from Sky Fox 1, the
Bell Jetranger helicopter used by Channel 5 in D.C. to cover morning
traffic jams and late-night police chases.

Since official helicopter traffic had closed the Pentagon's airspace to
news helicopters, no civilian helos had been affected by the
electromagnetic pulse that had brought down the Air Force's MH-53Js.

The first news team to turn its camera on the Pentagon had been the crew
of Sky Fox 1, which had been dividing its duties between covering the
Sunday-morning traffic snarl caused by the closure of so many roads near
the Pentagon, and the ongoing police activity outside the National
Archives.

The Sky Fox cameras had revealed smoke--twenty or more columns rising
like bleeding ink around the Building to stain the summer-blue sky. One
enormous black cloud pulsed upward in billows from the Heliport Side,
behind the Pentagon. And an even larger cloud swirled from the North
Parking Lot, where flame shot up from a large but unidentifiable burning
object. The rest of the columns, some black, some sooty gray, stabbed
the parade grounds like a thicket of diabolic stakes. As the
helicopter's camera had zoomed to maximum telephoto, the fires that
burned at the base of each column had become readily visible.

Urgent calls summoning additional news crews and reporters had gone out
at once, multiplying geometrically as intended recipients could not be
found. It was Sunday morning. All first-string news teams were already
at the Pentagon. Most second-string teams had the day off.

So many local beepers and cell phones had been accessed at once that D.
C."s cellular networks had shut down as relay circuits timed out in the
onslaught. The increased communications traffic was not just from news
desks. By this time, security support teams, both civilian police and
military units, who were posted around the Pentagon had begun filling
their own radio channels and the local phone system with frantic
situation reports and calls for assistance.

Those personnel who had been stationed at checkpoints around the
Pentagon, who had heard the explosions, seen the fireballs, and watched
helplessly as the helicopters began falling from the sky, now started to
receive the panicked groups of escapees fleeing the Building. There were
many witnesses to different pieces of the nightmare, but no one with any
clear idea of the entire situation.

The President was dead. The Pentagon had been nuked. A plane had crashed
into the Building. Enemy paratroopers had landed. Each television and
radio station had its own set of stories to choose from, and the absence
of fact, combined with the need to fill air time, had led to the
indiscriminate reporting of rampant speculation and rumor.

Danny Assad had listened to all of it on the radio during his highspeed
drive from the Channel 20 UPN affiliate's new studio in Bethesda to the
edge of the southernmost shore of the Potomac. He was the fourth of four
program directors at the station, which meant he usually did what the
other three directors told him to do, including getting their coffee.
Danny had been too junior to be assigned to the parade grounds today.
But, at twenty-five, he was also hungry enough to have been
working--without pay--at the studio on a Sunday, completing his edit of
a spec news feature he had put together on the honesty of local car
washes.

At the time all broadcasts from the Pentagon had been cut off, he had
been inter cutting hours of hidden-camera footage showing car wash
employees either ignoring or sometimes stealing the money he had left
openly in the cup holder of his battered Saturn. While almost everyone
had passed up one-dollar and five-dollar bills, and appeared to suspect
something was amiss when they discovered twenties or hundreds, Danny had
lucked out using tens. Dishonest employees, it seemed, regarded a
ten-dollar bill as just large enough to be useful, but not so large that
its loss would cause a driver to notice and complain about its theft.

It wasn't an inspired piece, Danny admitted to himself. Truth be told,
it wasn't even news. But he was in a business with such intense
competition that he'd learned it was no longer enough to wait for
newsworthy events to occur--enterprising reporters had to go out and
find the news, or failing that, they had to make it.

But DISASTER AT THE PENTAGON!--the title his art director had already
slapped into a graphic--was good, old-fashioned, ready made news. And
because Danny had been the only news department director ready to roll
when the story broke, he'd gotten the assignment. And his shot at the
big leagues.

Five minutes after Station Manager Eric Waller had slammed open the door
to the editing bay to get him, Danny had been on his way out of the
parking lot with the affiliate's oldest news van. His hastily drafted
Channel 20 Uplink Live! News Team consisted of Arthur Tranh, an
excitable, nineteen-year-old, summer-intern camera assistant from
Washburn University, and Trish Mankin, a thirty-year-old floor director
getting her first break at on-air reporting.

With the three of them in it, the creaky old van was running on pure
adrenaline, not gasoline. Danny knew his team understood as well as he
that this was exactly the kind of unpredictable situation that could
catapult unknowns to public prominence overnight.

Danny parked the van on the side of Ohio Drive facing the Pentagon, and
Arthur hurriedly extended the microwave antenna to establish a
sound-and-signal link back to the studio. At the same time, Trish broke
out the Betacam camera and snapped it onto its tripod, while Danny
scanned the Pentagon with his boss's golf binoculars.

Neither Danny nor his crew had done this kind of work before, and
everything took twice as long as it should. And when Trish left the
quick-release lever in the wrong position, the camera almost fell off
the tripod. By the time the camera was operational and transmitting back
to the studio, military helicopters were thrumming by overhead every few
seconds, and the consensus on the radio reports was that the Pentagon
had been taken over by terrorists.

Danny, for one, could believe it. The parade grounds looked like a
battlefield. He was just under a mile from the Pentagon's River
Entrance, and he could see burning broadcast vans and generator trucks,
and bodies.

Now, as Trish got ready to give her first segment, Danny, as unit
director, instructed her to say

"Live from near the Pentagon," but Mr. Waller overruled him. As Arthur
used their longest telephoto lens to show the parade grounds carnage,
Trish reported

"Live from the Pentagon."

Trish's minute of glory lasted ninety seconds, as Mr. Waller informed
Danny that the station was cutting to a CNN pool feed, and would return
to them only if they noticed any change in conditions. The station
manager also told Danny to keep checking the windows for any desperate,
trapped hostages. All the other stations were using the angle that the
headquarters of the most powerful military force in history might have
fallen to a terrorist attack. What the competition had forgotten, Mr.
Waller said, was the human dimension. So, if anyone tried to jump to
safety from a fifth-story window, UFN Channel 20 would be the first to
carry it live.

A minute later, Danny saw the big white arrow in a window on the
Pentagon's third floor.

A few seconds later, Arthur found it with the camera, and Danny climbed
into the back of the van to watch one of the monitors as Arthur zoomed
in.

The arrow was pointing to what seemed to be a sheet of paper.

Danny shouted to Arthur to go to full telephoto, then he digitally
expanded the frame on the monitor, rapidly adjusted the contrast to
high, and had a graphic subroutine smooth the final jagged image.

It was a hand-printed message from someone named Mid A.L. Bethune, and
it had been written less than ten minutes earlier.

Trish was breathing down his back as she read the message on the screen.
"Jesus Christ," she said, "that's an honest-to-God scoop!

Call Waller!"

Danny reached for his cell phone as Trish stored still frames of the
message, then shouted to Arthur to switch back to his regular lens so he
could get her in the shot. Trish was ecstatic. None of the other news
feeds on the smaller monitors showed the message in the window.

Channel 20's fourth-string team had found it first.

Then Trish noticed that Danny hadn't made the call.

"I think we should let someone else know first' Danny explained. "You
know, the police."

Irish tried to take the phone from Danny but he held it behind his
chair. "That's the Pentagon!" she said. "The police don't have any
jurisdiction there! Give me the phone!"

"Trish--that message has inside information about the terrorists. If
they cut the phone lines, that means they don't want any information to
get out, but there it is: pistols, auto gunfire, explosives ... even
Threat Con Echo, whatever the hell that is. I mean ... that message
could be military intelligence. Maybe it shouldn't go out to the
public."

Trish made another grab for the phone. "The public has the right to
know, Danny. This is news. And once it's on the air, the police and
everyone else will know about it, too. That's our job."

It's also what troubled Danny. "What if the terrorists have a TV set in
there? Then they'll know that the police know."

"Know what?!"

Danny felt trapped in a bad dream. This was supposed to have been his
chance, but he didn't feel right about taking it. "I don't know. That
there's some guy named Bethune running around on the second floor? That
Threat Con Echo has been established. I mean, that sounds like a
military code word, don't you think? Maybe Bethune's some officer.

Maybe that message is important."

"It is important. It's news, and we're putting it on the air." Trish
imperiously held out her hand for the phone as if willing him to give it
to her.

Instead, Danny reached to the control console and shut off the feed to
the studio.

Trish stared at him in condemnation. "We're reporters, you asshole.

We can't censor the news. We have to be neutral."

Danny knew she was right. A democracy could not stand without a free and
independent press. And yet ... Trish had had enough. "Screw you. Arthur
has a phone. I'm calling Waller."

"Go ahead! But I'm calling ..." Danny didn't have the slightest idea who
he should call. But from the triumphant look on Trish's face as she
turned and jumped from the van, Danny knew he had to come up with one
fast.

He was probably making the biggest mistake of his life. But up there,
trapped in the Pentagon, was some guy named Bethune risking everything
to tape a message to a window.

And Danny could help him.

Terrorists had declared war on the Pentagon.

Danny didn't feel like being neutral.

THE WHITE HOUSE Like a knight returning from the Crusades, not someone
who had just been extracted by Special Ops from the Pentagon parking
lot, the President strode into the Situation Room beneath the White
House, not too far from the White House Mess.

America's Chief Executive's face was streaked with dirt, his dark blue,
pinstriped suit was rumpled and torn, and the palms of his hands were
white with bandages the medic on the Pave Low had applied. But his
shoulders were square and each step was sure. It was exactly what the
people waiting for him needed to see, Hector Macgregor knew.

Hector stumped awkwardly after the President, leaning heavily on a metal
crutch to spare his thoroughly immobilized left foot, which was also
mercifully numb, thanks to whatever the medic on board the rescue
helicopter had injected into his ankle. The President's only visible
injuries were the scrapes on his hands from the chain-link fence. The
medic, however, had made the President promise to have a full set of
X-rays as soon as possible. For Hector, who felt his injury was
considerably more serious, the medic had suggested he get an X-ray of
his foot whenever he could get around to it.

Though the Pave Low's pilot had been under orders to take his passengers
straight to the Walter Reed Hospital for medical attention, the
President had exercised his authority as commander in chief to directly
countermand those orders. Hector and the President had been flown
immediately to the White House.

The President's second order had been for the commander to report the
loss of Major Ron Fielding and the CAT to the White House Military
Office. Hector had been present for two National Command Authority
drills. Following notification of the loss of a CAT, it took less than
sixty seconds to begin the process of changing nuclear authorization
codes, and less than eight minutes to complete it. Hector knew that as
long as an alert status did not already exist, nothing in the U.S.
arsenal could be prepped and launched in that short a time, so at least
thermonuclear war would be the least of the President's worries today.

Five minutes after their heart-stopping rescue, Hector and the President
had exited the Pave Low helicopter on the South Lawn of the White House.
When the rotors had stopped and the side door had clanged open, Hector
realized that the South Lawn was cluttered with helicopters. There was
another VH-3D in V. I.P green and white. There were also three other
military helos, all in flat green or gray combat colors. Hector couldn't
identify them precisely, but they were all impressively large, blistered
with curved equipment pods, and studded with gun ports.

In addition to the Marine honor guards that were usually present to
receive the President when he traveled via Marine One, Hector noted at
least ten uniformed Treasury officers and the same number of soldiers in
green service uniforms. But instead of ceremonial swords and polished
sidearms, everyone was carrying small, black submachine guns.

The President has guests, Hector had concluded, after taking a moment to
consider just who might have arrived on those helos. And those guests
are worried.

Despite the waiting crowd, which had included the President's anxious
personal physician, it had taken the President and Hector only another
minute to walk to the West Wing. From there, they took the stairs down
to the Situation Room, which was a secure, austere, and windowless
meeting room. One wall featured multiple, angled display screens that
reminded Hector of the flat computer monitors mounted high overhead the
floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Built into the opposite end of the
room's expansive, black-surfaced conference table, and angled up from
its surface, were control boards covered with glowing buttons and
switches. The control boards provided secure communications links to
foreign governments, U.S. embassies, and military command centers around
the world.

Now, as the President entered the Situation Room, he was engulfed by
aides and plunged into four and five conversations at a time as
eyewitnesses and advisors all competed to deliver their accounts. It
seemed as if all the world's leaders were on hold at the same time, all
expecting to speak to the President personally. The State Department was
overwhelmed. From what he could overhear, Hector was finally able to put
together a picture of what had happened at the Pentagon--at least, a
picture of what the President's staff had been able to put together, and
what they'd deduced had happened. Most of the details were incomplete
and some were contradictory.

First, and most personally distressing for the President, there was no
word yet on his wife's fate. Some civilians who had been in the
Pentagon's Courtyard when the terrorists had attacked had managed to
escape in a pack. But none in the group remembered seeing the First Lady
in the Courtyard. Two others, however, who had been in the reception
area with the Presidential party recalled seeing her being dragged down
the A Ring corridor by her Secret Service agents.

Drew Simons, the Treasury agent responsible for White House security,
then told the President that the threat-response plan for the day's
visit to the Pentagon had directed the First Lady's agents to
immediately escort her to a safe room in the Building, in the event no
clear evacuation route existed. In the absence of any additional
information, the agent advised the worried President that it was best to
assume all had gone as planned and that the First Lady was safe.

Hector could see that the President wasn't reassured by the assessment,
but that he also wasn't going to allow his personal concern to divert
his attention from the immediate crisis. And, since the Man had
specifically told the Special Ops medics that he wanted Hector with him
at the White House, Hector was determined to stay by his side, whatever
it was the President had in mind. But at the same time, all he really
wanted to do was sit down someplace and stare into space and try to come
to grips with what they'd just been through.

Hector still saw Christou's wide-eyed expression as she shoved him and
the President to safety, a cloud of her own blood expanding behind her
back. This afternoon, the thrill of being around the Chief Executive was
not quite what it had been before eleven o'clock this morning, before
he'd been directly exposed to the type of physical danger a President
and a President's keepers had to be ready for.

The President's next thought was for the Vice President. That assessment
report was less positive still. Two witnesses from the reception area
had seen the Vice President pulled away by his protective agents. But
three others had seen him a few minutes later on the stage in the center
courtyard, shirt covered with blood, looking dazed as he was herded off
with the captured military representatives from NATO. The President's
advisors now considered the Vice President to be in the hands of the
terrorists, and since his condition and whereabouts could not be known,
he was, effective now, no longer in the line of succession to the
Presidency.

All the activity, all the multiple conversations in the crowded
Situation Room, did not disguise the absence of many who would normally
be in this room in a time of crisis, but were instead, like Secretary of
Defense Nicholas Guilbert, still in the Pentagon. Five witnesses had
seen the Secretary's body in the Courtyard. Bullet-ridden and lifeless.

As radio contact was made with the soldiers rounding up all those who
had managed to escape from the Building, more and more reports poured
into the Situation Room. But the big questions remained unanswered.

Finally, even the President had had enough.

"Everybody shut up!" the Chief Executive shouted.

Hector knew it wasn't what the President had just said, but how he had
said it that created instant silence in the Situation Room. Just the
fact that the President had raised his voice was enough to make everyone
stop talking. It wasn't something many of them had ever heard. But then,
they hadn't been with him in the Gold Room this morning when he'd faced
down two of his Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"We will not allow ourselves to be consumed by panic or confusion," the
President declared to the hushed group around him. "I will ask
questions, and whoever has the answer will answer me, and everyone else
will be quiet." He looked around to make sure he had everyone's
attention, then came the first question. "Have the terrorists made any
attempt to communicate with us?"

At once a raspy voice declared, "No, sir." Hector saw it was Lee
Fogarty, a Special Assistant to the Secretary of Defense, and the most
senior member of the SECDEF office present. He was a short, stocky
figure in a torn Madras shirt and mismatched plaid Bermuda shorts that
exposed hairy, scratched legs. "And we don't expect them to."

With a half-smile, the President eyed the obviously unsettled assistant.
"Did we get you out of your rose garden, Lee?"

"Yes, sir. I had a day off."

That was enough small talk for the President. "Why don't we expect to
hear from them?"

A man in uniform pushed through the crowd, an Army colonel. Hector did
not recognize him. "If I may, sir?"

The President read the soldier's nameplate. "Colonel Tobin?"

"Yes, sir. I'm General Brewer's chief of staff." Hector knew who General
Elias X. Brower was the commander in chief of the U.S. Continental
Defense Command. The controversial CONDEFCOM was America's response to
increasing acts of terrorism at home, an expansion of an earlier, purely
defensive force which had operated under the direction of the Federal
Emergency Management Agency and the Department of Military Services. But
CONDEFCOM was the first combatant command established specifically to
operate on U.S. soil, overturning more than two centuries of legal
restrictions on domestic military operations.

CONDEFCOM's functional responsibility was to defend the United States
from direct attack, whether that attack was launched from outside or
inside the country's borders. While the Joint Chiefs merely managed
their branches of the military, General Brower was one of a handful of
CINCs with the authority to command forces into battle.

"The general is in transit," Colonel Tobin said. "ETA is forty minutes."

"Mr. President, I must protest the involvement of General Brower in
these events." Hector did recognize the man who broke in now: James
Gibb, director of the FBI. As always, Gibb was wearing a meticulous,
wrinkle-free suit, whose color and pattern were indistinguishable from
all the other suits the man wore seven days a week.

But the President was firm about there being no interruptions. "Not now,
Gibb. I'll talk with you later. And we'll deal with General Brewer when
he arrives." He turned his attention back to the SECDEF special
assistant. "Okay, Lee, why no communication with the terrorists?"

"Sir, based on reports from the security personnel on site, the
terrorists used something that generated an electromagnetic pulse. We
believe all standard communication links with the Pentagon have been
severed."

"What about nonstandard links?"

"We're doing okay with those. We're in contact with the Pentagon's
operations centers through secure fiber-optic networks. We've got
confirmation that Threat Con Echo has been implemented. The Building has
been closed off and sectioned."

Hector saw the President pause before asking his next question, choosing
the precise words he needed to use. "Colonel Tobin, keeping in mind that
we are in a room full of people who have varying degrees of clearance,
not all of them appropriate, am I right in assuming all operation
centers at the Pentagon are unaffected by terrorist activity?"

Interesting, Hector thought. It sounded as if the President were
referring to some kind of Pentagon operations site that was classified.

The colonel answered with the same circumspect hesitation. "Yes, sir, we
are in direct contact with all such centers."

"And am I correct in assuming that at least one of those centers has the
ability to launch a counteroffensive against the terrorists?"

"Yes, sir." Colonel Tobin directed a sharp look at the FBI director.

"That is why General Brower is on his way here."

The President looked around the room. "All right, people, I want this
room cleared of everyone except ... whatever assistants are the senior
person present for the National Security Council." The President sighed,
then pointed at Congresswoman Dorothy Marlens, the astoundingly
ineffectual Speaker of the House, a compromise candidate for the
position, chosen more by default than by design. "Speaker Marlens, you
should stay." Hector knew why. If the Vice President was captive,
incapacitated, or dead, House Speaker Marlens was next in line for the
Presidency, and as such, she would fill the Vice President's place as
one of the four members of the NSC.

The President resumed scanning the room, as, in addition to a junior
assistant to the Secretary of State whom Hector had never met, and Lee
Fogarty as the highest-ranking member of the Secretary of Defense's
office, he picked out FBI Director Gibb; Archie Fortis, assistant
Director of the Central Intelligence Agency; Colonel Tobin; and ...
everyone in the room, including Hector, murmured in surprise as the
President pointed to him and called out his name. "Everyone else into
the Cabinet Room. I want an operational command center set up in there.
Call in everyone from intelligence. I want every agency at the table. I
want ... oh, geez, is there anyone here from the Press Office?"

Mrs. Petty, the President's secretary answered. She had always seemed to
Hector to be at least a hundred years old, but her flame red, pixie
haircut and her cord-hung, cat's-eye eyeglasses had made her an icon to
the American people. It was like knowing a favorite grandmother was
taking care of the President. "Sir, Nestor's on his way."

"Nestor? That's it?"

"Everyone else managed to get passes to the Courtyard."

The President made a face. Again, Hector knew why. Nestor Tall man was a
junior speechwriter with only two months' experience on the Presidential
staff. "Steal me somebody else's press secretary," the President said
plaintively. "See if anyone from State is available.

How're we doing with the media?"

Mrs. Petty looked over at the bank of television screens at the far end
of the Situation Room. CNN, MSNBC, AOLCBS, the five networks ... all
except one of which were showing live helicopter shots of the Pentagon.
The local Fox affiliate had gone back to running tape of shrouded bodies
being wheeled out of the National Archives earlier that morning.

"What about the Archives mess?" the President suddenly asked.

Director Gibb delivered the bad news. "They did steal the Charters on
display. The Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the
first and fourth pages of the Constitution. The second and third pages
are still in the vault, untouched."

"Any connection to what's going on at the Pentagon?"

"Nothing's apparent. But the Bureau is actively pursuing the
possibility."

"All right. Keep me informed." The President looked back at his
secretary. "Mrs. Petty, you are now the official White House press
liaison until someone else gets here other than Nestor. Take this down
for immediate release: The White House confirms that a terrorist attack
has occurred at the Pentagon. The President is unharmed and has returned
to the White House, where a security briefing is under way.

There will be a statement for the press at the conclusion of the
briefing, expected to be in ... thirty minutes."

"Really?" Mrs. Petty asked as she jotted the statement in her steno pad.
It had a red, white, and blue crocheted cover that looked to be as
historic as she was.

"It's sure as heck better than admitting we don't know when we'll have
something to tell them. That would only encourage them to speculate, and
we don't want that." The President clapped his hands like a grade-school
teacher breaking up recess. The sound was muffled because of the
bandages on his palms. "Okay, people, everyone out."

A minute later, Hector found himself at the center table with only seven
others. The President was dismayed by the number of missing senior
advisors.

"If the Vice President and I can't ride on the same plane at the same
time," he complained, "then how is it possible that so many other senior
members of government were allowed to be at the Pentagon today?"

"We weren't expecting any trouble," the assistant director of the CIA
said.

"That's baloney, Archie, and you know it," the President retorted.

"The airport's shut down. The highways are closed. I saw the checkpoints
from the helicopter. Why go to all that trouble if you're not expecting
any?"

Colonel Tobin cleared his throat. "Mr. President, though I can't speak
for the people who planned security today, it's SOP to go to all that
trouble as a way of ensuring there won't be any."

Hector watched the President rubbing the bandages on his palms together.
"Never mind. We'll leave it to a Senate investigation, because I'm sure
there're going to be at least ten. Right now ... Colonel Tobin, when can
we initiate the Atlantis Rising defense to move against the terrorists?"
James Gibb  before the colonel could answer. Hector leaned forward, to
better hear why the FBI director would object to the presence of General
Brewer's chief aide in a crisis in which the military had already been
involved. Then he leaned back, having caught the sharp look Gibb was
giving him, that suggested that he was next on the director's complaint
list. The director's next complaint confirmed that suspicion.

"Mr. President, please. I have to object to Macgregor's presence on
national security grounds. He's not cleared for any of this." "He is
now," the President said.

"May I ask why, sir?"

Hector wanted to know the answer to that, too.

The President actually glowered at the FBI director. "Did you hear what
they were saying when I came in?" he asked. "The Secretary of Defense
has been murdered. The Vice President has been wounded, at least. No one
knows where General Flores is. Our helicopter flybys are showing us at
least fifty bodies in the Pentagon's Courtyard, and when you add those
to the seventy to a hundred people who've escaped, we're looking at at
least one hundred hostages still in there.

And not just any hostages, Mr. Gibb--foreign nationals. Top-ranking
military officials. Diplomats. NATO command staff. All who came to this
country, to the headquarters of the world's only superpower, and trusted
in our might and our resolve to keep them from harm."

The President's outrage was affecting all in the room, even though he
was technically addressing James Gibb. "I am not inclined to consider
this an act of terrorism, Mr. Director. This is an act of war!"

Gibb tried to object. "Mr. President--"

"Don't you interrupt me! Senior government officials are dead or
captured. They tried to kill me. Not kidnap me to hold me for ransom.

But kill me. Six good, fine, brave Americans are dead because they put
their lives on the line for me." The President gestured dramatically
down the table at Hector. "And that young man came too close to being
number seven."

As all eyes turned to Hector, and many resentfully shifted his ranking
upward a notch, Hector himself felt only relief when the FBI director
continued his attack.

"Surely there are other ways to reward him, sir."

"This has nothing to do with reward or gratitude. Hec was there. He went
through what I went through. But I know from experience that he won't
draw the same conclusions from that experience as I will."

"Sir, with respect, how can that possibly be relevant?"

"Good grief, man, do you not know how bloody this is going to get?!

Sometime in the next few minutes I'm going to have to give the orders
for our troops to go in there and take those SOBs out. More people will
die. Count on it." The President paused to collect himself. But his
upper lip trembled. "And in case you've forgotten, the First Lady is in
there. My wife. And, God help me, as President, I cannot allow myself to
put her safety above the security of this country and our obligation to
those who came here today trusting in us."

The room became so quiet, Hector could hear the hum from the television
screens behind him. The assistant from the State Department got up to
turn them off.

The President cleared his voice before he spoke again. "That young man
down there ... Hector Macgregor ... I'm trusting in him to keep me
honest in what I have to do. I may be the President, but he's the people
I serve. In this room the American people come first. And that means
that young man comes first."

Holy shit, Mr. President, Hector thought. Now everyone at this table is
going to want to kill me if they didn't before.

"And," the President concluded with a glare around the room, "I don't
want anyone else to question me on this. Hector Macgregor has
Presidential clearance. End of discussion."

But FBI Director Gibb was unwilling to yield the floor just yet.

"Very well, Mr. President, moving forward ... I feel obligated to tell
you that there is no regulation requiring you to call in the armed
forces at this time. The criminals--"

"Don't you mean terrorists, Gibb?" "No, sir," Gibb said testily,
reacting badly himself to interruption.

"There is no political component in this situation. We have kidnappers
holding people hostage. This entire incident falls under the authority
of the FBI."

Hector thought Colonel Tobin was going to choke. "What?!"

It was Archie Fortis, the soft-spoken assistant director of the CIA, who
raised his hand next, thus sparing the President from having to respond
at once to James Gibb's outburst. "Uh, I probably shouldn't get into the
middle of this, Mr. President, but from hostage situations we, uh, that
is, the Agency, has handled, uh, I have to say that this isn't playing
out like any other one I've seen." "Hear me out, Fortis," Gibb said
hurriedly, clearly aware he might have gone too far. "The remnants of
whatever security forces were on site this morning have established a
perimeter around the Building.

Correct, Colonel Tobin?"

Tobin's response was confined to a curt nod of his head. Hector admired
the colonel's self-control.

Gibb continued. "And, since Threat Con Echo is established, all
underground passages and connecting corridors between all the structures
on the Pentagon reservation have been sealed. Is that also correct,
Colonel?"

"SOP," Tobin said.

"Which means, the criminals are contained." Where ham I heard that
before? Hector thought.

The FBI Director sat back in his chair, his delivery continuing to slow
as it became apparent the President was going to allow him to finish his
statement. "The Bureau will take over maintenance of the perimeter as
quickly as possible. Our negotiators will attempt to initiate contact
with the perpetrators. And our Hostage Rescue Team is already being
assembled to move in when necessary." Gibb permitted himself a small
smile of satisfaction. "Mr. President, the situation is under control."

The President turned to Archie Fortis. "Now, Archie. Why do you say this
is different?"

"Well, they killed so many people right, uh, off the bat. That's unusual
before a ransom is requested or demands have been made."

Gibb snorted as he leaned forward so he could look up the table at
Fortis. "Oh, for ... that's because they're outnumbered. From the
uniforms they're in, we can safely assume they replaced those students
from the Naval Academy, which means there're no more than forty of them.
They couldn't manage three hundred hostages in a five-acre setting, so
they ... pared the list. Look at their tactics. They kept the military
people, they got rid of the civilians. It's obvious that they've
concentrated their efforts on capturing the most valuable hostages to
trade for their demands, which we expect to be made momentarily."

Hector turned to the President. The FBI director wouldn't like it, but
Hector couldn't let Gibb's false reasoning go unchallenged. "That's
wrong, Mr. President."

The director turned to Hector like a wolf about to attack, but Hector's
defender was still on the job.

"I want to hear this, Gibb," the President warned.

"If they wanted the most valuable hostages, why try to kill the
President of the United States? Mr. Gibb, they had us. Agent Zibart ...
he believed they were forcing us to run in one particular direction. To
the one place where there was going to be an ambush.

And he was right. They knew exactly where we were going to go. And there
were a lot more of them than us. They didn't say, "You're surrounded,
throw down your guns." They just started shooting."

"Uh, Macgregor's got a point," Fortis said to Gibb. "Why kill your ..

. most valuable hostage first?"

Gibb waved a dismissive hand, seeing nothing in Hector's objection that
contradicted his theory. "Because they were afraid he was going to get
away. Or maybe they were shooting to wound. The fact remains, they kept
the NATO officers. They are going to contact us. They are going to make
demands. And they will threaten those officers if we don't meet those
demands. Maybe they figure we'll cave in faster with pressure from the
countries the hostages are from." Gibb looked pointedly at the
President. "Sir, the Bureau has profilers who will deal with these
questions. We have trained negotiators. We can handle this."

That was enough for Colonel Tobin. "So can the United States military,
sir."

Gibb rolled his eyes. "What are you thinking of doing? Calling in Delta
Force?"

To Hector, that actually seemed the most appropriate strategy of all.

The Army's Delta Force was specially trained to combat terrorists and to
rescue hostages. He wondered why they weren't already on the way.

Unless, of course, the mysterious Pentagon operations center could
somehow launch a counterattack from inside.

The colonel ignored the FBI director's sarcastic delivery. "Regarding
Delta Force, General Brower has been in contact with Fort Bragg."

"That means nothing," Gibb said. "You're not onsite."

Tobin's shoulders pulled back as he straightened in his chair. "General
Brower is CINC of the Continental Defense Command. Delta Force has been
placed on alert, as has SEAL Team Six." The colonel looked at the
President. "They can be here within two hours, sir."

The FBI director also looked at the President. "And they have absolutely
no authority to take action on American soil in a nonmilitary situation.
This is the FBI's jurisdiction."

The President rubbed at his face. "My Lord, gentlemen ... lives are at
stake. Lives are at stake. And the two of you are squabbling about
jurisdiction!"

Gibb refused to be deflected. "Sir, the military was in charge of
security this morning. As a result of that security, we are now facing
the worst hostage incident in American history. Now it's time for the
professionals to--"

Tobin interrupted, seething. "My sentiments, exactly!"

The President tapped a finger on the edge of the table. "No offense,
people, but this is getting us nowhere. I want an end to this. I want an
end to it now. I am going to send troops in. I don't care if it's the
Site J team, Delta Force, the FBI, or the ... the darned Girl Scouts. If
you people can't tell me what my options are, then I'm going to pick one
myself and you can spend the next ten years in front of the Supreme
Court trying to figure out if I was right."

The director of the FBI shook his head. "Mr. President, you are making a
mistake."

"I've heard that be--" The President stopped abruptly. He looked at the
Assistant Secretary of Defense. "Lee, from the reports, are there many
American officers among the hostages?"

Lee Fogarty didn't understand the question or the President's obvious
excitement. "Sir? What are you getting at?" But Hector did and said so.
"That makes sense, sir."

"You think so, Hec?"

Hector nodded. "It explains why they tried to kill you, but took all the
military people hostage."

"Would you two care to tell the rest of us what you're talking about?"
the FBI director demanded.

"There's a possibility the attackers don't intend to trade those
hostages," the President said, his voice increasingly animated as he
developed his idea further. "What if they took all of the military
personnel hostage to disguise the fact that some of them were already
working with the attackers."

Director Gibb made a face, to indicate he did not believe in such a
possibility.

But Colonel Tobin supported the theory. "For what it's worth, sir, both
General Brower and myself believe the only way the Pentagon could have
been compromised this way is through the use of inside operatives."

Gibb slapped the table. "Which is even more reason to keep the military
out of this! Mr. President, in light of what Colonel Tobin has said, how
can you trust any of your troops until we know what happened today?"

If Gibb's question struck a nerve, Hector could not tell. Though, just
this morning in the Gold Room, he had heard the Man himself ask if he
could trust the Chief of Naval Operations and the Air Force Chief of
Staff.

The President stood, letting everyone know he had come to his decision
and the meeting was over. "Director Gibb, you will prepare your
negotiators and the Hostage Rescue Team for action--"

Colonel Tobin got to his feet to protest. "Mr. President, you can't--"
The President continued, "--but you will not commit them to action
without a direct order from me."

"Technically, Mr. President, that order should come to me from the
Attorney General," the FBI director said pedantically.

"Well, Gibb, since the Attorney General is in that courtyard, if you
prefer, I'll appoint Hec as Acting Attorney General and you can take
your orders from him."

"No, sir. That won't be necessary."

"The second thing you will do," the President said, "is find Admiral
Hugh Paulsen and General Philip Janukatys. They left the Pentagon about
half an hour before the attack began."

Gibb's eyes widened, as did Tobin's, and those of everyone else at the
table, including Hector. He automatically recalled his earlier fears
about the military's leaders threatening the President's political
control of the country.

"Sir," Director Gibb said, "do you really think they had something to do
with this?"

"Find them. Bring them to me. Then I'll answer your question." The
President turned to Colonel Tobin. "As for the Army, I want Delta Force
brought to the closest forward base possible and standing by to go in.
They are to have whatever support they need from whatever branch of the
services they need it. Get that ball rolling now. I want to see you and
General Brower the instant he arrives."

To Hector, the smile Colonel Tobin wore was definitely one of relief.

"Yes, sir."

"I also want a direct line to Site J."

"We can connect through this room."

Then the President addressed everyone once again, before he dismissed
them. "I don't know what we're facing here, people But I assure you, I
will not allow it to continue."

FBI Director Gibb had to get in the last word. "But remember sir it is a
standard hostage incident, no matter how important the site is or how
important the hostages are. They're going to contact us They're going to
make demands."

The CIA assistant director still looked troubled. "I uh I disagree I
think the President's right, it's ... something else. They won't contact
us. Because they're after, uh, something other than hostages "

"Mr. Fortis-" Hector heard a distinct tone of condescension in Gibb's
voice. "The operations centers are completely sealed off and other than
those facilities, the Pentagon is just one big office building What else
is there to get?" 6' Hector immediately wondered if there were a
connection between Site J and the sealed-off operations centers.

Then everyone's attention was diverted by urgent knocking on the closed
door to the Situation Room. Colonel Tobin was closest and went to open
it.

An Air Force lieutenant stood there, extremely agitated "What is it?"

Tobin asked.

"Sir, the terrorists are threatening to start executing hostages unless
their demands are met."

The room fell silent. The director of the FBI was almost gloating
Contact had been made. 6

SEVEN FIRST FLOOR. E RING, RIVER ENTRANCE SIDE

Soundlessly, slowly, Amy Bethune and Tom Chase edged down the stairs to
the first floor of the Pentagon's River Entrance. Amy took the lead,
pistol held ready, as Chase hung back, having told her she was better
trained than he for what they might find. The guy either had no ego, or
he had more sense than most civilians. Either way, it made her job
easier.

Amy was well aware that the armed forces were supported by a great many
civilians. Half her instructors at the Academy weren't in the military.
But even though they could never match the same standards of physical
fitness as a soldier or sailor or those of regimental appearance, those
instructors still conducted themselves with what Amy liked to think of
as a certain air of crispness and dedication, the trademark of the
proper military attitude of precision, professionalism, and pride.

None of those hallmarks of personal achievement and self-worth were
apparent in Tom Chase. The fact that he wasn't bad-looking didn't make
up for his sloppiness or his smart-aleck attitude, which wouldn't be
tolerated for a second at the Academy. Clearly, the only reason the Air
Force employed him was because he was some kind of genius. Not that
she'd actually seen any signs of that, yet.

At least he doesn't seem to be a coward, Amy told herself again.

Chase's commitment to finding and trying to help General Vanovich was
commendable, and was really the only reason she had decided to team up
with him. Not that she'd blame him if he were afraid of the enemy.

She was afraid, herself. However, since fear was a part of the job she
had signed up for, she had learned how to keep it from interfering with
what she had to do. At the Academy, each mid was periodically required
to jump from a sixty-foot platform into a pool to practice evacuating
from a ship. As far as she'd been concerned, taking that first step into
nothingness had been even worse than jumping out of an airplane for the
first time. Worse because her brain could comprehend being sixty feet
off the ground. Worse because everything was immediate, recognizable,
and dangerous. At fifteen hundred feet, in the open door of the
airplane, nothing had looked real, so her fear of jumping out had been
intellectual, not instinctual.

Amy's first time off the platform had been her first lesson in
successfully working through fear, The Academy had provided many more
such lessons since.

Still, if Chase's attitude interfered in her attempts to gather onsite
intelligence for the forces outside, she was prepared to knock him flat,
tie him up, and leave him locked in a closet somewhere. Amy doubted he
could even put up much of a struggle. Chase might look to be in good
shape, for a civilian, but up against her training, he'd be a pushover.

She turned from thoughts of Tom Chase to the mission ahead. Focus, Amy.
Focus, The stairway they were now moving down was wider than most of the
others she'd encountered in the Pentagon. The others had been narrow,
utilitarian passages hidden behind doors and squeezed into alcoves,
existing merely to provide functional links between floors.

Amy decided this one had been built for show, and for large numbers of
users.

She stopped on the final stair, and looked ahead into the renovated
River Entrance foyer, through the glass wall that divided the foyer into
the immediate entrance area and the area in which Amy stood.

Between the exterior doors and the glass wall was the security desk
where incoming visitors and staff stopped first before moving through
the doorway that led to the stairs and ground-level hallways. But, now,
where Amy should have been able to see the doors that led outside to the
V. I.P parking lot, there was only a giant wall of black armor, at least
thirty feet across and ten feet high. It was impossible to tell if the
massive blast door had risen from the floor, dropped from the ceiling,
or rolled into place from either side.

"Where the f-- ... where'd that come from?" Amy made the effort to rein
in her language, remembering she wasn't with her classmates now but an
outsider.

She glanced sideways at Chase, who was now standing beside her. But he
wasn't looking at the huge black wall, he was looking at her, eyebrows
knit. "How old are you, sailor?"

"Twenty-five."

"You don't look it."

Amy shrugged and took the last step down, looked around the foyer,
noting all the places a potential enemy could be hiding. "Older or
younger?" she asked, in spite of herself.

"Younger."

She looked back at him. Her matching question unspoken.

"Too old."

Amy felt insulted, didn't know why, and didn't want to waste time
figuring it out. To the left of the stairs, she could see a set of glass
doors that were not blocked by a Threat Con Echo blast shield.

The doors led into a spacious, wood-paneled hallway. Several enemy could
be hiding in that hallway. It was the kind of location where she would
plan an ambush.

"Isn't twenty-five kind of old to be at Annapolis?"

"The Academy," Amy corrected him, surprised by how annoyed she was
beginning to feel. She selected a path to the hallway doors that would
avoid putting her in line with any blind spots where a sniper might be
hiding. Where she would hide if she were a sniper. "Annapolis is a town.
The Naval Academy is the Naval Academy. The Academy is in Annapolis.
They're two different things."

"Okay, the Academy. But doesn't everyone go there out of high school?"

Amy ceased working out strategy. She couldn't believe she was even
taking part in this conversation, in the midst of a battle situation.

"Sir, some midshipmen are accepted into the Academy upon graduation from
high school. Others are accepted after serving in the Navy, or one of
the other services. Some are accepted from other universities.

The cut-off age for enrollment is twenty-four, meaning a graduate can be
twenty-eight. I will be twenty-six when I graduate. Now be quiet.

Please!"

Amy turned away from Chase and began to slide forward, against the wall,
heading for the glass hallway doors. She had gone five feet when she
heard rubber soles squeaking on the terrazzo and turned to see Tom
walking across the foyer, completely exposed to enemy action.

"Chase! Get back under cover!"

The civilian didn't stop as ordered. He spoke loudly, voice echoing.

"Midshipman Bethune, if they didn't kill us when we were making the same
racket coming down the stairs, they aren't going to kill us now."

He gave her a mock salute. "I'm going to check out the security desk."

Amy stared after him for a few moments as he went to a security
turnstile, swiped his card through it, then walked through the doorway
in the wall of glass panels that divided the stair and hallway area from
the River Entrance area.

She took a last look at the glass doors leading off to the left, then
followed him to the security desk.

Two guards were on the floor on the other side of the desk, both dead,
both with two shots to the head. Chase was gazing down at the two men
with a look of distress on his face. As she approached, he shook his
head, then kneeled down beside one of the guards and removed the small
radio mike clipped to the guard's shirt. A tightly coiled wire ran from
the microphone to a battery pack clipped to the guard's belt.

"See this?" Chase said. He held up the two parts of the radio. The black
plastic casing around the battery pack had partially melted.

"Electromagnetic pulse. The power surge melted the circuits, then burst
the batteries. Poor devils couldn't even call for help." Chase dropped
the useless radio onto the floor.

Amy had studied EMP in her weapons courses. Most Naval warships were
protected from the effect by "hardening" their circuits making them
strong enough to absorb and dissipate momentary surges, or by
surrounding critical electronic equipment with nets of copper mesh. The
nets were called Faraday cages and they prevented an EM pulse from
reaching the equipment in the first place. While she understood how an
EM pulse was generated, it was not clear to her how one occurring just
outside the Pentagon wouldn't leave evidence of much more drastic side
effects than melted circuits and burst batteries. "I thought you could
only get a pulse from a nuclear weapon."

Chase stood up with a sigh, brushed his hands on the sides of his jeans.
"You don't need gamma rays to create EMP. Just shoot a current through a
copper coil. That'll create a magnetic field, which you can then
explosively compress with a shaped charge. Or, if you use an ordinary
explosive to drive a high-current electron beam through a foil anode,
and you shape the output mouth properly, you can aim the pulse almost
like a laser. Right now, the U.S. Army's making pulse bombs that'll be
small enough to fit in a Stinger missile. Their blast effect is
negligible, but they'll knock out anything electronic within half a
mile."

"So that's why the phones don't work?"

"Looks like."

Amy checked the foyer ceiling. "Then why are the lights still working?"
The lighting level was low, only one out of two fixtures was working,
but they were operational. The emergency-battery lights on the walls
hadn't switched on.

Chase shrugged. "The phones got it because they have cables running
outside where the blast must've been set off. The cables would have
absorbed the pulse and directed it into the Building and the phone
system. But the lights, they might not have any connection to the
outside. If they're strictly inside, their wires were shielded against
the pulse by all the limestone and concrete in the Building.

"However, don't believe everything you see the electricity to the
Building is off. If you noticed a while back, the lights flickered?

That's when they cycled over to battery backup for a good minute and a
half. After that, apparently, the Pentagon's own generators take over."

Amy looked at the giant blast door sealing the River Entrance doors from
the outside grounds. "And those worked because they were hardened
against pulse effects. Because they have to work in a lethal
environment."

Chase nodded. "Twenty-five, huh? I guess you just look young. Sorry if I
seemed out of line, Midshipman Bethune."

"That's all right, sir." This is not the time or the place, Amy told
herself.

"Tom. You have to call me Tom because I can't keep calling you
Midshipman Bethune. It was

"Amy," right?"

Amy chewed her lip. Who knew how much longer they'd have to work
together? Better to make it simple. "You can call me

"Nuke."

"

"Nuke?"

"That's what my friends call me."

"Because you ... want to fly bombers and rain nuclear destruction across
the globe to protect the American way of life?" What an asshole, Amy
thought. "No, sir. Because I'm going to be the captain of a nuclear
sub."

Amy didn't appreciate the way Chase raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware
the Navy allowed women on subs for any kind of duty."

If Amy had a dollar from everyone who had said those words to her, she
could have bought her own sub by now. Maybe an entire fleet. "No, sir,
not yet, they don't."

"But they're going to?"

"I'll be first in line."

Chase's crooked smile of what seemed to her genuine approval was
unexpectedly gratifying.

"Go Navy."

Amy immediately assessed that response, ready to retaliate if necessary,
but she'd heard no sarcasm. So she kept her response simple, again.
"Thank you, sir."

"Tom."

"Tom."

Then he surprised her again by sticking out his hand. "Good to have you
on my side, Nuke."

She shook hands with him, an oddly formal moment considering how they'd
met. Unlike the people she'd met at the Academy, this civilian wasn't
easily categorized in black or white absolutes. In her experience,
specific mids, administrators, and instructors were friends or enemies.

They would do anything for you, or they would do nothing. That was one
of the reasons why she took personal responsibility for every aspect of
her life, rather than take a chance depending on the loyalties of
others. But she wasn't sure where Chase's loyalties lay. He was a
confusing mixture of black and white, and it was surprising how off
balance he was managing to keep her.

"Okay, Nuke." Chase turned away from the two bodies. "I was hoping these
guys would have something we could use, but their radios are shot and
someone beat us to their guns."

He was right. The guards' holsters were empty.

"So," he continued, "I'm guessing that the people who did this worked
the whole thing out in detail."

"They're commandos, sir Tom."

"Why do you say that?"

Now Amy knelt by the bodies. "Two shots to the head. A double tap.

That's what they teach us in close-quarters combat. You can't spray an
area with gunfire ' you might hit your own. But one shot might not hit
anything vital. So you fire twice. Some of the guys say that's a waste '
their first shot is always good so ..."

She looked up to see Chase studying her with a measuring look.

"Were you really going to shoot me when that door opened?"

If there was something worse than not telling the truth, Amy didn't know
what it was. "No, sir Tom. I did not intend to shoot you."

"So you missed ... on purpose?"

In their first year at the Academy, all midshipmen were allowed five
answers to questions that were put to them by their squad or company
leaders. Either they could provide the information that was requested,
or they could say, "Yes, sir," "No, sir,"
"I'll find out, sir," or, most important, "No excuse, sir." Midshipmen
did not make excuses.

They took responsibility. There was only one way Amy could answer
Chase's question.

"It was not my intention to fire the gun at that time."

"It just ... went off?" Chase sounded unconvinced by her admission, "No,
sir. I applied too much force to the trigger." She couldn't help
herself. She had to add, "It's not my usual weapon."

"Right. That would be a ... what? Trident nuclear missile?" Chase's wry,
offhand manner puzzled Amy. She had almost killed him by accident and he
didn't even seem upset.

Chase noticed her reaction. "Don't worry about it, Nuke. I understand.
You are what you are. Just my good luck you're also a real lousy shot."
He pointed to the security desk behind her. "You check out those
drawers, I'll check these."

Still as much surprised by her own talkativeness as Chase's
unpredictability, Amy was only too glad to return to pure, simple
action. Going behind the desk, she located and opened the top drawer,
found a box of pens and a bag of red-and-white striped peppermints. She
took one of the mints and popped it in her mouth. "What are we looking
for?"

"Whatever might help us. Cell phone. Guns. Walkie-talkie.

Anything ... Now what?"

He had caught her look of surprise. "It's just ... well, when I was
upstairs, that's what I thought I should be coming down here to look
for, too."

Chase didn't get it. "So ... we're doing the right thing."

"Yeah ..." Amy added for herself, It's just that I can't believe that
you and I came up with the same strategy. "We're in sync."

She saw the half-smile that briefly touched Chase's face as he went back
to searching his half of the desk.

After a few seconds, neither of them had found anything useful.

"Okay," Chase said, "so we just keep going down."

"Why down, s Tom?"

"When they came for the general, I was able to overhear what they said.

They were looking for someone with Red Level clearance."

"I don't know what that is."

"What if someone in the Navy has Top Secret clearance for pulse weapons
that can be fired from naval guns that same clearance wouldn't hold for
the same stuff developed by the Air Force, right?"

Amy nodded.

"Red Level clearance cuts clear across the board. General Vanovich has
it because he's conducting oversight on ... well, I'd say every
classified project under way in the Department of Defense, the National
Security Agency, and the National Reconnaissance Office."

"Wow."

"I think I like '' a lot better than f " Chase stopped as if he'd been
about to comment on her earlier language, but thought better of it. Amy
was glad he had. She knew all about the double standard for swearing,
one for females, and one for males. The number of appropriate occasions
for females was decidedly limited. She didn't really want to get into
that now.

"Don't mind me," Chase said. "My eight-year-old puts a quarter in a jar
every time he swears. Problem is I think he's saving up just to do it
now."

"You're married?"

"Yeah, well, I got time off for good behavior."

Amy didn't understand.

"We're divorced."

For an instant, Amy was on the verge of asking Chase if he was seeing
anyone, as if they were both mids flirting over beers at Riordan's, back
in Annapolis. But she caught herself just in time. What would he have
thought? And what was she thinking?

She ignored the quizzical look Chase gave her as she said, "So we were
talking about Red Level clearance."

"Right. Well, they took the general specifically because they knew he
had Red Level clearance. But there're only a few places in the Pentagon
where it'd do them any good."

"What places?"

Chase pointed at the floor. "The Star Trek rooms. That's what they call
the basement operation centers. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines.

The whole lot. That's where they have their primary C3I facilities.

All with interlinked computer networks. Vanovich's clearance could get
them into just about anything they wanted down there."

Amy frowned as she looked down at the two dead guards. "They'd do all
this ... just to access the Pentagon's computers?"

"It's probably the only way they could. You can't hack in through the
Internet. And there's no outside phone access. The DOD's put their most
critical computers on a completely separate and isolated
network--fiber-optic cables running through pressurized gas conduits.

You can only hack in using a DOD terminal. And the only way you get to
one of those is by shooting your way through a whole lot of soldiers."

"So you think the "bad guys' are trying to get into one of the ops
centers in the basement?"

"They got into the Pentagon, Nuke. Anything's possible."

"Can you get into the basement?"

Chase held up his proxcard. "This pretty much opens anything."

Amy looked back at the huge blast door sealing the River Entrance off
from the outside world.

"Except that. That's part of the Building's defense system. I can't
override it. Just the interior doors."

"How does anyone reopen the exterior doors, after the system's
activated?"

"Probably from the ops centers, once they know the Building is secure.

Or from the ATLANTIS facility the general seemed to think was down
there."

"How will the ' guys' know when the Building's secure?"

Chase held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I don't know everything.

I was just here to fix the photocopier."

"Do you know how to get to the ops centers?"

"That I do."

"All right, then let's go find your friend."

Amy had made her decision. Wherever General Vanovich was, the enemy was
with him.

Before Chase could use his proxcard to go back through the security
turnstile, Amy vaulted over the turnstile beside it, without using her
pass. Chase froze for a moment, as if expecting alarms to sound.

"Guess no system's perfect," he said when nothing happened. He swiped
his card through the turnstile. As soon as they'd passed through the
doorway in the glass wall, Chase turned right, toward the wood-paneled
hallway she'd originally wanted to check out.

Amy held up her gun. "I'll go first." She had to be sure there was no
ambush waiting beyond the hallway's glass doors.

Chase shook his head. He pointed to a wall-mounted card reader to one
side of the doors. "Try running your pass through that."

Amy hesitated, then pulled out Joey Fisher's pass. "My magnetic stripe
is screwed up." She ran Fisher's card through the reader. Nothing
happened.

"Now, watch," Chase said. He touched his proxcard to a metal square on
the reader and Amy heard a click from the glass doors. He pushed the
doors open. "If they only have the midshipmen's passes, there are some
places they won't be able to get into."

"But if this is the way to the ops centers, and they couldn't get
through ..."

"Nuke, they were in here before the place was sealed up." Amy felt a
flush heat her cheeks. The civilian was right. She'd forgotten.

He went on, "There were lots of ways down to the basement, then. But now
... this is the best way down for us."

Once again Amy found herself following Chase as they passed through the
glass doors into an elegantly appointed corridor. Anything but plain, as
most of the halls in the Building were, this corridor also had recessed
lighting that ran along a molded plaster ledge between its pale-blue
walls and patterned ceiling. Ornately framed paintings of battle scenes
hung every few feet. The white colonnades that framed the office doors
reminded Amy of the front of the White House.

"This is all Joint Staff territory, like upstairs," Chase said before
she could ask as he walked down the middle of the corridor, paying no
attention to the office doors he passed.

Amy did, at least, convince him to slow his pace as they came to a turn
in the corridor. He might be right about the enemy not being able to get
in here, but if not, they would not be caught completely unaware.

She motioned to him to wait while she moved ahead, to take a quick look
around the corner. Her concern relaxed somewhat as she saw another blast
shield cutting through the corridor, ten feet past the turn. The blast
door had a security-card reader beside it. "Okay, Tom, do your stuff."

He did, and more. As he stood by the card reader, Chase made an odd
gesture with his hand, turning it back and forth rapidly. One instant,
his hand was empty--both sides--and the next, Amy saw that he was
holding his proxcard up between two fingers and its chain was swinging
down his arm. The guy was doing magic tricks. He even gave her a wink as
he touched his proxcard to the reader.

A second later, the blast door began to roll to the left and Amy looked
into the first few feet of the corridor beyond. Chase's general would
have to wait.

Five hostages, bound and gagged, sat on the floor of the corridor.

Behind them stood three midshipmen, all in summer-white uniforms. Two
men and one woman, each holding a weapon.

One submachine gun was aimed at Chase, and two were aimed at Amy.

EIGHT CABINET ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE

The Cabinet Room was a mess. Styrofoam coffee cups were scattered over
the entire length of the dark-wood conference table that was the focus
of the formal, pale-yellow conference room for the President and his
senior advisors. Half of the room's eighteen dark-brown, leather
upholstered chairs, which usually surrounded the table, had been pushed
haphazardly to the side, many of them blocking the dramatic, Palladian,
floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the Rose Garden. At the
end of the table nearest the Cabinet Room's fireplace, stacks of maps
and blueprints were spread out so that the people clustered around them
could view them from every angle. The marble busts of George Washington
and Benjamin Franklin set into the alcoves on either side of the elegant
fireplace appeared to Hector to be looking over the shoulders of the map
readers, like silent witnesses to history.

Entering behind the last of the President's new junior advisors, Hector
had immediately become aware of the confusion in the Cabinet Room.

Other than FBI Director Gibb, who was seated at the conference table,
directly opposite the President, there were no senior officials in the
room. Hector saw only a gathering of nervous and tense men and women,
civilian and military, not one of whom he recognized, all with White
House visitor passes hanging around their necks. Incredible, he thought.
What if the President hadn't gotten out of the Pentagon?

These people would need a week just to figure out who was in charge.

James Gibb, who had hurried ahead of the others to arrive first, was
adding to the atmosphere of desperation by loudly berating someone from
the White House technical staff who stood at his elbow.

"What do you mean there's no phone in here?"

The technician, wearing a khaki vest festooned with protruding pockets,
was cringing, as if he expected to be hit with a rolled-up newspaper.

"Of course, there are, but ... they're not calling on the phone."

"Then what are they doing? Sending email?"

The President himself leaned across the table to intercede on the
technician's behalf. "Mr. Director, give this young man a chance to
explain. You can explain, can't you, son?" Now seated on the President's
right, Hector suddenly noticed for the first time that, even in this
room, the President's place was marked symbolically. His chair back was
a good four inches higher than any of the others.

The technician began to try, but after only two words, he just pointed
back at the entrance to the Cabinet Room, where Hector saw another of
the uniformed Air Force majors from the White House Military Office just
coming in, carrying a distinctive black briefcase-the Command Authority
Terminal.

The major moved directly to the President. "Sir, you'll be able to reply
directly to them with this."

"The terrorists have activated it?" The President looked as bewildered
as Hector felt.

"Sir, for communications purposes, they don't have to activate it.

It's always on." The major placed the CAT on the Cabinet Room conference
table in front of the President.

"Do I have this right?" The interruption came from FBI Director Gibb.

"The terrorists have contacted us on the most secure communications link
this country has?"

The major shook his head. He pointed to nine, wide-screen, high
definition television displays arranged three across and three deep in a
section of the wall opposite the Cabinet Room's fireplace. Each screen
had a different network or station logo in the bottom-right corner, but
all were carrying the same image.

In the foreground, side by side, in ordinary office chairs, were three
men, each in a different uniform, but all with conspicuous rows of
colored service ribbons. All three were tied and gagged. Behind them
stood two men wearing green fatigues, green caps pulled down low, and
red bandanas pulled up over their mouths. The surface of the bandanas
looked distorted, as if they concealed small gas masks underneath. One
of the two men held a stopwatch. Both were holding pistols. The pistols
were aimed at the heads of the uniformed captives.

Hector recognized two of the hostages. So did the President.

"Dear God, that's Al Flores, General Kerensky, and ... who?"

An advisor Hector didn't recognize said, "General John Hull, British
Army."

"How are they managing this?" Gibb asked the major.

But it was the Air Force lieutenant who had summoned them from the
Situation Room who answered. "They have a CNN crew in there with them.

One of the ones from the Courtyard. Soundman, cameraman, and Mary
Askwith." "The reporter," the FBI director said with disgust. "Terrorist
massacre live on CNN, hear their demands at the top of the hour.

Welcome to the twenty-first century."

The lieutenant addressed the President. "They have the previous CAT,
sir. They've asked to speak to ... someone in authority over the secure
comm link by ..." He checked his watch. "Twelve-thirty hours, sir.
That's three minutes."

The President tugged down on his sober black suit jacket. "Very well."

Between the Situation Room meeting and this one, Presidential aides had
provided the President with a fresh suit, shirt, and tie. He'd also
washed his face and shaved. Hector was still wearing his dirt smudged
and smoke-scorched white shirt and gray trousers, but it wasn't Hector
who was going to go on national television.

Nor was the President, it seemed.

"Mr. President, you can't go on national--on international television
and negotiate with terrorists!"

It only took a moment's thought before Hector found himself agreeing for
once with James Gibb. "He's right, sir."

The President hesitated, then nodded as he stood up. "Director Gibb,
please."

The director walked around the table and sat down in the President's
chair. The major with the CAT stood behind him.

The President took a chair on the director's left, then nodded to the
major, who leaned forward and flipped open the CAT.

Fascinated to finally see just what was inside the President's
"football," Hector stared into the open case.

Inside, in its bottom section, was a small keyboard, a panel of blue
buttons that looked like a large calculator pad, and an indentation
holding stacks of transparent plastic containers. The containers held
the nuclear-authorization-code envelopes.

Hector watched closely as, from the inside lid, the major twisted out a
thick black rubber cylinder about two inches across and five inches
tall, then snapped it into position on the edge of the CAT, like a
satellite telephone antenna.

The inside lid also contained a large, color video screen and two
telephone handsets. Directly below the screen was a wide and shiny
camera lens. At the moment, all that Hector could see on that screen was
a colorful, official-looking seal against a vivid blue background.

Though the seal was unfamiliar, he could see it had an eagle grasping a
thunderbolt in one claw and, in the other, a symbol showing electrons
orbiting a nucleus.

Gibb held his hands over the CAT like a concert pianist uncertain how to
begin. "What do I do now?"

At least five people, including the President, spoke at the same time.

"Pick up the phone."

The director picked up one of the handsets. It didn't have a connecting
wire. "This is James Gibb, director of the FBI."

All eyes then shifted to the nine wall-mounted television screens where
one of the gunmen glanced to the side as if someone had called for his
attention. The gunman nodded, then pulled a matching cordless handset
from his back pocket.

Now Hector understood why the shape of the gunmen's red bandanas had
looked somehow distorted--they were covering some device that
electronically altered the human voice. To Hector, the gunman's altered
voice sounded eerily like the voice of a crazed computer from an old
science-fiction movie.

"Listen carefully, Director- The Pentagon has been reclaimed for the
American people by the Sons of Liberty." With those first words from the
gunman, Hector heard the sounds of rapid typing begin somewhere in the
Cabinet Room. He turned to see a woman at the far end of the table, her
blond head bent over the keyboard of a slim laptop computer which also
had a stubby, black rubber antenna. There was something odd about the
woman's appearance. She was wearing an Army green uniform that showed
her rank was major, but she looked too young for the rank, and her
china-doll features and sleek pulled-back hair gave her the look of a
model in costume, rather than a uniformed officer on duty.

Hector turned back to the wall monitors as the gunman continued
speaking.

"This is our first step in reclaiming Washington and America from the
traitors who control them today," the gunman warbled in a voice in which
all normal intonation had been erased. "Do you understand?"

Gibb's manner was cool now, unhurried, in distinct contrast to his
earlier demeanor in the Situation Room. "Yes, I can hear you."

"The question was: "Do you understand?"

"

"I understand you have a great many people in there with you, and I want
to work with you to make sure no one else gets hurt."

On the television screens, the gunman with the handset nodded at the
other gunman, who, in response, instantly jammed his pistol against the
back of the British general's neck and a chorus of moans went up from the
onlookers in the pale-yellow Cabinet Room. Hector felt his stomach twist
as General Hull jerked forward in his chair, streams of blood squirting
through his gag. As the British general's head lolled to one side and
his legs and arms jerked uncontrollably, half the wall-mounted
television feeds flickered over to show shaken news anchors. The AOL/CBS
feed simply showed an empty news desk.

Other networks stayed with the CNN broadcast from the Pentagon, but
digitally enlarged the shot to concentrate on the two gunmen and keep
the general's body out of the picture.

Hector heard fragments of the overlapping reactions surfacing in the
Cabinet Room. "Does anyone recognize that room?"

"What kind of gun was that?"

"Can we cut off the CNN feed?"

Then Hector heard the blond major at the other end of the table announce
clearly, "J-34 has no record of the Sons of Liberty."

"Quiet!" Gibb ordered. Then he addressed the gunman again. "That was
unnecessary!" At that moment, Hector realized that nothing the FBI
director was saying or that was being said in the Cabinet Room was being
broadcast by CNN. Only the gunman's voice was being delivered live to
the world.

"We will be the judge of what is necessary," the gunman said. "Do you
understand?"

Gibb showed that he had learned his lesson. "I understand."

On the wall monitor, the other gunman lowered his weapon, and the first
gunman began to speak again. "The false government in Washington no
longer represents the will of the American people. Our country was once
strong and free because our military forces were the best in the world."
Gibb  a control on the handset he held. Hector guessed it was a MUTE
button because the FBI Director then shouted out, "Where the hell are my
profilers?!" "But the traitorous President," the gunman continued, "has
betrayed our military and the American people by selling us out to the
Russians, as part of a worldwide conspiracy involving NATO, the United
Nations, and the Federal Emergency Management Agency." "Sweet Jesus,"
someone behind Hector said in anguish, "these guys are homegrown
lunatics."

"The Sons of Liberty are patriots. We are prepared to lay down our lives
in defense of our country and our flag. If you wish the remaining
hostages to be set free, unharmed, all of the following conditions must
be met. Do you understand?" "I understand," Gibb said calmly.

"These are the conditions. Number One: Within the hour, the President
will appear on national television and confess that his efforts to admit
Russia into NATO are part of a larger conspiracy to render the United
States incapable of resisting a military takeover by United Nations
Security Forces."

Hector heard nervous laughter from some of the advisors in the Cabinet
Room, groans from others. His own reaction was one of dismay. The
tabloid media would be all over this one.

The gunman continued. "Number Two: All persons who are in the current
line of succession to the Presidency, from the Speaker of the House to
the Secretary of Veterans Affairs, will sign confessions admitting their
complicity in this conspiracy to subject the United States to takeover
by the United Nations, and these traitors will also resign, "Number
Three: The House of Representatives and the Senate will be dissolved, in
order for full and free elections to be held within thirty days. No
person who has previously held a political office, or who has run for a
political office, will be allowed to run in the new elections. The
government will give each candidate one thousand dollars for expenses,
and no candidate will spend more than that amount. These elections will
be based on public appearances and debate, not television commercials."

"What I want to know is how the hell did head cases get into the
Pentagon?" another voice said behind Hector.

"And Number four: Until the new elections are held and a new President
is chosen by the people, the Acting President of the United States will
be General Elias Xavier Brower."

At that, the room went wild. General Brower was the CINC who had just
been ordered to bring Delta Force to the closest forward base in
preparation for an assault on the Pentagon. Hector was stunned. How
could someone like General Brower be involved in this?

"To let the country know that a true and decent patriot is in charge and
the threat of invasion is over," the gunman said, "we will expect to see
General Brower appear on television to accept his new responsibility
within an hour of the current President's resignation speech.

"Director Gibb, do you understand these demands?"

"Yes, I understand them," the director replied at once. Hector didn't
envy the man his job. Failure as a negotiator had terrible consequences.
Millions of people would soon be second-guessing Gibb and judging him
harshly if he made a misstep. "May I ask if you might release some of
the hostages now as a show of good faith?"

"This is how the hostages will be released," the gunman replied in his
mechanical voice. "When we see the President resign on television, we
will release twenty-five hostages. When we see news reports of the
traitors within the government resigning, we will release twenty-five
more. And when we see General Brower accept his position as Acting
President, we will release another twenty-five.

"At that time, we will provide detailed instructions for the helicopter
transport we will require from the Pentagon to a nearby airfield, and
the aircraft we require to fly to safety. At each stage along the way,
we will release additional hostages. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Gibb said. "May I--"

"There is nothing more for you to say." The gunman looked at his
stopwatch. "We will see the President on television within sixty
minutes. For each minute he is late, we will kill one hostage on camera.
Each time a helicopter or other aircraft flies overhead to spy on us,
for each minute that aircraft is in range, we will kill a hostage on
camera. Any attempt to launch an attack on our position will result in
our shooting fifty hostages. Any attempt to end the news helicopters'
coverage of the Pentagon Building will result in our shooting fifty
hostages. Do you understand?"

Even Hector understood that last condition. The Sons of Liberty were
using the news helicopters to keep track of the area around the
Pentagon. He recalled the broad expanse of lawn that surrounded the
helipad. The terrain all around the Pentagon was the same. There was no
way any rescue force could approach it unseen.

"I understand," the FBI director said. "Is there anything else we can do
for you? Do you need medical attention or supplies? Food or--"

The gunman held up his stopwatch and made a show of pressing a control
at its side. "We will see the President on all television feeds within
sixty minutes, starting now." Then he returned the handset to his back
pocket. That was the end of negotiations.

Everyone started talking at once, but the President's voice rose above
all the others. Silence descended on the room. "I want all air traffic
within five miles of the Pentagon withdrawn. I want our helicopters to
replace the news helos that are up there now. Stick cameras on them to
continue the broadcasts. Do whatever you have to do. And does anyone
know who the Sam Hill those maniacs are?"

The blond Army major at the far end of the table stood up. "Sir, there
is no record of a current domestic militia or terrorist group called the
Sons of Liberty." "And you are ... ?" the President said. Hector
realized the major was too far away for the President's usual trick of
reading from a name badge.

"Major Sinclair, sir." Hector detected a slight hesitation before she

went on to say, "I work with General Vanovich. I was going to help with
the briefing later today."

Apparently that meant something to the President, because he nodded in
understanding. "Of course, Major Sinclair. I've read your reports on
..." The President looked at his group of unfamiliar advisors and then
at Colonel Tobin, who was standing talking to the major who'd brought in
the CAT. "So ... you've been able to access all possible sources for any
records on these people."

Everyone was listening to the Army major now. Hector tried to place her
name. He was sure the President had never mentioned a Major Sinclair to
him, and he couldn't recall ever reading one of her reports. That meant
either the major worked on projects that were extremely tedious, or
extremely classified. Given all the unexpected events of the day, Hector
decided he'd go for classified.

"Sir, I don't believe any records could exist on them. I believe
everything they've just told us is a lie."

"But they murdered General Hull," someone called out over the surprised
and confused reactions to the major's statement.

"And they will murder again," Sinclair said. Hector noted the major was
still standing, as if at attention. "But not for the reasons they
stated."

"And why do you believe that, Major?" the President asked.

"Their demands are delusional, sir. No rational person could believe
that the mechanisms of the United States government could be bypassed
with the ease they're demanding."

"That's precisely what makes them dangerous," Gibb said to the
President.

"With respect, sir, I disagree," said the major. "I've heard some of the
firsthand witness accounts of what happened at the Pentagon today.

I've watched the satellite footage we have of the attack in the
Courtyard. These people acted swiftly, professionally, and with military
precision and timing. Those are not attributes of a delusional mind."

"Look who their leader is," the FBI director argued, again addressing
himself to the President, not the major. "General Brower. He practically
invented Special Forces."

The major's response was swift. "Sir, I have served under General
Brower. It is impossible for him to have had anything at all to do with
this." "Then why name him, Major?" the President asked "To discredit the
one person they fear. Those are trained soldiers in there. You can see
that from the satellite footage. I say they know the greatest risk to
their operation is an attack by Delta Force.

That suggests they named General Brower in the way they did in order to
discredit him, or at the very least, make you question his decisions."
The President looked thoughtful, as if seriously considering the major's
reasoning.

Gibb, however, had thought it over long enough. "Mr. President, I don't
think this warrants further discussion. It's not important who these
people are. What is important is that we have less than an hour to
rescue the hostages. And given what I recall of the debate that
surrounded your efforts to have Russia join NATO, and given the timing
of this event--and the fact that Major Sinclair believes these people
are soldiers--I believe you can't discount the possibility that General
Brower or other members of the military are involved."

The FBI director leaned forward, placing his hands on the table for
emphasis. "Mr. President, give me the order."

"The order to do what?" Sinclair's voice asked sharply.

The director answered without looking in her direction. "To send in my
people."

"The FBI Hostage Rescue Team?! Against that group?" Sinclair appealed
directly to the President. "Sir, the HRT's trained for civilian
incidents. They won't last five seconds in there."

"They won't have to," the President said. He turned to General Brewer's
chief of staff. "Colonel Tobin, I'm going to activate Site

J."

NINE FIRST FLOOR. E RING. RIVER WEDGE

Tom raised his hands and, remembering who he was with, said, "Drop it,
Nuke! It's not worth it!"

The response of all three of the figures in white was to aim their
submachine guns at Bethune. Tom looked at the midshipman and saw the
all-too-familiar and senseless determination that tightened her young
face.

But then, finally, Bethune held her right hand up and slowly crouched to
place her pistol on the floor with her left.

Tom blew out the deep breath he'd unconsciously been holding.

The stocky, black-haired man in white motioned to Bethune to lie down on
the floor. As soon as she was down, he went to her and kicked her gun
away. The second man, a well-muscled, freckled towhead, forced Tom's
hands behind his back, then spun him around, suddenly shoving him
forward, bashing his face into the wall. Before he could protest, Tom
felt rough hands pull his arms and, with a plastic ripping sound, his
hands were tied. Then he was spun around again until he felt dizzy.

The fair-haired man who had tied his hands now held his proxcard.

Tom fell back against the wall, disoriented, feeling his tightly bound
hands already begin to throb. The circulation in his wrists wouldn't
last long. He saw Bethune's hands also being expertly and rapidly bound
together by a thin cord of stiff plastic, like the bundling ties used to
hold wires together. Her burly captor yanked the cord tight, then pulled
up on the shoulder of her gray sweatshirt, forcing her hands down to her
knees, then her sneakers.

Tom saw the midshipman glaring at him, as if she blamed him for their
being captured. But for all he didn't want to know about guns, Tom knew
that three submachine guns beat a hand pistol every time.

His captor started frisking him, patting him professionally under his
arms, around his belt, then down the back of his legs and up the front.

Just as Tom resigned himself to the likely discovery of his Swiss Army
knife, he heard Bethune yell out an obscenity and both Tom and his
captor looked up to see the midshipman's knee in her captor's groin.

The black-haired man grunted, then jerked forward, head down far enough
that Bethune was able to give him a sideways head butt that sent a mist
of spit flying from his mouth. Before he could recover, she had hooked
her foot behind his calf, checked him with her shoulder, and thrown him
back onto the floor where his head struck the hard terrazzo and he
gasped at the blow.

The speed and the violence of the maneuver stunned Tom. But she dropped
that bastard beautifully, he marvelled.

Bethune was just about to kick the man she had dropped when Tom's captor
took the three steps he needed to reach her and swung the butt of his
submachine gun against her jaw, knocking her to the floor beside her
fallen captor. Then he spit on her.

Tom jerked forward, but the six-foot brunette with the submachine gun
clubbed him.

A string of crimson blood ran from Bethune's mouth as Tom staggered
back. Then as Tom's captor helped the black-haired man to his feet, Tom
thought he heard something that didn't sound like English. But his ears
still rang from the blow to his head and he couldn't be precisely sure
what he had heard.

Bethune groaned and rolled over on her side. The man she'd struck pulled
back his foot as if to kick her in the ribs.

"No!" the woman with the submachine gun ordered. It was the first
intelligible word any of the three had spoken. As the powerfully built
man stepped back, still scowling at Bethune, Tom wondered if the woman
was the leader.

Tom's freckled captor now grabbed Bethune's arm and hauled her roughly
to her feet, pushing her toward the other hostages who were still
sitting on the floor in the center of the corridor.

Tom counted five hostages. Four men, one woman, in bedraggled summer
finery chosen for the President's NATO luncheon. One man's suit-jacket
sleeve was badly torn and stained with blood. The thin, pretty woman,
about fifty, wore a delicate, flowered summer dress, but no shoes. All
had the same, wide-eyed, fearful expression.

Tom doubted they were any less apprehensive than he was. But his years
of being a father had taught him how to hide his fears. He remembered
few things more vividly than the Christmas Eve his Cherokee had spun
across an icy road into the glare of an oncoming tractor trailer's
headlights. He'd been taking Tyler to his mother.

It had been Tom's sudden cry that had burned its way into Tyler's
four-year-old consciousness. The speeding semi had just missed the
Cherokee, and they'd careened to a stop on the far shoulder of the road.
If Tom had been cool, Tyler might have slept through the encounter.
Instead, Tom had let his mask slip, and his son had awoken suddenly to
the terrifying knowledge that his father was only human, that one of the
two most important people in his life might not be able to keep him safe
from everything bad.

Two years later, when he'd taken Tyler to Walt Disney World, their plane
had hit a huge thunderstorm over Florida and was so severely shaken that
the oxygen bags dropped down. Tom turned that near disaster into a
laugh-riot adventure for Tyler even though he'd been terrified Tyler's
life was in danger. Tyler still talked about the time his dad surprised
him with the special airplane-sneak preview of the new rides for Space
Mountain and Journey to the Center of the Earth.

The towheaded man who took Tom's proxcard now used it to repeatedly
raise and lower the blast shield. After the third opening of the door,
the six-foot brunette came over to Tom, and pried his wallet from the
back pocket of his jeans.

As the woman turned away from him, Tom whispered to Bethune, propped up
against him, "Good job back there."

The midshipman didn't answer--no surprise. The right side of Bethune's
jaw was already bruised purple-red and her lower lip had swollen up on
that side, too, but Tom saw a flash of connection in her eyes, as she
lowered one eyelid in a wink. At least the kid can take it as well as
she can give it, Tom thought.

"FBI," a female voice said.

Tom twisted around to look up at her. The six-foot woman had a halo of
frizzy brown hair, and was broad-shouldered with strong looking arms.

Tom estimated her to be about his age, and he had a vague recollection
of having seen her among the midshipmen who got off the bus right in
front of him.

"FBI?" the woman said again, making it a question. She held out Tom's
FBI Academy instructor's pass. It had his photo and a large FBI logo.

Tom looked up at the woman and suddenly wondered if she actually knew
any English. "Teacher," he said, speaking slowly. "I'm a teacher at the
FBI Academy." The woman frowned. "Teacher," she said. Then she walked
back to the other two men and the three of them began another whispered
conversation.

"Can you catch the language?" Tom muttered to Bethune.

"Russian," Bethune said promptly, confirming Tom's suspicion.

Tom wasn't sure which was more remarkable, that there were Russians with
submachine guns in the Pentagon, or that he happened to be with someone
who could understand them. "And ... ?" he asked.

Bethune shrugged, then winced at the movement. "And I've no idea what
they're talking about. I only swear in Russian." She grimaced and spit
up more blood.

The midshipman caught his look of concern and mumbled. "Jerk broke a
tooth. The nerve's exposed."

Distraction was the only painkiller Tom could offer. He looked over at
the three still in their huddle. "So why are they here?"

"Maybe they don't want their country joining NATO."

"Then what's the connection to Milo and his clearance?"

Before Bethune could answer, the huddle broke up. The freckled Russian
used Tom's proxcard to shut the blast door. At the same time, Tom
watched the woman who could be the group's leader walk twenty feet down
the corridor, then pull out what had to be a small radio, about the size
of a cigarette lighter, with a short antenna. Tom didn't know how it had
escaped the electromagnetic pulse, or, given its size, how it could send
a signal more than twenty feet through the Pentagon's concrete walls and
floors, but the female Russian appeared to be having a conversation over
it. Her two colleagues kept glancing in her direction as they guarded
the hostages in the hall.

Rationally, Tom reasoned, there was no way these three could get out of
the Pentagon without entering into negotiations with someone in
authority. The way these things worked, hostages were always traded for
freedom. Then again, he thought, hostages are often shot when deadlines
pass. Or they're killed during the rescue attempt.

And rescue had to be coming soon, he knew. Vanovich had been definite
about that. Right now, probably in some deep civil-defense shelter under
the Pentagon, a rescue team was already forming. What Tom needed to
figure out now was if he should wait for the hostages' freedom to be
negotiated. Or for a rescue attempt to take place.

But time was not on Vanovich's side. The general was not in good shape
and who knew what the killers were trying to make him do for them. Tom
had to find out where Vanovich was, so he'd know where to direct rescue
when his phone message was received. He couldn't afford to wait for
negotiations or rescue attempts.

The first break he'd already been given. The freckled Russian hadn't
finished frisking him after Bethune caused her diversion. And now, the
two men's attention was focused more on their commander and her radio
than on their prisoners. While this wasn't the time to attempt an
escape, it was the time to start getting ready for one. And at least
Bethune was in no condition to grandstand. There was only one way out of
this situation, Tom concluded, and it would take careful planning and
preparation, not hot-blooded physical stunts.

He would have to take control of what happened next. He leaned closer to
Bethune, trying to make it look as if he were tired and wanted to rest
his head on her shoulder. Then, as softly as he could, he murmured, "I
have a Swiss Army knife in my front left pocket." For an instant, he
thought he saw a glint of humor in her eyes. "With a plastic toothpick
and everything?" she whispered back. But then she sighed and shifted
position, as if she, too, were tired and needed to lean back against
him. Tom pushed closer against her so she could reach his jeans pocket,
and though they then appeared to be sitting still, he felt Bethune find
the knife and slowly begin pushing it up toward the pocket's edge.

Down the corridor, the woman put the small radio away, then started
walking back toward her two colleagues. When she reached them, the three
turned their backs on the hostages, well out of earshot.

Tom felt the knife about to fall out of his pocket. "I think you've got
it," he said in a very low voice, without moving his lips.

"It'd better be your knife," Amy said in a matching low voice.

Tom felt his cheeks redden. Sure they were pushed up close to each
other, sure her fingers were moving up along his hip, but that kind of a
comment from a kid made him uncomfortable.

Then he felt the knife begin to slip. If it hit the floor, there was no
way the three Russians wouldn't hear it. He pushed harder against Amy,
felt her crossed hands dig into him as she squeezed, and ... caught the
knife.

"Got it. Now don't move."

Tom ground his teeth. "Don't try anything now," he hissed urgently.

"Wait rill they're distracted."

The midshipman didn't answer. He could feel her move her hands. He
thought he heard the snap of one of the knife blades opening. "Nuke ..

. they have guns ..."

"Tom ... they have Heckler & Koch MPSs. I know what they are. Keep
still, and keep quiet."

Then Tom couldn't say anything else because the three Russians had
turned around and were walking straight toward them, all eyes on Tom.

"Tom Chase," the woman said.

Tom rapidly assessed the situation. They had his wallet. They knew who
he was. "That's right."

"You. With us," the woman said. She nodded her head at the black haired
man and he swung his H&K to the side and came to haul Tom up by his arm.

"Fall down' Bethune hissed.

Tom stiffened, alarmed. This wasn't the right place or the right time.

The black-haired Russian grabbed on to Tom's arm, in the bend of his
elbow, then started to pull. Tom rocked up on his feet, balanced only by
the man's grip. Then, just before he could straighten out his legs, Amy
whispered, "Now!"

Tom knew if he stood up, whatever crazy stunt she'd planned would fail.

Would she be smart enough to abort? But if she'd already committed--and
he didn't cooperate--she'd be shot.

In that timeless instant of indecision, one thought rose above all the
others. The kid already got one of them ... Tom rocked up on his feet
and ... stumbled forward, crying out in surprise as he started to fall
and the Russian hung on and lost balance and--the midshipman leapt up,
swiped the submachine gun hanging from the stocky man's shoulder, and
fired point blank at the other two Russians, over Tom's head.

In the wave of explosive heat from Bethune's gun barrel, Tom heard the
muffled cries of the hostages mixed with those of the two Russians whose
bodies now danced in the sweep of bullets from the submachine gun.

With a roar, the black-haired Russian holding Tom twisted away to face
Bethune. In the exact same moment that Tom realized that there was no
way Bethune could swing the H&K on its short shoulder strap in to fire
at the man, and that he would seize her gun, the midshipman's hand flew
up with a knife. And in the same heartbeat it took for Tom to think,
That's not my knife, the gleaming blade sank into the man's neck and he
stumbled back, his scream changing to gurgles as he clutched his throat
and turned around slowly in a circle, rising up, then collapsing,
motionless.

Tom, his hands still tied with plastic cord behind his back, rolled over
on his knees. The three Russians were dead. Glistening slicks of blood
spread out from beneath their bodies on the highly polished floor.

Tom threw up. There was nothing in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since
last night's pizza with Tyler. He gagged on the bile burning his throat.

Only when he leaned forward on both hands did he realize Bethune had cut
the plastic ties binding his wrists. Gasping ragged gulps of air, Tom
used a numb hand to wipe the foul liquid from his lips.

Bethune was wiping a long steel blade on her jeans.

There was only one thing to say. "That's ... that's not my knife ..."

She shrugged and held out the knife for his inspection. It looked to Tom
about the same size as his Maxxum, but the handle was metal as well as
the blade. Using only one hand, Bethune snapped the blade into the
handle, then with a sharp flick of her wrist, split the handle in two
and turned the knife into a pair of needle-nose pliers.

They both turned as the hostages, still in gags, thumped their feet
against the floor and cried out as best they could to get Tom's and
Bethune's attention.

The Russian commander was struggling to get up, her uniform and gun
dripped with her own blood as she slowly raised her hand.

Tom's vision seemed to contract until all he saw was the barrel of her
weapon. But just as he expected to see the bullets explode out at them,
he heard, instead, a quick series of metallic clicks and then something
silver flashed past his eyes, and with a strangled gasp the
frizzy-haired Russian fell back and her gun slid to the floor beside
her, unfired.

Tom saw a cross of silver dead center in her throat.

Bethune walked past Tom and the man whose throat she had cut, to halt
beside the bodies of the man and woman she had shot.

Reaching down, she pulled her knife from the Russian woman's throat.

The tool was now in the shape of an X, with the top of the X formed by
the knife blade pointing out one side and the pliers' head to the other.
The two ends of the open handle formed the bottom of the X.

Bethune straightened up, again cleaning the tool on her jeans. Then she
snapped its appendages closed with one hand, until the tool became a
compact metal lozenge.

"You can't do that with a plastic toothpick," she said, turning back to
Tom and the hostages.

Tom took a good look at her. The kid had four notches on her belt now.

But she was only getting started. The longer he stayed with Midshipman
Bethune, the shorter his life would be.

And he still had to find Vanovich.

TEN SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE

Once he returned to the Situation Room, Hector didn't have to check His
watch. There were three digital time readouts just above the cluster of
flat-panel display screens covering the far wall. One readout had
already been converted into a countdown timer. In forty-eight minutes,
the terrorists would begin killing hostages. Unless the President
publicly resigned, along with every member of his cabinet, and every
member of the House and Senate. And there was no way that was going to
happen.

The windowless room felt better to Hector than the room he'd just left.

There were many fewer people and the activity was not at all chaotic.

Though the mood was still grim and tense, the handful of new people who
had arrived in response to the President's summons to the intelligence
community seemed more assured than the hastily assembled junior advisors
in the Cabinet Room. Like Margaret Sinclair, who had also followed the
President here. Also like the Army major, most of the new people in the
Situation Room were wearing uniforms. Hector wondered if it was just
their clothing that made them seem more competent, or if they really
were.

Hector himself was feeling slightly more pulled together. A White House
valet, on instructions from Mrs. Petty, had brought Hector a brand-new
tracksuit, one of a constant stream presented to the President by
visitors. Hector appreciated the thoughtful if not stylish choice of
garment. He'd been able to easily stretch the dark blue, drawstring
pants over his bulky foot brace. He wasn't quite as pleased about the
large emblem for the Minnesota Meat Packers Professional Development

Association 50th Anniversary Meeting that adorned his chest, but to have
clean, whole clothes again felt wonderful

The President, for his part, had managed to slip away for what could
only have been a minute, to reappear in another fresh suit, shirt, and
tie. The only evidence of what he had been through today was the
bandages on his hands and the shadows under his eyes.

Because of his crutch, Hector had, once again, been the last to file
into the Situation Room, but this time he wasn't even sure the Man
realized he was still around. Hector knew that his role in less critical
situations was to provide an outsider's viewpoint to the President
during the decision-making process, but the President had already made
his decision in this crisis: He was going to activate the mysterious
Site J. Believing his time here to be limited, given that he was
probably the only person in the room who did not already know exactly
what Site J was, Hector decided to make the most of it. As soon as he
had entered the room, he located Major Sinclair and limped in her
direction, finding a chair at the table that was only two over from
hers, with no one in between.

Sinclair seemed to be someone who knew about everything that was going
on. She had also held her own against James Gibb, the director of the
FBI, who noticeably had not been invited to the Situation Room for this
next step. Hector had a great many questions for the major. But mostly,
he knew, when the time was right, he wanted to talk to her about Major
Christou.

For his first few minutes in the Situation Room, though, Hector avoided
doing anything that would draw attention to himself. This was the one
time he would agree with his critics: He was an impostor, with nothing
to add to the current discussion. He would learn more by just listening.

Milton Meyer, an anorexic ally thin young assistant director from the
National Security Agency, had just suggested a plan of deception. He
said it would be possible for the President to make a false resignation
speech and have it transmitted on every television channel the
terrorists might be monitoring from the Pentagon. During the critical
debate that suggestion caused, Hector noticed that no one was referring
to the terrorists as the Sons of Liberty. This group, unlike director
Gibb, seemed to have accepted Major Sinclair's earlier assessment that
whoever the terrorists were, they had lied about their identity.

Assistant Director Meyer now was adding that the NSA had selective
jamming and rebroadcasting equipment that could target the square mile
around the Pentagon, blocking out all legitimate television signals and
replacing them with the NSA's own. Once the President had recorded his
speech, the NSA could handle the rest from a single E-4B airplane.
Anticipating its possible use, the NSA had already scrambled the
aircraft from Andrews Air Force Base, and Meyer said it could be within
range of the Pentagon within ten minutes.

The first question that came into Hector's mind was why the NSA even had
an aircraft that could selectively jam and replace television broadcasts
on alert within the United States.

But even as the President sat down at the head of the black conference
table, Sinclair began arguing against the NSA strategy. She was basing
some of her objections on the first break that had come to the White
House--a surprise phone call from a UPN news director who had discovered
a message taped to a window in the Pentagon.

The Air Force's 78th Communications Squadron, which was rapidly
establishing a communications network around the Pentagon to coordinate
further actions, whatever they might be, had quickly confirmed the news
director's find and provided photos of the message. Analysts had decided
that it appeared the terrorists had gained access to the Pentagon by
replacing a busload of forty midshipmen from the Naval Academy. That
corresponded to eyewitness reports of the shootings in the Courtyard and
Hector's own experience. However, one mid who was supposed to have been
on the bus, an Amy Leanne Bethune, according to Naval Intelligence, was
listed in the morning's security logs as having arrived at the Pentagon
after the others. Now, if her message was to be believed, she was loose
in the Pentagon, reporting on what had happened.

What was encouraging about the message was twofold. One, there was a
potential spy behind enemy lines, if only a means could be found to
communicate with her. Second, the UPN news director had made the
unexpected decision to keep his discovery off the air. Hector knew that
in time of war, intelligence was even more valuable if the one side
didn't know what the other side had discovered.

"Think of what that midshipman's message implies," Major Sinclair urged
the President and Milton Meyer. "The terrorists managed to get
themselves and significant weaponry through the Pentagon's security
envelope. To accomplish that, there have to be more of them outside the
Pentagon, and we can't know where. Given their capabilities and
organization, I think it's more than reasonable to conclude they've also
anticipated the possibility that we might make a false television
broadcast, and have taken steps to ensure the authenticity of anything
they see. And that could be as simple as having an accomplice on the
West Coast watching television, ready to make a call to them on a
satellite phone."

The young NSA assistant director offered a countermove. "We can shut
down the satellite phone systems very easily."

But the major was not convinced. "And what will you do when the
terrorists tell us they'll start killing one hostage every minute until
service is restored?" She turned to the head of the table. "Mr.
President, we have to go in there, and we have to kill those people
before they kill anyone else. It's as simple as that."

The President looked at Colonel Tobin, who was now seated at his right.

"Colonel, open the line to Site J."

Tobin adjusted some of the glowing controls on the built-in console,
then handed the President a telephone handset. The President looked down
the table to the display screens, and Hector also turned in that
direction. The move also gave him a chance to get a better look at Major
Sinclair, as well.

The main display on the far wall to the left was only three feet wide
and two feet high. It showed what to Hector was an unnaturally perfect
overhead shot of the Pentagon. The picture was crisp and rock steady
suggesting that it was a still photograph taken during one of the
earlier reconnaissance flybys. But here and there Hector began to notice
the small square shapes of moving vehicles on the nearby highways. He
knew the image wouldn't be coming from a surveillance satellite, like
the footage the major had referred to in the Cabinet Room, because even
he knew that satellites capable of recording such detail couldn't hover
in place. And the fact that the image didn't have the slightest amount
of drift made him rule out an observation aircraft, as well. Hector's
best guess was that this image was coming from some kind of spy balloon
that could be held in position directly over the Pentagon without being
noticed by the terrorists.

Then his attention shifted to one of the secondary screens to the right
of the Pentagon display. One screen, about half the size of the main
one, showed an unusual mission crest he had never seen before --a shield
that held a stylized globe diagonally crossed by a lightning bolt. The
letters across the top of the shield were USA SC Hector was about to
lean forward and ask Sinclair what the letters stood for when the
mission-crest image was replaced by the word switching in the center of
the screen and, looking very mundane, an AT&T logo in the bottom
right-hand corner. After a second or so, that screen was replaced, in
turn, by another stylized drawing showing a large satellite dish against
a backdrop of stars which included the Big Dipper. Tilted letters, like
those Hector had seen in the Star Wars films, spelled out panmcc site j.
And in much smaller, undistorted type below that, the phrase like no
place on earth. Hector sat up straighter. He felt like a kid watching
late-night TV, who was hoping

that his parents wouldn't notice that he was staying up past his bedtime
and send him packing.

Seeing the stars and reading that mission slogan immediately placed in
Hector's mind the preposterous notion that Site J was some kind of
orbiting military operations center. But he didn't see how that was
possible. He had learned from his time in the White House that the
United States Air Force, which had abandoned its own military astronaut
programs, PROJECT HORIZON, BLUE GEMINI, and the Manned Orbiting
Laboratory, in the 1960s, had, indeed, begun a highly classified, crewed
spaceflight program in the 1990s, partly in response to the Space
Shuttle Challenger disaster, which had delayed a series of military
satellite launches. But the Air Force crewed vehicles were small,
aerodynamic, two-person capsules designed to convey repair teams to
complex military satellites. Their missions were to last no longer than
six days at a time. Hector had seen a photo of one of the capsules
landing by parachute at Edwards Air Force Base. The event had been
publicly identified as part of an ongoing series of uncrewed
lifting-body test flights. The life-support volume of the tiny crew
capsule had been roughly equivalent to the inside of a small station
wagon. An Air Force vehicle that small couldn't possibly support an
entire operations center. Which meant, to Hector, that there were only
two other possibilities. One, the U.S. military was somehow managing to
run an operations center from the half-built international space
station. Or, two, the mission crest and slogan were deliberate
misdirection. Perhaps another question Sinclair could answer.

The final screen was replaced by an image of an intent young
African-American man holding a phone like the President's. From his
close-cropped hair, lean face, and taut bearing, the man was
unmistakably a soldier. But he was dressed in black, with no evidence of
military rank or service ribbons that Hector could see. He had heard
that type of dress referred to as a "sterile" uniform.

The President, evidently, didn't need those clues.

"Captain Kagan, this is the President."

"I've been expecting your call, sir."

"You are aware of the situation in the Pentagon?"

"Our communications have been unaffected, sir. We're in continuous
contact with the NMCC and the primary ops centers. They are secure and
we are confident they will remain so."

"Are you aware of the threats the terrorists have made against the
hostages?"

On the screen, the captain's terrible smile bared his teeth like a
predator. "We get CNN, yes, sir." He looked off to the side. "The
terrorists intend to begin killing hostages in forty-four minutes."

"That is not going to happen, Captain."

"No, sir, it is not."

Hector could feel the mood of the people in the Situation Room change
again. The focused intensity of the President and the almost
incandescent confidence of the captain were replacing tension with a
growing sense of expectation, almost excitement. A feeling that,
perhaps, this crisis would finally be ending, and soon.

"I understand that you are familiar with this particular scenario."

"Yes, sir. This is a by-the-book Cloudburst exercise. It's the mission
my men and I have trained for. And, sir, in the exercises ... we always
win."

"I am counting on you to win today, Captain."

To Hector, with those words Kagan looked like a man whose greatest dream
in life had just been fulfilled. He threw the President a salute
executed with such speed and precision that Hector was certain Kagan
could have split concrete blocks with the edge of his hand.

"Yes, sir!"

The President returned the salute with great pride. "You may proceed
when ready, Captain. God bless you."

Hector had no doubt that in Kagan he was seeing an American hero being
born. Pull this off. Hector thought, and in six months you'll have a
book deal and five offers to be a network-news war consultant. Then, as
Kagan was replaced by the mysterious USA SC shield, Hector found himself
wishing for more details, wishing he knew how many men Kagan had on his
team, and exactly where they were, and what a Cloudburst exercise
entailed.

More questions for the major, Hector thought. But even as a dozen
conversations broke out in the Situation Room and he wondered how he
should address her, Sinclair turned to him, looking at his shirt as if
counting the dozens of tiny ember burns in it, then smiled. "You look
like you've seen some action."

Hector Macgregor, twenty-eight years of age, advisor to the President of
the United States, and almost a self-made millionaire, actually
stammered as he replied.

"I ... I was in the P-Pentagon with th-the President."

Her smile grew, full of warmth. "I heard. You're Hector Macgregor.

I'm Margaret Sinclair."

She held out her hand. For a moment, Hector didn't even have the
presence of mind to reach out and take it. All he could think was, How
and why does a woman like this become a soldier?

She smiled again, nodding her head expectantly, until Hector suddenly
broke through his mental logjam and reached out to shake. Firm grip,
smooth skin. Hector felt like a huge hulking brute as his hand swallowed
the Major's small hand.

"I hear you saved the President's life," the major said.

Again, Hector was without the power of speech.

Hearing this woman repeat what the President had already stated for
everyone to hear in the Cabinet Room, Hector realized for the first time
that these words were going to be part of his life from now on.

He would always be the man who saved the President's life.

But it didn't seem right.

"The truth is," he said, "I was saved, too." He shivered in the
aftermath of the strongest emotions he had ever experienced in his life.
"A lot of good people died getting the two of us out of there.

A ... did you ever meet a Major Elena Christou?"

Sinclair's smile vanished. "General Flores's aide. Yes. I knew her.

I heard what happened."

"She saved us. That's when ... she got shot. The bullets that hit her
..."

The major didn't say anything, only looked at him as if she knew and
understood every thought in his mind.

"I can still see her clearly," Hector said. "The look on her face when
... And ... she didn't even know me. She didn't even like the
President."

The major touched his hand. "She didn't have to know you. And, I think
she'd argue with you about not liking the President. I don't think she
agreed with him. But that would be private. As an officer ... well, it
doesn't even have anything to do with like or dislike.

Just love."

Hector looked at her with absolutely no comprehension of what she meant.

Her expression was one of guilt-absolving understanding. "It doesn't
matter what Major Christou thought of the President as a man, or as a
politician. She didn't give her life for him. She gave her life for what
he represented. You know, what they say is true, old-fashioned as it
sounds: She gave her life for her country."

That was when Hector understood that, for once, words alone were not
going to bring him closer to an acceptance of what had happened. He
shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "I think she gave her life for me.
But I'm not sure why."

Then Hector abruptly shifted the conversation back to less personal
ground. "So, Major, what happens now?"

Sinclair nodded toward the head of the table. "I think that's his job
for now."

The President had just finished a private conversation with Colonel
Tobin and Lee Fogarty from the office of the Secretary of Defense.

Now the President addressed the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't
want any of us to think that what happens next is easy. Even if the
planned operation goes perfectly, this country will still be in a state
of crisis. An attack such as this, even if it ends within the next
half-hour, will have repercussions for months, if not years to come, in
our relationship with NATO, in our foreign policy, and in this nation's
trust in our military.

"We are all going to be called upon to recount these events from our
different viewpoints. History will demand it of us. As will the American
people. As commander in chief, I do wish to go on record as accepting
responsibility for any flaws or shortcomings in the security
arrangements at the Pentagon today. And I accept full responsibility for
ordering Captain Kagan and his men into action."

From the side of the room, someone broke into applause. Others joined in
until everyone had to.

But the President waved a hand to quell them. This wasn't the time.

"Colonel Tobin, could you brief us, please, on what is about to
transpire at the Pentagon. What Captain Kagan and his men are about to
attempt."

Tobin replied at once. "Certainly, sir." But then he leaned forward to
whisper something just to the President.

The President shook his head, discounting whatever objection Tobin might
have raised, and spoke in a voice meant to be heard. "They all have
clearance, Colonel. I guarantee you, a week from now, this will all be
in the New York Times. The American people will not accept secrecy at a
time like this, and neither will I."

Tobin accepted that pronouncement without comment. He sat back and
folded his hands on the black tabletop before him. "Very well, sir.

Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Franklin Kagan commands an onsite security
team of ten Army Rangers. They are one of four teams who are assigned to
Site J on a rotating basis."

"Why?" The question had come from a civilian at the side of the room.

Hector didn't recognize him.

"For exactly this reason. To combat enemy occupation of the Pentagon
reservation."

The civilian stepped forward from the side of the room. His White House
pass had no name or photograph, just the word visitor. Though he didn't
have a personalized pass as did Hector and the President's usual staff,
Hector knew the man was not just another unprepared second-string
official who had been called in without warning. The civilian was
wearing a blue-nylon windbreaker, with the letters FEMA

on the back of it. Hector decided he was most likely one of the
emergency-response agency's dozens of department heads.

"Forgive me, but I'm confused," the FEMA staffer said. "Where, exactly,
is Site J?"

At least I'm not the only one, Hector thought. And from the way Colonel
Tobin immediately leaned back to the President to whisper to him again,
Hector was very relieved that he had not been the one to ask the
question.

But again the President told Tobin to continue.

"Very well," the colonel said. This time, Hector could detect a few
cracks in Tobin's almost preternatural composure, though the colonel
could no more argue with the President in public than he could stop
breathing oxygen. "As you may know, one of the fundamental principles
underlying the structure of this country's National Command Authority is
the absolute ability to survive a sudden, overwhelming nuclear attack.

"To that end, key facilities of the NCA exist in multiple locations
which are maintained, twenty-four hours a day, to respond instantly to a
surprise attack on the United States, and to ensure unbroken continuity
of government and command authority. This distributed, redundant network
was, of course, much more extensive during the time of the Cold War, but
it still exists today. Though the chance of a sudden nuclear attack from
Russia is considered to be minimal, the system exists to protect the
country in the event of a limited nuclear strike against Washington. A
strike caused by a systems malfunction in the Russian
command-and-control network, or by order of a rogue military leader, or
in the event of limited terrorist use of weapons of mass destruction, or
even catastrophic natural disaster.

"These alternate command centers exist in a variety of locations around
the country. Some are a matter of public record, like the NORAD Combat
Operations Center in Cheyenne Mountain, or the National Airborne
Operations Center, or the E-4B aircraft on constant standby at Offatt.

The nature and location of others, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, remain
among the government's most highly classified information."

The colonel paused a moment, and glanced at the President before
continuing. "Site J is one of those most highly classified command
facilities. It is located ... at a considerable depth beneath the
Pentagon reservation."

From the reaction of those in the room, Hector decided that he and the
FEMA department head were not the only ones who hadn't known about Site
J. He glanced back at Sinclair. "Ground Zero?" he asked, making a wild
guess.

"That's what the people who work there call it."

With that, Hector decided General Flores was a pretty good liar. He had
actually seemed insulted this morning when Hector had asked if such a
facility really existed under the Pentagon.

"That's ridiculous," the FEMA staffer said. "Wouldn't the Russians have
bombed the Pentagon a dozen times over at the start of any nuclear war?"

Hector quite liked the unknown federal civil servant, because he was
asking all the questions Hector knew better than to ask.

The colonel folded his hands together, tightly, on the table in front of
him, but he still answered the question. "Yes, sir. In the exchange of
information we've had with the Russians since the end of the Cold War,
we have learned that three twenty-five-megaton SS-18 warheads were
targeted on the Pentagon, all scheduled to arrive within the first
thirty minutes of a nuclear exchange. In fact, the Pentagon was
designated as the first command-and-control facility to be hit."

"Then what good would a command center be under the Pentagon?"

The colonel was suddenly given the unexpected chance to change the to
him, unwelcome subject when the video communications link to Site J was
abruptly reestablished, this time from their end.

A young Asian woman was on the screen. She wore a small earphone
microphone headset, and, instead of a black outfit like Kagan's, she was
in a regular Army service uniform. From the head-on angle, Hector wasn't
able to make out how many stripes she had on her shoulder.

"Mr. President, this is Sergeant Hanawa, Site J. I'll be the SOA link
for Captain Kagan's operation. That is scheduled to commence in five
minutes."

The President picked up the phone he had used before. "Thank you,
Sergeant. We're standing by."

On the screen, the sergeant busied herself with setting controls that
were out of sight of the video lens. It was impossible to tell exactly
where she was in Site J. Directly behind her was a solid blue
background. Some kind of fabric screen, Hector guessed. He took it as
more evidence of security.

The persistent FEMA staffer broke the expectant silence. "Can you answer
my question, Colonel? Why build a command center beneath a building that
was guaranteed to receive an overwhelming attack?"

"Because it was the only logical place to build it, sir. First of all,"
the colonel said, still keeping an eye on the screen link to Site J, "as
early as 1962, defense planners knew they could not evacuate key
government facilities in the National Capital Region in the few minutes
we'd have between detecting incoming Soviet missiles and their
detonation on our soil. That's what the Cuban Missile Crisis taught us.
Given the then-current yields of Soviet warheads and even allowing for
the minimal accuracy of their ICBMs and TU-4 long-range bombers,
Washington's defense preparations were criminally inadequate in terms of
preserving the continuity of the government in nuclear war."

Hector knew what the phrase "criminally inadequate" actually meant. The
entire elaborate infrastructure of underground government bunkers and
military joint command centers developed under Truman and Eisenhower had
become obsolete, some installations useless before their construction
had even been completed.

"And second of all," the colonel continued, his tone becoming more
heated as he progressed, and his irritation grew, "even if we did have
faith that some of our bunkers and shelters had gone undetected and
wouldn't be targeted, if for some reason we anticipated a Soviet attack
and ordered an evacuation of government officials, how do you think the
Soviet Command would have interpreted that move? I'll tell you. They
would have considered it as preparation for a U.S. first strike, which
would, I guarantee you, have resulted in them launching their own
preemptive strike.

"My God, man, every member of the National Command Authority in
Washington was a pawn back then. They had to remain in position, in
public, to avoid triggering a war. But once war began, they were
unprotected. It was an intolerable situation, and it led to ..." The
colonel looked at his watch.

The President relented. "Thank you, Colonel. I can take it from here."
He began with what Hector knew was one of his favorite lay ups, a brief
historical note.

"The report on the need to establish a coordinated plan for civil
defense and continuity of government in Washington," the President said,
"was presented to President Kennedy just before his assassination. It
led to a proposal called ECog, I believe. Enhanced Continuity of
Government. About a year after he took office, President Johnson signed
the secret executive order authorizing funding for what the proposal
called for: a two-stage Enhanced Continuity of Government Defense
Initiative called PROJECT JERICHO. That's when they began planning the
command site under the Pentagon. Site J for Jericho."

But then the President's history lesson was cut short by the
reappearance of Sergeant Hanawa on the communications screen.

"Mr. President, we're on a two-minute countdown. The civilian personnel
have gathered in the evacuation chamber." The lighting around the
sergeant had changed intensity, Hector noticed, as if the facility she
spoke from had gone to a low-light, nighttime mode. Maybe to help Kagan
and his men adapt their eyes to darkness, he reasoned.

"Civilians? Where do they evacuate to?" someone asked.

"Exactly how far down are they?" another voice called out.

At a gesture from the President, Colonel Tobin attempted to answer
everyone at once. "There are approximately one hundred and fifty
civilian technicians and specialists assigned to Site J. SOP calls for
them to evacuate the facility prior to any counterterrorist activity
through a system of tunnels designated RUSH HOUR. That's another part of
JERICHO. As soon as the civilians are out of harm's way, Captain Kagan
will lead his men through the main connecting tunnels to a staging area
in one of the lower levels of the Pentagon. From there his men will be
deployed into the sectioned-off areas of the Building proper."

"Then what?" The question again came from the FEMA department head.

"They just shoot everybody they see? Terrorists and hostages?"

Colonel Tobin clearly had no patience left for his unfamiliar
questioner. "Sir, those Rangers run this exercise every two years on
site. They practice it every quarter at their training facilities.

The Pentagon is now under Threat Con Echo. That is the sixth of seven
threat conditions and exists when a military facility has been captured
by an enemy force. Trust me, sir, the Pentagon has been reconfigured for
what Kagan and his team will do next. They will have complete control of
all power and communications distribution to the segmented sections.
They have access to a spectrum of nonlethal weaponry, including sonic
disrupters, immobilizing gases, and anti movement chemicals. These
weapons will neutralize the terrorists but will not harm hostages."

"One minute," Sergeant Hanawa announced on screen.

There was a knock on the main door of the Situation Room; then it opened
to show two uniformed Secret Service guards and white-haired Anthony
Granville, an assistant to the President's chief of staff, recognizable
at fifty feet because of the elaborately waxed handlebar mustache he
affected. Hector was surprised to see the President's personal secretary
behind Granville, talking to someone Hector could not see. Mrs. Petty's
improbably red hair was unmistakable.

But the President waved Granville away. "Not now," he said.

Granville reluctantly allowed the Secret Service guards to close the
door on him. No one argued with the President when others were present.

"Captain Kagan will deploy in thirty seconds," Sergeant Hanawa's
businesslike voice stated. From the direction the sergeant was looking,
Hector imagined she was facing a console containing additional video
screens showing various areas of Site J. That's when they heard the
first screams.

Hanawa responded instantly, hands working quickly on unseen controls.

"Sergeant ... ?" the President said.

Other crackling sounds came from the room speakers now. To Hector, they
sounded like static.

"Sergeant, report!" Colonel Tobin demanded.

Hanawa did not look up from her controls. She spoke rapidly, but with no
hint of panic. "They've broken in--"

And in that next instant, the blue screen behind the sergeant flew at
her as the speakers rumbled and her black hair bounced in the air around
her head and she slammed forward toward the camera lens, then
disappeared from sight.

The video signal smeared into flashing dots of color, then snapped back
into focus. The new image revealed more of the station's background.

Tatters of blue cloth, which apparently had been intended to block any
visual image of the rest of Site J behind Sergeant Hanawa, now swung
slowly from an overhead rod. Beyond them, a red-painted metal railing,
then an open expanse that gave view to part of a level at least one
story below the sergeant's station. Directly across from Hanawa's
station was a walkway, again bounded by a red-metal railing. The camera
angle made Hector think of the view looking into the multi-floor atrium
of a modern office building. Except that on the first level floor, he
could see the unmoving silhouette of a sprawled body, and the constant
passage of dark figures running with guns.

Colonel Tobin worked at high speed at the communications controls on the
tabletop between the President and himself. As he did so, other
secondary display screens at the end of the room flickered with new USA
SC shields. But whatever attempts the colonel was making to establish a
new line of communications, they weren't having any success.

The image from the fixed camera in Site J flashed with multiple bursts
of light, as if fireworks were going off inside the huge room. The
static from the speakers became a constant drone.

Then a new image on the Site J screen captured everyone's attention, and
the President stood and gestured for silence in the Situation Room.

A figure like Kagan, all in black and wearing a backpack, and a belt and
harness covered with equipment pouches, was approaching the camera.

But unlike Kagan, he also carried a small submachine gun. Just like the
ones Hector remembered seeing on the Pentagon terrorists. And the figure
was masked. His black head covering left only a narrow slit open across
his eyes.

The terrorist stopped by Sergeant Hanawa's console, then looked down
into the camera. Reception from the speakers cleared then, and

Hector could no longer see dark figures running in the background.

Barely thirty seconds had passed since the blue-fabric screen had been
destroyed and Sergeant Hanawa had violently disappeared from view.

The masked figure in black pulled an object the size and shape of a
hockey puck from one of the pouches on his chest, then attached it to
the mouthpiece of the telephone handset he picked up from somewhere off
camera. When he spoke, he had the same, rasping mechanical tone as the
self-proclaimed Sons of Liberty gunmen on CNN.

Hector could think of only one reason why the terrorists were going to
such trouble to disguise their voices. They had to be worried that
someone would recognize them. Which, to Hector, implied that whoever the
terrorists were, they were known to those they were attacking.

"To whom am I speaking?" the figure asked.

Colonel Tobin took the handset from the President before the President
could answer. "This is Colonel Tobin, United States Continental Defense
Command. Who the hell are you?"

"General Brower is the CINC of CONDEFCOM," the figure said. "Where is
he?"

"You're talking to me," Tobin snapped. "Take it or leave it." The masked
figure in black braced the handset between his shoulder and the side of
his head, the familiar, innocuous action somehow appalling in a ruthless
killer. Then the figure pushed back the edge of his black sleeve to
check the watch he wore.

"Colonel Tobin, inform the President that he has twenty-one minutes left
to go on air and resign, before we begin killing hostages." Then the
masked figure reached out to the console before him and the picture
winked out, leaving another USA SC shield in its place.

Tobin slowly replaced the handset on the communications console.

"Mr. President," the colonel said, "Site J is in enemy hands."

Like a man in a dream, the President said, "... What do we do now ..

. ?"

Like every other person in the room, Hector waited for the answer,
hoping someone else would have it.

ELEVEN E RING. RIVER WEDGE

Amy flexed her hands. They felt steady, betraying not the slightest
visible sign of motion.

She thought again of seeing the enemy in the uniforms of her murdered
company, of being forced to surrender her weapon, of being bound, pawed,
kicked, and clubbed ... all of it.

Once again she grabbed the gun, fired at the enemy, saw them fall
because of her. Once again she felt the easy resistance of the enemy's
flesh as she drew the blade of her Leatherman under his jaw.

The last moment, when the Russian commander had dared raise her weapon
again, in defrance of her defeat. When, without thinking, Amy had
snapped her Leatherman into a throwing X, just as her father had taught
her, and had willed it into the enemy's throat. With no conscious
recollection of having taken time to aim.

Then Tom Chase said, "Almost got it," and she was back with him, in a
small conference room, decorated with framed front pages of newspapers
from the First Gulf War. The room was close to the turn in the
ground-level corridor where they had found the blast door and the
hostages and the Russians. Chase had used his proxcard to seal the
corridor before he, Amy, and the five civilian hostages they had untied
and un gagged pulled the three slain Russians into an office and locked
them inside. If more of the enemy came looking for their comrades, they
would find the blood in the E Ring hallway. But without the bodies, it
would be impossible to know what had happened. Or so Amy knew Chase
hoped.

Once untied, the five hostages did as they were told. Two of them, the
oldest man and the thin woman in the flowered dress, were married,
Polish, and spoke only halting English. The other three hostages, all
men, in their early to late forties, were Americans. One of them
described to her, incredulously, how he had been standing right beside
Secretary of Defense Nicholas Guilbert when someone dressed as a
midshipman had stepped up to the Secretary and shot him in the chest at
point-blank range. Some of the assassin's bullets had ricocheted off the
wall behind, piercing the man's arm. The other two men had avoided even
looking at Amy, preferring to address any questions to Chase.

Their attitude had made it easier for her to command their attention
when she'd needed it.

Amy had immediately tended to some crude first aid to clean up the
hostages' minor scrapes, mostly using strips of cloth from the
upholstered chair-seats as bandages. Only the man with the bullet
creases on his arm was in need of serious medical attention, but he
could probably hold out for a few days before infection became a real
worry. Her tooth was another matter. However, trial and error quickly
told her that as long as she didn't move her jaw too much, the pain
retreated to a dismal nuisance, not a dangerous distraction. Eventually
she'd find aspirin somewhere in the Pentagon, even if she had to search
every drawer in every office they passed.

Next, Amy had turned her attention to the new equipment they had
collected as the spoils of war: three H&K submachine guns, five full
clips of 9mm ammunition, one flash-bang grenade, and, most important as
far as Chase was concerned, the Russian commander's miniature radio,
although it was broken.

Chase was working on that radio now, using the Swiss Army knife that Amy
had mocked. He hadn't objected to what she'd accomplished with her
Leatherman, though. As far as she could tell, after what had gone down
in the corridor, Chase seemed a bit wary of her, too. And though she
didn't dwell on the feeling of power that gave her, she knew she didn't
object to the feeling, either. Power was precisely what she would need
to complete her mission.

And her mission, now, was simple. She had killed four of the terrorists.
That left thirty-six to go.

"Almost ..." Chase said.

Amy sat at one end of the conference table, taking rounds from the
partially used H&K clips to make up a sixth full one. She ended with
five cartridges left over and put them into the almost exhausted backup
clip for her Beretta. All the weapons used standard 9mm rounds, and as
she compared the cartridges from her Beretta with those from the H&Ks,
she realized why she had thought the Beretta had been silenced. The
rounds were subsonic. They carried a partial load of powder intended to
reduce the sound they made, and to keep them from penetrating walls in
close-quarters firefights. Even more professional was the enemy's
differentiation of their ammo for the different stages of their takeover
plan.

"Got it," Chase announced. Before him, the Russian commander's radio was
now split in two, and Amy saw that he had managed to extract an
inch-square circuit board from the miniaturized device. He was holding
the tiny component with minute tweezers and examining it with the
extremely small magnifying glass he had folded out from his knife. Amy
saw threadlike wires stretching from the circuit board to the rest of
the radio on the conference table.

She got up to take a closer look. Radios were not her strong point.

She preferred handling mechanical pieces, to see how they actually fit
together. Just picturing how they worked wasn't the same for her.

Amy reminded herself not to say anything about Chase's beloved knife.

She had put away her own Swiss Army knife about the same time she gave
up playing with dolls. The beginner's blade had been good for
deconstructing toys to figure out how they worked, but that was about
it. Her Leatherman was folded up and back in the belt sheath she wore in
the small of her back. She'd rather trust her life to that than to
something with a red plastic handle.

"If it doesn't work, what good is it?" she asked.

"I've got the manufacturer and frequency," Chase said.

Amy didn't understand the significance.

"If we can get the frequency to the people outside, they can listen in
to everything these guys are saying to each other."

"You don't think our side's already scanning every frequency?"

"Of course they are, but it won't be doing them much good. This is a
single-sideband transmitter. Low power, very directional. The NSA would
have to ring the Building with ten-meter dishes to pick up even half of
what's carried on this."

"Then what good will knowing the frequency do?"

"Tells our guys where to concentrate their efforts. And once they get
people in here, as long as the Russians leave their radios switched on,
our side will have detectors that can track a radio's location to within
a couple of feet, even if the Russians don't transmit."

"One problem, genius. If the radio's broken, how are we going to tell
our guys what frequency to listen to?"

Chase looked past her at the hostages clustered on the beige, slip
covered couch up against the far wall. They weren't speaking to each
other, only watching their rescuers.

"Just before you tried to kill me, I think I got a message out."

"What? How?" Chase hadn't even mentioned this action until now. And it
was an important one.

"In ten words or less--the Pentagon's internal phone messaging system is
still working. Better yet, it seems to have an automatic way of calling
outside the Building that wasn't affected by the pulse."

"How much time if it works?"

Chase shrugged. "No way to know."

Amy didn't want to leave this capability solely in Chase's hands. A
civilian might not be able to exploit it properly. "Who'd you send the
message to? I know the numbers for Naval command posts, for the Academy,
even for--"

"It's a dedicated Pentagon system. It only works for members of the
Joint Staff."

"You called someone on the Joint Staff?"

Chase glanced over at the hostages again. "That's who I sent a message
to."

Amy dropped her voice. "You don't trust the hostages?"

"I don't know them."

Amy could see where Chase was going. He hadn't bothered to volunteer who
he'd sent the message to. Not that she hadn't been ready to commandeer
his message capability. "And you don't trust me?"

"I don't trust the military. Don't take it personally."

Amy was unsettled to discover that while hand-to-hand combat in a
life-and-death situation hadn't elevated her blood pressure, a five
minute conversation with Tom Chase could enrage her. What is it about
this guy?

"How can I not take it personally?" she demanded.

Chase looked her in the eyes and, for the moment at least, there was no
trace of the smart aleck in him. "Nuke, I'm sorry to tell you, but as an
institution, the modern military is an oxymoron. There's really no
excuse anymore for armed conflict."

"Excuse me?"

"Armies, navies, air forces ... I mean, even you have to admit they're
dinosaurs in the information age."

Amy opened her mouth to protest but the movement awoke her cracked
tooth. She pressed her hand to her jaw.

Chase took advantage of her inability to speak. "Look, I'm not saying
the forces should pack up and go home. I know we can't disarm
unilaterally."

"... fuggin rye ..." Amy managed to gasp.

"But in a civilized world--"

"Civilized?!"

"--there is no room for ... for bayonet charges and carpet bombing and
napalm and--"

"Tell that to the other guys!" she exclaimed. Then she had to grip her
jaw again.

Tom held up his hands in surrender. "Maybe this isn't a good time."

All the muscles on the entire right side of Amy's face tightened as the
red-hot needle of pain drilled into her tooth. She felt hot tears sting
her eyes. No! she ordered herself. The one thing no female mid could
ever do at the Academy was cry. Not if she broke her leg, not if she got
her first choice of duty assignment, not even if her father died. Amy
would be damned to hell before she'd cry now just because of a lousy
cracked tooth.

But then, before she knew what had happened, Chase had an arm around her
and was patting her back, telling her everything was going to be okay.

And for just one moment, one terrible second of escape, Amy was in her
father's arms again, laughing into that much-too-big helmet, safe and
secure as the Harley rolled out, knowing that nothing bad could ever
happen to her, not ever, as long as she was in those arms.

That was when she just lost it.

And for the first time in four years, Midshipman Amy Bethune gave up all
self-control. And finally wept for the loss of her father.

Tom Chase didn't let go.

TWELVE SITUATION ROOM. THE WHITE HOUSE

"Contact them, Colonel," the President said. "I don't care if you have
to flash mirrors at them in the Courtyard, you contact them and you buy
us more time!" Tobin said "Yes, sir!" on his way out the main door.

The President looked around the room like a drowning man.

"Does anyone in here have the ETA for General Brower?"

Before the door closed behind Tobin, Anthony Granville poked his head
through again. "Mr. President, please, there's someone here you have to
see."

The President grimaced as if he were a teenager told to clean up his
room for the thousandth time. Hector sat up. This he could handle.

He often screened people who wanted to meet with the President or key
members of his staff.

"Sir," Hector said as he grabbed for his metal crutch, "why don't I
check it out for you?"

The President nodded, then went back to a heated discussion he had just
started with Milton Meyer of the NSA.

As Hector pushed back against his chair, he was suddenly aware of two
things. The first was that, whatever shot the medic on the rescue
helicopter had given him, it was wearing off. His foot was beginning to
remind him, strongly, it was not pleased with his treatment of it today.
The second realization was much pleas anter Sinclair was beside him, one
surprisingly strong hand under his arm, bracing him as she put his
crutch into position.

"There you go," she said as Hector found his balance, and towered over
the major. He hadn't realized how short she was. How could anyone so
small have endured military training? Then he remembered the strength of
her arm as she'd supported him.

"Thanks," Hector said. "I ... guess I'll see you ... ?" He stopped
there, wondering how he could have said something so inane at the height
of this crisis.

"I think we're all here for the duration," the major replied, as if what
he said was entirely appropriate and welcome. "Good luck with ..

. whatever."

Hector hobbled toward the door, lifting his injured foot well off the
floor. As he passed the head of the conference table, he overheard an
Air Force colonel calmly explaining the challenges of dropping
immobilizing gas bombs on a target like the Pentagon--a strategy that
Meyer of the NSA strongly objected to--and then Hector was out the door.

He waved at the assistant chief of staff who was waiting for him, along
with the President's personal secretary. "Hey, Anthony, Mrs. Petty.

You've got to make do with me for now."

Granville's sigh was at least two seconds longer than any sigh should
take, but he took Hector firmly by the arm and said, "Oh, very well.

But I know he'll regret not getting on to this at once."

Hector grimaced as Granville pulled him along more quickly than he could
manage the crutch. He actually had to hop as he told Granville to slow
down.

After a disapproving look at Hector's bandaged and braced foot,
Granville veered briskly toward the small elevator that ran up to the
West Wing's ground floor.

"So what've you got?" Hector asked as the narrow door closed and the
hydraulic elevator began to rise.

"You'll see," Granville said cryptically.

Mrs. Petty added, "And perhaps it's just as well you're looking into it
first." Hector pretended he didn't notice the sharp look of mutual
suspicion that Granville and Mrs. Petty exchanged. "Mr. President is
certainly busy enough without--"

"Here we are," Granville announced as the elevator hummed to a stop.

He turned left as he exited ahead of Hector, toward the executive
offices.

"Down there?" Hector asked.

"Everywhere else has people who shouldn't even be here. We thought it
best to keep this under wraps." "Mr. Granville thought it best," Mrs.
Petty corrected as she looked at Hector with concern. "And may I say it
was a splendid thing you did, Mr. Macgregor, saving the President's life
as you did."

"I had a lot of help. And the President saved my life, too."

The President's secretary beamed, the color of her overly pink cheeks
deepening into little balls of color that almost matched her red hair.

"Isn't that just what you'd expect?"

"He's a great man," Hector said in a kindly way to the Man's number-one
fan. Then to Granville he said, "We're going to the Oval Office?"

"The only one not being used right now." Granville offered no other
explanation.

The door to the Oval Office was closed, and Hector felt the weight of
the almost physical force denying all entrance when the President wasn't
there. But the on-duty uniformed Secret Service guard readily opened the
door as Granville and Mrs. Petty ushered Hector inside.

Well, this should b interesting, Hector thought. He'd spent two years in
the White House and had been in the Oval Office enough times that he'd
stopped counting the visits. But that still didn't lessen the experience
of actually setting foot on its rich blue carpet, especially this time,
when he was here without the President and the hyperactivity that always
surrounded the Chief Executive.

Like the distinctive shape of the Pentagon, the shape of this room with
its colors and associations was burned into his consciousness. This room
was familiar not only to him, but to millions of Americans, from its
constant exposure in newscasts and newspapers, magazines and movies, and
on television. The Presidential setting had become part of the
collective consciousness of the country, and of the world.

And the first thing that was wrong with it today, other than the
President's absence, was the fact that House Speaker Marlens was seated
on the red-and-white-striped sofa to the left of the door. A man who
looked very much like the prototypical, taciturn Secret Service agent,
complete with slightly rumpled gray suit, was standing to one side of
the Speaker, his hands behind his back.

But the biggest thing wrong with the Oval Office today was the third
visitor who sat on the opposite, red-striped sofa, banging the heels of
his black hi-tops against its base, noisily swigging from a can of
Coca-Cola. He was wearing black surf shorts, a hugely oversize Orioles
T-shirt, and a White House pass around his skinny little neck. It was a
kid.

Hector looked at Granville. Granville nodded. The man in the gray suit
directed his impatience at Hector. "Where's the President?" And since it
wasn't Hector's job to alienate the President's guests, he immediately
limped over to the man and stuck out his hand. "Hector Macgregor. The
President's caught up in a security briefing and asked me to be his
front man." Only then did Hector nod his head to acknowledge Speaker
Marlens, whom nearly everyone in Washington knew they could safely
ignore.

Slightly mollified, the man reached into his jacket and with one fluid
motion extracted a black badge case, flipped it open for a two-count,
then returned it to his jacket. "Captain Lassiter, DIA. Defense
Intelligence Agency." He added the definition as if someone as junior as
Hector might be unfamiliar with the institution.

People who expected the President and got Hector instead were most often
disappointed, sometimes insulted. Hector had dealt with it before and he
could deal with it now.

He turned to the boy on the opposite sofa. Eight, maybe nine, Hector
guessed. He offered his hand just the same. "Hi, I'm Hector. Who are
you?"

The boy held his Coke can closer to his chest, eyeing Hector's scorched
and dirty shirt, and his crutch and bandaged foot. "What happened to
you?"

"I fell out of a helicopter."

"While it was flying?!"

"Only Superman can do that. My helicopter was on the ground. Are you
going to tell me your name?"

The boy looked over at Captain Lassiter. So did Hector when the silence
stretched out.

"Tyler Chase, eight years old."

"Actually," Granville added, "he's Brigadier General Chase, the youngest
appointee to the Joint Staff in history." "Okay," Hector said, looking
at the four adults in the room, "somebody better start at the
beginning."

"The boy's father is in the Pentagon."

Lassiter's blunt statement hit Hector with the force of a slap.

The captain handed Hector a small, orange plastic box. "As near as
anyone can tell, the ... incident ... at the Pentagon began at eleven
hundred hours. At eleven-fifty hours, the boy received this message."

The orange box was a pager with a transparent case. Lassiter reached
over and pressed a switch at its side. Hector read the narrow,
single-line display: 103-505.

Hector looked at Lassiter. "Part of a phone number?"

"It's from my Dad," Tyler Chase suddenly said, in a way that made Hector
think the kid had had to say it a number of times this morning.

"It's an SOS."

"SOS?" Hector said, feeling thick and wishing someone would hurry this
up and enlighten him. At least, he'd been right to spare the President
this unusual interrogation.

"Yeah!" Tyler rocked himself up and out of the sofa opposite Lassiter,
stopped, looked around with the Coke can in his hand, then moved as if
to balance it on the sofa cushion. Before the can could make contact
with the cushion, Granville swept it out of Tyler's hand. Unperturbed,
Tyler walked up to Hector and reached up for the pager, twisting it
upside-down so the message now read 5 0 5- E O L. "See?" the boy said as
if it were the most obvious fact in the world. "S. O.S. That's
five-oh-five upside down. It's a special code my dad made up." "What
about the ... eol?" Hector asked.

"I dunno," Tyler said. "But that's what Uncle Milo sent to my dad this
morning on his pager."

Before Hector could get the first word of his next question out,
Lassiter answered it for him.

"General Milo Vanovich. Do you know him?"

"Only that the President was scheduled to have a briefing with the
general this afternoon."

Hector watched Lassiter process that information like a machine. "All
right. Then all you need to know is that the general is responsible for
some advanced technology projects. Tom Chase--this boy's father --is a
civilian consultant on some of those projects. This morning, I, and
another DIA agent, were dispatched by General Vanovich to contact Mr.
Chase. My partner drove Chase to the Pentagon. I was assigned to ..." He
looked at the boy.

"Dad said he's my baby-sitter," Tyler announced, holding his hands out
in a karate pose. "I'm a yellow belt." Then he rugged Hector's left hand
from his crutch. "Here ... wanna shake?"

"Tyler--that's not a good idea." Lassiter snapped the words out like an
order. "He's been wounded."

"Oh, yeah," Tyler said. Still, he shook Hector's hand formally with both
hands, then stepped back.

"Captain Lassiter," Hector said, now fairly certain he knew the point of
this meeting, "I realize we might be intruding on classified matters
here, but does this boy's father work in communications?"

"In a way."

"So, I take it that it's significant that, forty minutes after all open
lines of communication to the Pentagon were shut down, Mr. Chase somehow
managed to get this message out to his son?"

"I'd say that's very significant."

"Do we know where Mr. Chase was in the Pentagon?" "Is that important?"
Lassiter asked.

"Is my dad okay?" Tyler asked.

"I'm sure he is," Hector said. "He sent you that message, didn't he?"

Tyler stared at him in eight-year-old indignation. "It's an SOS! He
needs my help."

"And we're going to make sure he gets it."

"When?"

"Right away, Tyler."

"Can I see him?"

"As soon as we help him get out of the Pentagon."

"When?"

"Soon, Tyler."

"My mom's coming to pick me up at eight, you know."

"Everything's going to be fine. Now just let me talk to Captain Lassiter
for a minute."

Tyler folded his arms so he could check his watch.

Fancy watch for an eight-year-old, Hector thought. He paused. A
Breitling? He looked at his own wrist.

The boy grinned broadly as he slipped the $8,000 watch off his narrow
wrist and placed it in Hector's outstretched hand.

Mrs. Petty clapped her hands as Tyler Chase took a bow, saying, "Thank
you, ladies and gentlemen."

I'm never having any kids ever, Hector thought. "Look, about where Mr.
Chase is, we've got full communications with the Pentagon ops centers,
so if he's down there, it's no big deal. They're cut off and can't
really tell us what's going on in the rest of the Building."

But the captain was not convinced. "The general's office is on the
second floor of the River Entrance Side. If Chase had made it down to
the ops centers, they'd have let you know he was safe. He wouldn't have
had to pull this stunt with the Joint Staff messaging system."

"And how is this a stunt?"

"Chase is pretty smart. Somehow, he got the computer to think the boy
had just been assigned to the Joint Staff, then he set up a message
account, and sent him the SOS message."

"Can we use that system in reverse?"

"We might not have to. He has--"

"That's a minute," Tyler announced. "Is my dad in trouble again?"

Hector turned to the boy. "Tyler, what does your dad do for General
Vanovich?"

Tyler pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head from side to
side. He looked at Lassiter.

So did Hector. He needed something to be able to tell the President.

Maybe the kid's father was some kind of undercover specialist. The
President would love to hear he had a man inside who could do some
damage to the terrorists.

Lassiter shrugged. "A consultant. That's all I know." "That could cover
a lot of ground," Hector said. Maybe it was just a matter of asking the
right question. "Tyler, do you know what your father does for General
Vanovich?"

This time, Tyler nodded his head up and down, emphatically.

"Then why won't you tell me?"

Tyler looked over again at Lassiter.

"Captain, could you please leave us?"

"He's my responsibility."

"He's in the Oval Office."

Lassiter conceded the point and left the room. Now it was just Hector,
Granville, Mrs. Petty, and Speaker Marlens, all in thrall to an
eight-year-old boy.

"Okay, Tyler, it's just us here now. What does your dad do?"

Tyler leaned forward and whispered. "If I tell you ... the captain will
kill me."

Hector felt the beginnings of a terrible tension headache. "Who told you
that?"

"My dad."

"Tyler, you know how important the President is, right?"

Tyler nodded.

"And you know how everybody has to do what he says, right?"

Tyler nodded. "Except Congress and the do-nothing Senate. That's what my
dad says."

Behind him, Granville stifled a laugh, but Hector pressed on. "Tyler,
the President is my boss and I will tell him to tell--to order--Captain
Lassiter not to kill you. I will even get you a lifetime Presidential
Pardon so nothing bad can ever happen to you because of anything you
tell me today. Okay?"

Tyler narrowed his eyes. "Even if I don't do my homework?"

"You will never have to do homework again. The President will make it a
law. Now will you tell me what your father does?"

Tyler shrugged. "He fixes things."

"What kind of things?"

Tyler sucked in his lower lip, looked toward the closed door.

"Captain Lassiter is afraid of the President. What sort of things does
your father fix?"

"The space station."

"Your dad's an astronaut?"

Tyler nodded.

"And he's worked on the space station?"

Tyler nodded again.

Hector's spirits soared. There was an astronaut in the Pentagon. A
trained specialist experienced in high-risk situations. Who had already
worked out some ingenious way to communicate with the outside world,
like some kind of James Bond astronaut. That could mean the kid's father
was in the military. Even better.

"Granville," Hector said quickly, "go get the President to come up here.
And bring ... bring some communications people, see if Colonel Tobin can
spare anyone, a Special Ops guy. Tell them we've got a secret weapon
behind the lines. Take Speaker Marlens with you."

As soon as they'd gone, leaving only himself, Mrs. Petty, and Tyler
Chase, Hector smiled down at the boy, the business with the watch all
forgotten.

Mrs. Petty got up and walked over behind the President's desk and slip
open one of the drawers. Hector heard a rustling sound, then saw the
President's secretary wave a white-fudge Oreo invitingly at Tyler.

"So, dear, when was the last time your father flew into space?"

Tyler bounced off the sofa and crossed the room to claim the cookie.

"He doesn't go on the shuttles."

"You mean he flies with the Air Force, then, right?" Hector asked.

Tyler shook his head.

Hector rubbed the back of his neck.

"What Mr. Macgregor means, dear, is then how does your father get up to
the space station?"

"He beams up." Tyler popped the whole cookie into his mouth.

Hector felt the migraine coming down the track like an approaching
freight train. "Beams? Like in, Beam me up, Scotty?"

Tyler nodded, mouth full.

"Fuck me," Hector said.

"Mr. Macgregor!" Mrs. Petty was actually shaking a finger at him.

Tyler's mouth opened in a huge grin revealing a glutinous mass of
half-masticated cookie. "You said the f-word! That costs two quarters!"

Hector knew exactly what had happened. "Kid, your father was joking.

What he told you isn't true."

"My dad's not a liar! He does so fix things! Like the space station ...
and the phones ... and the television station ... and the--"

Tyler almost choked on the rest of his cookie, then recovered as Mrs.
Petty helpfully thumped his back.

Hector opened his mouth to tell Mrs. Petty to rush down and head off the
President.

But it was already too late.

The door to the Oval Office was swinging open and the President was in
the doorway, not looking pleased. Right behind him were Colonel Tobin
and Major Margaret Sinclair.

"... and the photocopiers ... and the--" Tyler's listing cut off
abruptly as he looked where Hector and Mrs. Petty were looking.

"Tyler?" Major Sinclair said.

Tyler hurled himself at the major, and the greeting he shouted, to
Hector's utter shock and confusion, was

"Mom!"

THIRTEEN SITE J

"How do you know about Site J?" Vanovich demanded shakily.

As the enormous, armored freight elevator descended, Ranger regarded
Vanovich, unaffected by his prisoner's outrage. The general was merely
an intelligence asset. He had belonged to the enemy. Now he belonged to
Ranger. And Ranger owed him nothing. Despite the uniform the old man
wore, he was no warrior. He wasn't worthy of the name.

"Answer me, you bastard."

Ranger's three commandos immediately looked at their leader, unable, he
knew, to tolerate him being addressed in that manner. But like good
soldiers, they waited for orders.

There would be none. Vanovich was entitled to the pathetic anger of
defeat, even though the insults to the old man's honor had only begun.

"Site J," Ranger began, deciding to answer part of the general's
question, if only to show him that he had no secrets left worth
protecting, and that further resistance would accomplish nothing. "It
derives its name from PROJECT JERICHO. Construction began 1966. The
project consisted of two separate components. The first--survival. The
construction of deep shelters, code-named ATLANTIS. Intended to permit
the evacuation of key personnel from selected buildings in the National
Capital Region within minutes, by descent in elevators similar to this
one.

Ranger smiled. "Of course, that survival depended upon the Soviets being
considerate enough to attack on a weekday. During business hours."

"The second stage of JERICHO was escape." Ranger noted approvingly the
high color that now stained the general's sunken cheeks. There was life
in the old man still. He would last the few more hours he was needed.
"The need for escape routes required the construction of interconnected
tunnels linking the ATLANTIS facilities with underground rail-transport
routes out of the region. The code name for the tunnels was RUSH HOUR."

Vanovich's complexion was approaching deep purple. Ranger interrupted
the lesson. "General, I assure you, for years, the media reported on
these identical types of facilities in Moscow. Exceptionally deep
shelters for the leadership, vast underground transport routes for the
rest of the population. There is no great breach of security here.

"Do you think it's a coincidence that the two cities most responsible
for the Cold War both have such exceptional subway systems of unusual
depth and extent? Both are far deeper and larger than they need be for
ordinary mass transit. Any civil engineer could tell you their range and
capacity is in no way justified by the populations they serve."

Ranger paused to make his point. "But ... for civil defense and
continuity of government, they are suddenly completely reasonable.

And, in your case, what a convenient explanation all that subway
construction provided for all the earth removed in the excavation of the
ATLANTIS shelters. Not to mention Site J."

"This country's had traitors before," Vanovich said stiffly. "That's the
only way you got this information."

The old man was still refusing to see what was so obvious. But Ranger
knew he would soon understand. "General, I'm not here because you've
been betrayed by one of your own. I'm here because not even the best of
America's intelligence agencies could hide the obvious, and the logical.
Did you truly expect the rest of us to believe you would do nothing to
protect your leaders and your way of life in the event of nuclear
holocaust?"

"Go to hell," the general snapped.

The elevator stopped and an arrival tone chimed.

"Three hundred twenty feet down," Ranger said. "Close enough."

The elevator door opened into a large chamber with curved,
stainless-steel walls and harsh overhead lights. In the center of that
chamber stood eight commandos, in black Nomex coveralls and balaclavas,
training their weapons on the elevator's passengers--the four commandos
in white and their prisoner in blue.

But no challenges or recognition codes were necessary.

As Ranger stepped off the elevator, the soldiers of Team One laid down
their weapons, from submachine guns to pinpoint flamethrowers, and
cheered their leader.

Disappointingly, General Vanovich limited his response to one word.

"How?" he asked.

"American military SOP, General." Ranger decided it would do no harm to
elaborate further, considering that Vanovich was one of the few who
would appreciate the simple genius of the plan. "Before commencing any
military operation, you always withdraw your civilians. The civilian
exit from the Pentagon was through the Site J doors to the RUSH HOUR
tunnels. When your people opened the doors, my soldiers were already
there, waiting for them.

"The real elegance of the strategy, General, is that after months of
study, we actually concluded that you were too good for us. There was no
possible way we could force our way into this site. But then we
realized, if we could give you a reason to open the doors for us ..."

Ranger shrugged, the rest of his explanation unnecessary.

Then one figure in black marched up to Ranger, saluted, and pulled off
his balaclava to reveal a helmet of short red bristle, virtually no line
of demarcation between the hair on his face and his scalp. It was Kilo,
commander of Team One.

"No casualties," he reported.

Ranger brightened with the unexpectedly good news. "Ausgezeich net!"

That result was beyond the planners' best estimates. "Did they not put
up any fight?"

Kilo pulled on sections of his coveralls to display ragged bullet holes.
His broad smile revealed large, brilliant white teeth. "Their fight was
good. Our armor was better."

Ranger looked beyond Kilo and his men, to the open, round blast door
that led to the heart of Site J--the command center known to its staff
as Ground Zero. There was only one crucial question still to be asked.

The answer would determine if all that had happened to this point had
been worthwhile.

"Damage?"

Kilo's smile grew even wider. "None. We moved in so quickly, we were
able to maintain full communications throughout the entire command
network."

Ranger inhaled deeply, ignoring the strange plastic scent that filled
the air here, concentrating only on the immediate sensations of being
alive, and being victorious. The American military prided themselves on
the redundancy and survivability of their command-and-control network.
But their arrogance had blinded them to a key flaw. Believing their Site
J to be impregnable, they could not conceive of its being penetrated,
only destroyed. There were no scenarios for a Site J take over, because
capturing Site J was considered impossible. Yet Ranger had just done so.

Heightening, if possible, the moment of triumph, Kilo reached under his
armored vest and withdrew a thick, transparent plastic envelope.

Altogether, it was at least eight inches by ten inches, and three inches
thick. Inside Ranger could see a tightly folded mass of stiff and
yellowed parchment.

Ranger accepted the package as a king would accept his crown.

"All of them?" Ranger asked.

Kilo nodded.

Ranger placed the package securely under his arm, and with Kilo at his
side, he crossed the entrance chamber and entered Ground Zero. With
America's past in his possession, it was now time to take possession of
America's future.

The command center itself was like some strange confluence of past and
future. The pale blue walls, the red railings and exposed staircases,
the surrounding rooms and offices whose angled windows overlooked the
central atrium, these were all remnants of another time architectural
designs conceived in the naive, hopeful sixties to evoke a future that
would never come.

The circular floor plan of the facility added to the sense of a vision
of the future. But in this case, Ranger knew, the overall dimensions had
been determined not by artistic principles, but by the digging methods
used. The cavern in which Site J was built, more than three hundred feet
below ground level, had been blasted out by explosives.

The access shaft through which the twin freight elevators and emergency
stairways now ran had been lined with reinforced concrete, becoming a
pipe that could be pressurized to hold some of the seeping swamp water
at bay. The concrete shell that formed that pipe, with walls up to four
feet thick in places, had been extended and then expanded to line the
water-filled cavity created by the blasting.

After a year of construction, some of which was carried out by Navy
divers, the shaft and liner had been completed and the pumps had begun
to drain the artificial cavern. Over the next three years, a steel dome
had been built within it, resting not on solid foundations, but on more
than two hundred and thirty pads of rubber, each eight inches thick,
braced by steel springs. The wire forming the springs was eight inches
in diameter. Engineering stress simulations of nuclear destruction
raining down on the Pentagon three hundred feet overhead had suggested
that, with two hundred and thirty springs, the personnel in the Site J
steel dome wouldn't even feel the vibrations.

There were four levels to the underground command center, with elevator
access to two: Level Two where Ranger and Vanovich had arrived; and
Level Four--the bottom most level, where the storage batteries,
generators, air scrubbers, and water pumps operated. Level Three was the
action floor, where Ground Zero's communications consoles and monitoring
equipment were staffed round the clock. Level Two was the command floor.
It consisted of a ring of offices overlooking the action floor below. On
the side opposite the elevator-entrance chamber was the
cafeteria/theater/chapel and food-preparation facilities.

Level One held the barracks, a cramped warren of bunks, with a handful
of private quarters for officers and government officials, along with
backup power generators and food and water enough for three months.

All this information, though classified to such an extent that Ranger's
informants had never been able to unearth a single written reference to
Ground Zero's configuration, had been remarkably easy to assemble,
merely by accessing those documents which were available. The engineers
and architects who designed such facilities were proud of their work,
and often made reference to classified projects, thinking they were
obeying secrecy restrictions simply by being vague as to locations,
dates, and components.

Ranger could understand why General Vanovich believed that Ranger's
knowledge of Site J could only have come from a traitor within. It was
true that each single article or collection of specifications or
modified drawings gathered by Ranger's researchers had provided almost
no useful information. However, in these days of computer aided
research, when hundreds of articles could be sifted and compared, the
patterns that led to that hidden information had been simple to detect.

Ranger doubted if the hypothetical Site J diagrams his planners had
painstakingly created varied from the actual facility by more than a few
feet or a handful of details.

Ranger descended the red metal stairs to the Level Three action floor,
where four more of Kilo's black-garbed commandos kept watch over five of
their captives. As planned, the remainder of Site J's 180 civilian and
military personnel who had not been killed in the initial attack were
being tied up in preparation for being transferred to the upper levels.

He walked across the action floor toward the main-control consoles and
the five captives whom Kilo had specifically held back from the holding
areas, at Ranger's request.

Ranger was pleased with the selection: three women, two men, all
military, all young. Their hands tied behind their backs with plastic
security strips. The five captives had been forced to stand in a line by
a secondary control station. Its beige metal console was part of the
original equipment which had been installed when Site J had first been

activated in the early seventies--metal panels, sharp edges, curved
television screens.

But Ranger's destination was the main console, a new one, dove gray,
cloaked in molded, round-cornered, plastic panels and flat computer
displays, as if military designers had finally succumbed to the fanciful
depictions Hollywood had presented as military reality for years.

Ranger headed for an empty chair before the center command station.

The chair was comfortably padded, high-backed, and outfitted with chest
straps to hold its occupant securely in position, in case the command
center's vibration-dampening springs weren't as effective as its
designers hoped. As his commandos led Vanovich toward him, Ranger placed
the bulky plastic envelope on the top of the gray console, then turned
the padded chair facing out and motioned to the general to take his
seat.

"I don't know where you got your information, but I don't have any
authority here," Vanovich warned. The general's statement indicated to
Ranger, gratifyingly, that the old man was familiar with its purpose.

It was time to proceed.

Ranger pressed a flat switch on the gray console and a small section of
it popped up. He then unfolded the mechanism beneath, angling it so a
black-rubber eyepiece now appeared above the main keyboard. "Look into
the scanner, General. I'll trust the computer to tell us what authority
you have."

Vanovich shook his head and pushed back against the commandos who held
his arms.

In a way, Ranger thought, the old man's stubbornness now, so early in
the process, offered the opportunity of presenting him with another
valuable lesson, which would prevent resistance later, when timing was
more critical.

"We both know how it goes from here, General," Ranger said. "I ask you
to do something, you refuse. I threaten you, you ignore my threats.

Eventually, you force me to take drastic action. I prefer not to waste
your time or mine."

Ranger nodded once at the black-clad commandos guarding the five
captives. Responding instantly, two of them forced the first captive, a
young Asian woman, to come forward and stand in front of General
Vanovich. Ranger read her rank and her name badge. "Sergeant Hanawa, is
it?"

The woman stared at him with wide-eyed hatred and defrance. There was
dried blood under one nostril and a large bruise on her forehead.

"Sergeant, look at the general, please."

She refused.

How predictable, Ranger thought.

He held out his hand and one of his commandos placed a Beretta in it.

Without looking, Ranger expertly flicked off the safety. "You know where
this is going, General."

Ranger could see Vanovich's mouth tremble. It wouldn't take long. It
never did.

"I know you're not a violent man," Ranger said as he aimed the Beretta
at the sergeant's temple. "I know your responsibilities are for
surveillance and defensive measures only."

The woman tried to pull back, but the two commandos pushed her forward
so that Ranger would have a clean shot.

"And I know you've never been in combat," Ranger continued, "Never seen
what a soldier sees in every battle."

Vanovich's voice shook but his gaze was unwavering. "I won't betray my
country."

"I'm not asking you to," Ranger said. "All I will ask you to do is to
save this young woman's life." He extended a hand toward the other four
captives. "And their lives. And the lives of all the others we have on
the upper levels."

Now the sergeant's eyes were tightly closed, as if she wouldn't add to
the pressure on Vanovich, wouldn't beg for her life.

But she didn't have to.

"Don't make me kill her," Ranger said. "Not when it is so simple for you
to prevent this."

"For the love of ..." Vanovich entreated. "I'm not the ..."

"Yes ... you are." Ranger fired the gun and half of Sergeant Hanawa's
head exploded.

Scraps of bloody scalp and brain tissue sprayed across Vanovich and he
shuddered and tried to twist away but the commandos at his side forced
him to watch as the sergeant's body crumpled to the floor, at his feet.

"The next one," Ranger said. It rarely took more than two to ensure
cooperation.

The general was hyperventilating now. If the commandos had not been
supporting the old man, Ranger was certain he would have collapsed, too.

The two commandos selected a second woman, an Air Force captain this
time, who was more difficult to subdue than the sergeant before her.

But her resistance ended when a commando twisted her arm so sharply that
it audibly cracked and she all but passed out.

The commandos positioned the semiconscious captain so that her body
would fall on top of the sergeant's.

Ranger saw the general swallow several times, saw the sweat on his
forehead, the look of anguish in his eyes. "These are your people,
General. Under your command. How can you allow this to continue, when
you could stop it so easily?"

Ranger placed the barrel of his gun against the captain's head.

"Yes," Vanovich said, "... no ..."

Ranger paused, finger on the trigger, as he heard the words that he had
been expecting.

"What do you want me to do?"

Ranger lowered his gun. It was time to give General Vanovich his orders.

FOURTEEN SECOND FLOOR, C RING, CORRIDOR NINE

Amy Bethune's eyes were still swollen from crying. From time to time,
Tom saw her swipe at her reddened nose with the sleeve of her gray
sweatshirt. But as the midshipman moved along the corridor now, one H&K
submachine gun in her hands, another strapped to her back, a pistol and
a grenade shoved into the waistband of her jeans, it was as if she were
someone who had never shed a tear in her life.

Tom followed behind her, holding the H&K she had insisted he take and
that he had reluctantly accepted. He was unwilling to add to the
impossible burden the kid herself carried, the one now borne by every
soldier in the country.

He knew Bethune had not enrolled in the Naval Academy so someday she
could kill vast numbers of people with nuclear missiles on the submarine
she hoped to command. She had enrolled for the challenge, the promise of
adventure, the thrill of working with cutting edge technology.

Sometime, over just the last decade, the five branches of the American
military had decided they no longer wished to be seen as war fighting
organizations--their advertisements portrayed them, instead, as benign
institutions where America's youth could learn job skills and still
party on weekends. And Bethune had bought into that new perception of
the armed forces.

Tom knew how and why that change in perception had come about.

Americans didn't want their sons and daughters facing death in armed
conflicts anymore. Most Americans didn't even want the country's enemies
to face death. Confronted with what even Tom thought was a baffling,
near-schizophrenic attitude, how could any young soldier cope when the
inevitable happened and they were forced to confront the brutal
realities of combat?

Tom had seen Bethune in action against the three Russian terrorists.

She had been a perfect soldier--she had killed the enemy expertly and
efficiently, saving her life and the lives of those who were depending
on her.

Sixty years ago, he knew, she would have been a hero, and her nation's
admiration would have made her feel like a hero.

But today, in a society that no longer wanted war, in a country that no
longer wanted to believe that violence could ever be necessary, even the
hostages she'd saved were not sure what to think of her. Tom's question
was: Now that Bethune knew what she was capable of, how could she not
feel like a killer?

To Tom, the solution was simple. Either return to the past, when
warriors were a separate elevated caste, honored but living apart from
ordinary citizens. Or, make it impossible for war to exist. Finding the
second option more reasonable, Tom had chosen to help Vanovich and the
Air Force, because he believed that the work they did together would
eventually eliminate war.

Few shared his optimism. But just as the American people had grown tired
of war, Tom, like the President, believed that the rest of the world was
on the same path. And when that day came, kids like Tyler would never
have to experience the conflict Midshipman Bethune was feeling now.

But Tom knew he couldn't share his convictions, beliefs, or optimism
with Bethune. He wasn't her father; he hadn't even known her long enough
to be her friend. Right now, he was just one more American who didn't
want anyone else to die. And just as Tom couldn't think like a soldier,
he knew from sad experience that no soldier could be expected to think
as he did.

Bethune slowed as she came to the intersection of Corridor Nine and C
Ring. The blast door that sealed this access point was on the other side
of the intersection, permitting full entry to C Ring to the left and the
right. She held up her hand and Tom stopped, waiting for her to scout
ahead.

While Bethune checked ahead, Tom looked back over his shoulder to see if
anyone was following them. Four of the hostages they had saved--Bethune
had saved--had reacted with relief when she'd told them they were better
off staying in the first-floor conference room and waiting for rescue.
The fifth hostage, the man with the wounded arm, was the only one who
had wanted to go with his rescuers. More to the point, Tom thought, he
wanted to go with the guns.

But the more the wounded man had objected to staying behind, the more
agitated Bethune had become, especially when he had demanded she at
least leave a weapon with him. At that point she had raised her voice,
then reacted even more angrily when her agitation disturbed her cracked
tooth. The wounded man had immediately capitulated and made no further
protest.

Tom didn't blame him. They had all seen what she could do.

"Clear," Bethune said.

Tom nodded, not surprised. Whatever the terrorists were after in the
Pentagon, it had nothing to do with the River Side.

"So, can we open that door?" Bethune mumbled in a muffled voice,
referring to the blast door that sealed off the continuation of Corridor
Nine past C Ring. She was trying to talk without moving her jaw.

"No card reader," Tom said. "That door's part of the main defense
perimeter. Can't touch it."

It was the fourth perimeter blast door they had encountered in their
efforts to find an open stairway to the basement and the ops centers-and
Bethune was still having trouble understanding the logic behind the
perimeter's asymmetrical layout. "Why defend only one-fifth of the
Building?" she now asked.

"Not even that much," Tom pointed out. "Looks like security only
enclosed the most important parts of the River Side."

"Isn't the rest of the Building important?"

"A lot of the offices are strictly for paper-pushing. No one's going to
spend good money protecting sixty years' worth of office-supply reqs.
Not even the military."

Bethune looked down C Ring, toward Corridor Eight. "That intersection's
not blocked off till the other side. Could be stairs down there."

"After you," Tom said.

Bethune took the lead again, staying close to the outer wall of the
corridor, cautiously testing each door that she came to, to see if it
was locked. As she had instructed, Tom stayed a few feet back on the
corridor's inner wall, stopping when she stopped, checking the doors on
his side, as she covered him. The unfamiliar feel of the H&K was still
disturbing.

Halfway along the corridor, Tom reached for the doorknob of a room
identified only by its number. The door had three additional locks, so
he didn't expect the knob would move. But the instant he touched it, he
stiffened in surprise.

At once, Bethune dropped to one knee, her H&K up to her shoulder as she
sighted along its barrel.

"No!" Tom said, feeling almost euphoric. He held up his left hand.

His watch. It was vibrating. "My pager!" Tyler had managed to convince
that bullheaded Lassiter that his dad's SOS was real.

As Bethune ran across the hall to him, Tom looked at his watch face.

The alert line beneath the time display read: 1 MEU PAGE. He pushed in
the bottom-right button. There it was.

MSG RECD. SEND ALPHANUMERICS. UHAT IS dour STATUS?

USCONDEFCOM.

Bethune was reading over his shoulder. "That's your contact on the Joint
Staff?"

"Who?" Tom asked, trying to puzzle out the acronym.

Bethune's swollen jaw made her half-grin a silly lopsided leer. "U. S.

Continental Defense Command. You know what that means?" she exclaimed,
one hand to her jaw, the other pumping the submachine gun in the air.
"Delta Force!"

Those two words were like a sobering punch in the gut to Tom. "We need a
phone." He scanned the C Ring corridor, up and down, ignoring her
puzzled reaction to his lack of enthusiasm.

Bethune pointed back the way they had come. "That third door, on your
side."

She was right. That door was unlocked. Beyond it, they had already
checked out a large open-plan office filled with desks and low
partitions. One of its walls had windows overlooking the interior-access
road that circled the Pentagon between the C and B Rings. All the
windows looking onto the narrow roadway were blast proof not that he and
Bethune would have wanted to break them to climb down. Aboveground the
only passageway that connected with the access road led into the
Courtyard. A place neither of them wished to enter.

They were back in the large, unlocked office within ten seconds. Tom
chose the first desk in the open area, but Bethune made him pick
another, twenty feet from the door and well away from the windows.

"Just in case," she said.

The office appeared to be some sort of data-processing center, and every
desk had a computer. Since none of the computers had secure connections,
whatever was done here, Tom knew it had nothing to do with any
classified military activity.

The second desk displayed several family snapshots under a clear plastic
desk blotter. A collection of sentimental photos of cats and cat
cartoons had been pinned to the bulletin board that was part of the
desk's office partition. More important, the desk had a phone. As Tom
expected, its external lines were out, but its internal lines were good.

"I can get through to JSAMS," he assured Bethune. "This'll be perfect."

While she kept watch, Tom dialed into the Joint Staff Automated Message
Service, then accessed Brigadier General Tyler Chase's message center,
and selected the page function. Since Tom's message had told him to send
alphanumerics, it appeared that Tyler's elementary pager service had
been switched over to a more sophisticated receiving system. Most likely
courtesy of the NSA, Tom thought.

He selected Keypad Messaging from the JSAMS voice menu, then began the
laborious process of typing his reply, selecting letters by their
position on each number button. A as 2,1. B as 2,2. All the way to Y as
9,3--the third letter on the #9 button.

The message he chose to send was simple, but urgent. IM# SAFE
W]TH#AMY#BETHUNE#MID#USNA##4#RUSSIAN#TRRSTS#DEAD

VANOVICH#TAKEN#FOR#REDLVL#CLEARANCE##RESCUE#HIM#

ASAP##TC.

Then he pressed the * key to send the message and hung up.

Bethune sat down on the edge of the desk. "How long will it take?"

"If the system's still working, it should go out within a minute or two.
If this Special Ops group is the hot stuff you think they are, they'll
have it about a second later."

"Your Jay-sixer contact wasn't in CONDEFCOM?"

Tom shook his head. "I added a new name to the Joint Staff roster.

It's not a very secure system if you know the password."

"Then who did you send the message to?"

"My eight-year-old."

"You put our lives in the hands of a kid?"

"Only person I knew with a pager. At least, with a number I know."

"And he knew enough to run it up through the chain of command? That's
some smart kid." "Yeah," Tom said, "he takes after his mother."

THE WHITE HOUSE. SITUATION ROOM The hour had passed. It had not been
uneventful.

Less than ten minutes after Site J had fallen, the President had ordered
the security teams in the Pentagon's sealed operations centers to probe
the enemy's position and recover what hostages they could without undue
risk. The important goal of their mission was to provide information the
White House could use to plan a counterattack in force.

The commanders of each of the five centers deep within the Pentagon had
confirmed their orders. Six-man, ops-center security teams from the
Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines, backed by four additional Marine
guards from the National Military Command Center, would go out on a
reconnaissance patrol.

That confirmation of orders had been the last communications the White
House had received from any station in the Pentagon.

All five operation centers had fallen at once, in silence, without
explanation.

And now, in the midst of that confusion, CNN returned live to the
Pentagon.

Without a word spoken, the gunman in the red bandana put his gun to the
neck of the General Jaime Alvarez Flores, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, and pulled the trigger.

General Flores died instantly.

Sobbing broke out among several civilians in one corner of the Situation
Room. Major Margaret Sinclair remained rigidly silent, though she, as
much as they, deplored the sudden, tragic, death.

Her Shilo nightmares had faded since last December, especially since
General Vanovich's decision to finally open up the NIA files on the
disaster. But all the terrible memories had reawakened as she'd worked
on the briefing that the general was to have given to the President
today. She had hoped the preparation stage would serve as Vanovich's
penance and the briefing as his confession. That today would bring peace
to the general, and that the President would find a way to end the
QUICKSILVER dilemma.

Instead, this morning had begun with the first news bulletin about the
massacre at the National Archives. Followed almost immediately by the
terrorist attack on the Pentagon. And then the emergency summons from
the White House because she was the most senior NIA officer who was not
dead, missing, or held hostage.

As this madness had unfolded, she had drawn increasing comfort from the
fact that no matter what new evil had been released into this world, her
child was at a ball game with his father, safe, and unknowing. He
deserved that from his parents. All children did. The normalcy of
children's lives was what she was fighting to secure, for their chance
to grow up in a world that would not harm them.

But then she'd discovered Tyler in the Oval Office, without Tom, who was
now somewhere in the Pentagon, where he had reached out for their son.
And the comfort she'd drawn strength from had vanished in an instant,
with the threat so close to her family.

Ten years ago, before Tom, before Tyler, she couldn't wait to join the
Army and be all that she could be, and she'd been thrilled to be a part
of Colonel Brewer's special project.

That's why the army wants them young, she now knew. When you'll risk
everything, before you realize what you have to lose.

Now that she knew exactly how much she had to lose and how she never,
ever wanted to lose it, the Army, ironically, seemed one of the few
power centers in the world that could protect her child, his father, and
secure her child's future.

From nothing to lose, to everything, Margaret thought. And now, once
again, she was watching others face losing all.

On a secondary screen at the end of the Situation Room, beside the crisp
MAJIC surveillance image of the Pentagon, the gunman wiped the barrel of
his pistol along the gold-embroidered epaulets on the uniform of Russian
General Kerensky, the only one of the first three hostages tied to the
chairs who was still alive. Then the gunman pulled the Command Authority
phone handset from his pocket.

The sound modulator he wore beneath his red bandana was still working.

His voice was flat and mechanical. The voice of a com passionless
killing machine.

"We have waited one hour. The President has not resigned. General Flares
has paid the price for that cowardly act. Each minute that follows,
another will pay. The Sons of Liberty are men of our word."

The green-fatigue-clad gunman waved his gun at the camera. The viewing
angle changed as the camera shifted. There were quick, choppy flashes of
light and shadow, then the camera angled down through a window, into the
Courtyard of the Pentagon.

"Please, God," Lee Fogarty, the assistant Secretary of Defense, said as
the camera focused and the nature of the scene became apparent.

There were twenty NATO officers on their knees, each in the uniform of
whichever branch of their country's military they served, all in a line
along one of the Courtyard's six radial pathways. Terrorists in white
naval uniforms stood behind them. One terrorist held a pistol pointed at
the back of the head of the first officer in the line. The terrorist
looked up at the camera, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

From off the screen, the mechanical voice said, "Fifty seconds."

Margaret had had enough. Ten minutes ago, after she had made certain
that Tyler was safe upstairs in Mrs. Petty's care, General Brow er's
helicopter had finally arrived on the South Lawn. Margaret, and half the
people in this room, had then tried to convince the President that
Brower should have a place at this table.

But the President had been unsure. Personally, Margaret understood his
hesitation, to a point. America's Chief Executive was a man who governed
by consensus, perhaps the only political strategy that had a hope of
uniting such a fractured and fractious country. But, today, without the
advisors he knew and trusted, and without any means of judging the
competency of the advice with which his new advisors deluged him,
consensus and the President were far apart.

Professionally, the President's refusal to acknowledge the limits of his
ability under these conditions had caused Margaret to almost lose all
patience with the man. This was the reason why countries had armies. So
that when the time for deliberation had passed or had been taken away
the ability to take swift and decisive action still remained.

That time had come. The President must accept his duty.

Margaret rose to her feet, knowing her action could cause her to be
ejected from the room, just as FBI Director James Gibb had been cut out
of the loop much earlier. But there was no more time for diplomacy.

"Mr. President, end this."

"Delta Force will end this, Major," the President said.

That decision had been the last the President had been able to make, and
it was a flawed one. If the President cut her from the team now, then at
least she'd know she went down fighting "They're still an hour away,
sir. Are you willing to see sixty people die on CNN? Are you willing to
let the American people see sixty NATO personnel under our protection
die like this? In the heart of our defense headquarters?"

"We have been over this, Major. Are you questioning my decision?"

Margaret heard Hector Macgregor shift uneasily in his chair beside her.

She had a sudden, somehow inspiring memory of how she had felt when she
had touched his hand as he told her of Christou's brave action.

"No, sir, I want you to question it! I want you to question everything
these people have said to us because it's all been lies!"

"Thirty seconds."

The President's eyes flicked between her and the CNN screen.

"You must get General Brower in here, sir."

"He's the man those ... creatures specifically asked to be put in
charge! Do you want me to play into their hands?" Margaret knew she had
just been handed the opportunity she'd been looking for. The President
had specifically requested her opinion. Now she could finally assist him
in making the informed decision the crisis required.

"Sir, ask yourself why they did that! We all know that General Brower
has nothing to do with these people. They named him as a smokescreen.

To make us afraid of him so that when he got here you'd shunt him off to
the Cabinet Room instead of letting him do his job. Asking you to resign
is the same kind of smokescreen. To divert us from what they're doing in
Site }\"

But the President was still having difficulty focusing on her reasoning,
as she was sure he would not, in a less time-driven crisis.

"Site ] is closed down, Major. Every other alternate command center in
the country has been alerted. Site J's even been cut off from the
defense net! Whatever they planned to do down there, it's too late."

"For God's sake, sir--" Margaret knew she had to disturb him enough that
he would listen and, more than that, understand. "They know everything
else about our capabilities, why do you not believe they knew we'd shut
down Site } as soon as it was compromised? If they're after information,
being shut down doesn't matter. Even without having authorized access
codes, they can make physical connections to our computers there and
download all the encrypted data they want. And if they get away, they'll
have months to decrypt everything while we spend billions rewriting
every line of defense software we have."

"fifteen seconds."

"Mr. President, they aren't who they say they are! They're not after
what they say they want! And if everything they've been telling us is a
lie, then the truth must be that the one man they're afraid of is
General Brower! Bring him in here--"

The gunman in the Courtyard fired and the first kneeling officer pitched
forward, his body convulsing in post-mortem spasms. The gunman
methodically pulled the trigger twice more until the officer's body lay
still, then looked back up at the camera, shielding his eyes once again.

"We begin again," the voice stated. "Sixty seconds."

Margaret was ready to physically wrest the President's frozen attention
away from the screen and the inexorable deaths. In twelve years in the
Army, she'd seen too many good people die because politicians had
hesitated at the precise moment it became time to use force.

She struck the surface of the conference table with her fist to startle
him back to reality. "Mr. President, bring General Brower in here and
let him do his job or you explain to the American people why it is that
Elena Christou and six other people had to die so you could sit in here
and do nothing!"

The only sound in the room was that of the President's chair shoving
back as he stood up to face Margaret.

His face had drained of all color.

In the long silence that followed, Margaret knew that of the two choices
the President could make right now, one of them would not be to eject
her from the room. It would be to have her court-martialed.

But he chose the other option.

"Colonel Tobin, get General Brower in here."

Tobin rushed to the door. Then the President slowly sat down, not taking
his eyes off Margaret.

Margaret sat down, too. As she did so, Hector Macgregor gave her a
thumbs-up in full view of the President. It was the kind of reckless,
career-destroying gesture Tom would have made.

"Fifteen seconds."

Then General Brower entered the room, Colonel Tobin behind him, and it
was as if a second sun had entered a solar system, changing the orbits
of all other planets. The general was six feet of solid muscle,
completely bald, with a severely clipped moustache that gave him a
perpetual scowl. The general's dark eyes flashed over everyone in the
room, and Margaret felt certain that simply by seeing her determined
face and the President's tense regard of her, he'd correctly deduce the
true situation.

"Have you been following this upstairs?" the President asked after a
moment's hesitation.

"Yes, sir." The general's voice was a deeply resonant baritone.

Margaret knew not even constant gunfire could drown out that voice.

"Can you stop it?"

"How far are you willing to go?"

The second uniformed hostage in the Courtyard fell forward. The gunman
moved down the line.

"We begin again. Sixty seconds."

"Just stop it," the President said despairingly. "For the love of God,
make it end."

Brower reacted so quickly that Margaret knew he had already worked out
his strategy. At once he barked to Colonel Tobin, "Get a White House
video crew in here ASAP! Go! Go! Go!"

Tobin ran from the room as Brower leaned past the President and picked
up a handset from the Command Authority Terminal.

"Sons of Liberty, this is General Elias X. Brower."

"Fifty seconds."

"The killing of hostages is no longer necessary."

"Will the President resign?"

General Brower put his hand on the President's shoulder, and Margaret
saw that hand flex. She couldn't tell if he were squeezing the
President's shoulder for reassurance or to make sure the President
couldn't move. "No. But he will be removed from office within the hour."

"Continue."

"First stop the countdown. If you don't like what I'm going to lay out
for you, you can always start it up again. But if you do, I'm going to
come in there and personally help you make the transition to the next
plane of existence."

Margaret had never been briefed on this particular style of negotiation
with hostage-takers, but on the screen, the gunman in the red bandana
reappeared as the camera changed angles to look inside again.

"The countdown has been put on hold. For now. How will the President be
removed?"

Brower took his hand from the President's shoulder and started to pace,
keeping his eyes on the gunman on the screen at all times. Margaret knew
he was watching the gunman's body language, assessing the effect of each
word as he said it. The gunman might have a voice like a machine, but
General Brower, Margaret thought, had a mind like the finest computer.

"Okay, son, you listen good. This is how it's going to play out."
Margaret smiled for the first time since morning as she heard the
general fall into the rapid cadence of a drill instructor. He was going
to make these bastards march to his beat. "What you wanted to do, the
way you said to do it, none of that would legally last a second once you
were out of the Pentagon and on your way to wherever the hell you think
you're going to. If you want this to stick, we gotta do it by the books.
You following me?"

"Continue."

"Listen up. We're doing this under Article Twenty-Five, Section Four of
the Constitution of the Yew-nited States. The President's cowardice in
dealing with the situation today is evidence of his inability to
discharge the powers and the duties of his office. Do you concur?"

The gunman shifted his stance, his attention clearly riveted on the
general. At that moment, Margaret became certain the gunman was window
dressing, not the leader of the terrorist group. No one naive enough to
believe the general's story could have gone this far.

"I ... We concur."

"All right, then. This makes it legal. A written declaration of the
President's inability is being signed by a majority of the principal
officers of the executive departments and will be transmitted to the
Speaker of the House of Representatives and the President pro tempore of
the Senate. You staying with me here?"

Margaret could see the aghast President using every bit of his self
control not to rip the phone from General Brower's hand. At least, she
knew, everything the general said was going out only over the CAT, and
was not being rebroadcast by CNN.

"Who becomes the President then?"

"My intel is that the Vice President has been killed."

"That is correct." General Brower looked to the side as the door opened
and Colonel Tobin returned with a young woman carrying a large video
camera with an attached floodlight. Without breaking the rhythm of the
conversation, Brower gestured for the camera operator to begin
recording, and to include both him and the President in the shot.

"In that case, Speaker of the House Dorothy Marlens becomes the
President."

"That is unacceptable."

"Don't I know it. But I've already taken care of that. President
Marlen's first and only act in office will be to appoint me as Acting
Secretary of State. She will then resign, as will the President pro
tempore of the Senate. That makes me next in line as President. Sound
good?"

It was several moments before the gunman replied, and Margaret knew his
bluff had been called. Every instinct she had told her that the next
thing he would say would be something designed to keep General Brower in
negotiations for hours. The terrorists had tried to keep the general out
of action by implying that he might be a coconspirator in their plot,
someone the President might not be able to trust. But because that
strategy had failed, they had another in the wings. Now, they would
attempt to keep him out of any planning of the counteroffensive they
must know was already being planned. And the way to do that was to be
sure he'd be too busy to be involved.

"That is an acceptable beginning. You must announce these facts at a
press conference so the world will know."

"I've already called for one. I've got five teams driving through
Washington picking up the signatures I need. Speaker Marlens is standing
by to be sworn in. In two hours, this will be a goddam done deal." Nice
try, Margaret thought, but she knew the general's attempt to buy a
two-hour extension wouldn't work.

"Two hours is unacceptable. You will hold a press conference in thirty
minutes, or we will begin shooting hostages."

"Let me put it to you this way, son. Those hostages are the only thing
keeping me from going in on your position with napalm right now. You
understand? I don't give a rat's ass about you. Half the guys I know
would cheer if the Pentagon went up in a fireball. And

I like the idea of helping to straighten this country out as Acting
President, even if it's your idea."

Margaret focused on the general more closely. He was starting to
convince her that he meant what he was saying.

"I can handle the politicians out here. I think you know that and that's
why you chose me. But for this to work, you gotta have the American
people on your side. And that's not going to happen if you keep on
killing. On the other hand, you give me some of those hostages now as a
sign of good faith, it'll make me look like a hero for doing what the
old President couldn't, and I'll get that press conference going in the
next ninety minutes. Sonya gotta work with me here."

On the screen, the gunman kept looking to the side. Finally he said,
"Wait," and put the handset back in his pocket, then walked out of
camera range.

General Brower took advantage of the moment to switch off his own
handset and address the White House camera that was trained on him.

"I'm General Elias Brower. We are in the Situation Room at the White
House on Sunday, June 19, 1327 hours. I am here at the President's
request to mislead and divert the terrorists who are in current control
of the Pentagon.

"To fulfill the President's orders, I am required to lie to the
terrorists about my willingness to cooperate with them. At the
President's suggestion, we are making this video recording in order to
confirm that the President has given orders for the United States Army
counterterrorist Delta Force to retake the Pentagon and save the
hostages. It will take approximately one hour for Delta Force to begin
their attack. What we are doing here is buying time by saying whatever
it is the terrorists want to hear."

That's one smooth guy, Margaret thought. She looked at Hector and he
gave her a thumbs-up sign, letting her know that he realized what the
general was doing. Hector's okay, too, Margaret added to herself.

And, she guessed, there was even hope for the President, since he'd
appointed Hector.

General Brower turned back to the screen. All it showed was Russian
General Kerensky still tied to the office chair. Then the gunman
returned, the CAT phone in his hand.

"General Brower, you will place yourself under CNN surveillance so we
may confirm your location and your actions. You have one hour to appear
in a press conference to announce your position as Acting President.
However, if you do not appear on CNN within five minutes, we will
execute one hostage for each minute you are late."

"I agree to the press conference in one hour. Give me at least thirty
minutes to find a CNN crew. They're all out covering the Pentagon and
we'll need to transport one back to the White House."

"Very well. Thirty minutes, beginning now."

The CNN feed from the Pentagon went dead.

The people in the Situation Room broke into fervent applause.

The President stood up to shake General Brewer's hand for the benefit of
the camera. "Thank you, General. You have just saved the lives of many
of those hostages."

As Brower immediately began issuing a scream of rapid orders to Tobin,
the President's young assistant leaned close to Margaret. "I know who
saved those hostages' lives."

Margaret frowned, it was too early for congratulations. "They're not out
of danger yet. When Delta goes in, it's going to be messy."

"How can you be sure? I've heard those guys are good."

Margaret stood up again, smoothing her jacket, resisting the temptation
to say, And they're not just guys.

"One very bad sign, Mr. Macgregor, is that the terrorists aren't
releasing any hostages to show good faith. That means they're keeping
them as shields. Everything we've just seen here, all that supposed
negotiation, both sides know it's a lie. We're each trying to keep the
other side busy while we do something else behind each other's backs.

"Their advantage is that they know we have to be planning a rescue
mission and that it will include Delta Force. Our disadvantage is that
we still don't know what the hell they're after or how long they've
given themselves to get it." Margaret picked up her briefcase. "Now, I'm
going to check on Tyler and see if Tom has sent anything back to us."

Macgregor stood up beside her, so close that she had to angle her neck
back to be able to look up into his eyes. The young assistant was a
giant.

"Your husband will be okay," he told her.

Margaret automatically corrected him. "Ex-husband," she said. She saw a
flash of something in his eyes at that. Margaret had been in high-stress
situations too many times not to know how they heightened sexual
tension. This young assistant, it seemed, had a few lessons still to
learn about wartime romances.

But just after congratulating herself on her mature assessment of a
possible situation, Margaret found Macgregor's dark eyes maintaining
contact with hers well beyond what was acceptable. The contact was
finally broken by someone shouting from the door, "Major Sinclair!"

Milton Meyer, the assistant director of the NSA was waving a sheet of
paper at her. "We have a reply from your husband. He's safe ..."

Meyer rushed up to her, to hand her the printout. His gaunt face showed
that he had read it, but didn't understand its meaning.

As Margaret read its simple message, her pulse fluttered the way it did
when she leapt in free fall into enemy territory.

The advantage was no longer with the terrorists.

Now she knew why they had gone to Site J. And she alone knew what they
really wanted.

QUICKSILVER ONE

WEST POTOMAC PARK. OHIO DRIVE To Danny Assad, from a mile away, the
Pentagon almost looked peaceful.

If he ignored the waning spirals of smoke from the parade grounds and
the heliport, the Building was a straight line of dusky beige drawn
against the gray curves and green patches of its surrounding roads and
grasslands. The ordered center of a random world.

And because Danny had made a decision to respect that order, his own
world had been thrown into chaos.

Cellular phone service was still sporadic, and connections rarely held
for more than a few minutes. But even as Trish Mankin had used Arthur
Tranh's phone to detail Danny's treason for their station manager, Danny
had been able to put a call through to the White House. Several calls,
actually. He had heard busy signals on six attempts before getting
through to a messaging system. He had left his name, his cellular
number, and a quick description of what he had found taped to a window
on the Pentagon. He didn't know who else to turn to.

Ten minutes later, after Trish had smugly finished explaining to Danny
that Eric Waller had just made her the team's new director, and that the
story about the message in the window was going to run as soon as Arthur
could reestablish the microwave link to the station, Danny's phone had
chirped.

He had been leaning against the WDCA news team van at the time, because
Trish had told him he wasn't allowed inside with the equipment anymore.

He'd also been surprised he had a call coming in, because Trish had been
trying for an open cellular channel for at least five minutes after her
call to Waller cut off.

Danny had answered while Trish held out her hand and demanded to be put
on, if the call were from Waller.

But it was, instead, a call from a man who called himself Colonel Ken
Tobin.

"Are you the reporter who left a message about finding something in a
Pentagon window?"

Danny had quickly confirmed his identity, and then had suggested they
talk even more quickly because they might lose the call at any moment.

Tobin didn't seem to be in any hurry, though. "This call won't get
dropped," he said. Then he asked Danny if he had a cellular fax or a way
to upload a digital image of the window's message. Trish was reluctant
to let him back in the van to upload the image by cellular modem, until
the colonel had a word with her. When the file was ready, Tobin arranged
a call to the modem's line. And despite the fact that Trish still
couldn't get through to anyone on Arthur's phone, the van's modem had
connected within seconds and transmitted the full image file without
interruption.

Thirty seconds later, Colonel Tobin said he was looking at the picture,
and that Danny had been right. This was valuable information, and if it
were reported, it might endanger the life of whoever had left it.

Then Tobin had asked Danny why he hadn't reported it.

"I just thought it might be important."

"A lot of reporters would call that justification for making it public,"
Tobin said.

"Not if it was going to get somebody killed." That was when Danny had
told Tobin that he was no longer the person making decisions. His
station manager was determined to get the story on the air.

Tobin took down the details: Waller's name, the station, and the
network. Then he told Danny not to worry. He also promised that he would
give Danny whatever updates he could, first.

Danny had appreciated the offer, but told the colonel he didn't really
need updates since he wasn't posting the story.

"It's going to be a long day," Tobin had told him. "No telling how
things will turn out."

And that had been the end of the call.

For the next ten minutes, Danny had half-expected that Trish would get a
call back from Waller, telling her to drop the story because someone
from the White House had pressured him into not running it. But
eventually it became apparent that the difficulty in getting a cellular
connection or establishing a microwave link was now an impossibility.

Arthur checked some equipment in the back of the van and announced, with
frustration, that almost all radio communications were being jammed.

The three would-be news giants had stared across the Potomac then.

There was no question as to why communications were being jammed.

Trish and Arthur talked about going home, but Danny convinced them to
stay. At least they could still record pieces and take the tape back to
the station to air later.

So Arthur and Trish had spent the next twenty minutes arguing over
camera placement and Trish's delivery, and Danny had kept watching the
Pentagon.

There were helicopters everywhere. One flew so low overhead that the
whole van shook and Danny had to cover his ears until it was gone. It
was something huge and military, gray and more than vaguely threatening.
And it stopped a hundred feet above the Potomac, flattening the water
and sending up a spray at the same time. Then it rotated 180 degrees and
came back toward the news van.

As soon as the helicopter reversed its direction, Danny realized what it
was doing here.

Arthur used the camera to record the huge craft landing on Ohio Drive,
100 feet behind the van. A crowd started to gather, most of them plain
old gawkers. Since there was no way to make a phone call or upload a
story, the other news vans that had staked out the park had quickly
left. The crowd in the park murmured, impressed, as the helicopter
settled onto the road and the side door slid open.

Danny knew it was Colonel Tobin before his black shoe hit the ground.

The tall, imposing soldier in his simple green uniform headed straight
for Danny, as if he had somehow seen a recent photo of him.

He probably has, Danny thought. It wouldn't be too difficult for the
White House to get a copy of his passport or driver's license photo.

Tobin shook hands with Danny. "You did your country a fine service
today," he said.

He introduced himself to Arthur and Trish when they came up behind
Danny. Danny noticed that Tobin also knew their names. He had probably
seen whatever photos they had on file with government agencies, too.

"I understand you're having some difficulties with your comm lines,"
Tobin said.

"All the radio frequencies are being jammed," Arthur told him.

"Not all of them." Tobin smiled. "I was just telling Mr. Assad that you
helped us today. Now we're wondering if you'd like to help us again, and
get exclusive access to a big story."

Danny marveled at how short a time it took for Arthur and Irish to
become the military's best friend.

"Get your gear into the helo," Tobin said. "We're going to the White
House."

Arthur and Trish nearly tripped over each other as they raced back to
the van. Danny had all the gear he needed in his pockets.

"What's it look like over there?" Danny asked with a nod to the
Pentagon.

"Off the record' Tobin said, "it's bad."

"And we can help you?"

Tobin watched Danny carefully. "Are you comfortable with that? What
we've got planned involves some deceit. There'll be a story for you at
the end, but not till this is over."

"Kind of inevitable, isn't it?" Danny said. "This is the information
age. You fight information wars. Now, even information's become a
weapon."

"In this case, we'll be asking you to broadcast the wrong information."

Danny grinned. "I'm a television reporter. People figure I do that
anyway."

THE WHITE HOUSE, SITUATION ROOM "QUICKSILVER was intended to be a weapon
of mass disruption," Major Sinclair said, "not destruction."

Behind the major, the Situation Room's large display screen showed the
unnaturally crisp, high-altitude image of the Pentagon for which Hector
Macgregor had still not identified a source. Smaller screens beside it
kept up with news broadcasts from around the world, all covering one
story, the only story. But Hector knew that the terrorist invasion of
the Pentagon and CONDEFCOM's impending response were nothing compared to
what the major had just described in her condensed version of the
briefing that General Vanovich was to have delivered today to the
President.

Destruction was localized. A building might collapse but the subways
could still run, and television stations still broadcast. The downtown
core of an entire city could vanish in the blast of a terrorist nuclear
bomb, and the country would still persist.

But electromagnetic disruption on the scale that the major outlined was
not localized. It affected everyone, everywhere. What good was an office
building without electricity for elevators and lights? How long could a
city last without a transportation system to bring in food, a sewage
system to eliminate waste, or a phone system to direct emergency
operations?

Hector felt certain that he, more than anyone else in the major's
audience of eight, understood that America's infrastructure had become
digitized. Every system necessary for the smooth continuance of society
and commerce had become dependent on integrated circuits.

Individual buildings and cities no longer had to be targeted by an enemy
force. An attack on the circuits of America's infrastructure could cause
the entire nation to fall.

But what frightened Hector even more was knowing that he, the youngest
person in the room, seemed to be the only one who realized what General
Vanovich's hitherto-secret project really meant, not for the present,
but for the future.

And fear was something that Hector Macgregor had rarely felt.

He was a child of late-twentieth-century America. The Cold War was over
before he was old enough to know there had been such a thing and the
prospect of global nuclear armageddon had not consumed his teenage years
as it had the generations before his. True, the environment was
endangered, but it appeared to be reparable, at least in North America.

And terrorism, though disturbingly more common, seemed most often to
happen to someone else, somewhere else. The world inherited by Hector
and his generation was not one that could end at any moment. It was,
instead, one in which serious challenges were matched by promises of
boundless opportunity. Difficult choices still had to be made, but there
was no reason to believe those choices would not eventually be
successful.

Admiral Hugh Paulsen, in contrast, was unable to grasp the implications
of Sinclair's briefing, just as the admiral hadn't accepted the
President's long-term concern about climatic catastrophe. The newly
reinstated Chief of Naval Operations was rooted in a present that had
been shaped by the past. "I don't care how you characterize the device,"
he said angrily to Sinclair. "Three hundred and sixty-four sailors
died."

Following the televised execution of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff, the President had directed that Admiral Paulsen and General
Philip Janukatys be located immediately and brought to the White House.

When they had arrived, the President had declined to formally accept
their resignations as Chiefs of the Navy and Air Force, respectively.

Whatever misgivings he might have had about their lack of support for
his foreign-policy decisions, they were the two most senior military
officers left alive, uncaptured, and avail able to him, and he was
unwilling to deny himself benefit of their counsel.

Paulsen's and Janukatys's arrival in the Situation Room coincided with
the departure of General Elias X. Brower, the commander in chief of
CONDEFCOM, who less than thirty minutes ago had successfully negotiated
with the terrorists to stop killing hostages. A condition established in
those negotiations now required Brower to be under constant television
surveillance. At the moment, he could be seen on one of the smaller
screens, in the Map Room of the White House, just upstairs.

Because the terrorists, and the world, could now hear General Brow er's
half of any phone conversation he initiated or received, the requirement
to be on camera had severely undercut his ability to plan the Delta
Force assault that was scheduled to begin within the hour.

During the negotiations, it had been Major Sinclair who had correctly
predicted that the terrorists would try to find some way in which to
obstruct the general's planning and direction of the attack.

Fortunately, the terrorists had believed the general when he told them
that CNN coverage would not be possible--because of the terrorists'
actions, there were, he said, too few news teams available in the
region. He convinced them, instead, to accept a UPN news team. Hector
had overheard the hurried preparations just before Sinclair had begun
her briefing. The same news crew who had discovered, and then kept
secret, the message taped to the window by the midshipman still loose in
the Pentagon was cooperating with the White House to once again deceive
the terrorists. General Brower was in the Map Room, but being taped on a
ten-minute delay. The terrorists might think they were watching live
coverage, but ten minutes before the Delta Force assault began, General
Brower would be able to leave the White House and direct his troops from
a command post near the Pentagon without the terrorists realizing he had
left.

In the meantime, General Brewer's absence made Paulsen and Janukatys the
President's principal military advisors by default, and they were
chairing Sinclair's QUICKSILVER briefing. So far Sinclair did not seem
intimidated by Admiral Paulsen's rank or ill-temper. "I am aware of what
happened to the Shilo," she told him.

"I don't think you are. I think Vanovich set up his own little kingdom
at the NIA, was captivated by his toys, and didn't give a damn about his
responsibility to the country!"

"I know that is not true," the major said firmly. Paulsen had now made
his critique more personal by disparaging the absent Vanovich. "It was
the general's concerns about his country that led to his establishing
the high level of secrecy that surrounded the Arctic Shade disaster."

Paulsen was about to continue his attack, but the President stopped him
simply by raising a hand.

"Admiral, a moment, please. This is where I have trouble following
General Vanovich's reasoning, Major. Exactly how did not revealing the
existence of this QUICKSILVER weapon serve the country?"

"Orbital weapons are illegal, sir." The major's response now provoked
the other Joint Chief into action.

"Labeling QUICKSILVER an orbital weapon is a technicality," General
Janukatys protested.

It had been evident to everyone in the briefing that both Janukatys and
Paulsen had been noticeably cool toward the President as they were
escorted into the Situation Room. Both seemed well aware that at some
point they had been suspected of direct involvement with the Pentagon
terrorists. Each had made it apparent that he was willing to do his duty
for the country in a time of crisis, but neither man was doing much to
conceal his dislike of his commander in chief.

"Anything on orbit can be used as a weapon, just by putting it on a
collision course with anything else that's up there."

But Sinclair held her own. "Sir, you're referring to a space-based
weapons system intended for use in space. In that case, the
International Space Station could be attacked by an enemy astronaut
throwing a ... a handful of gravel at it. But QUICKSILVER falls into the
category of a space-based platform that can successfully attack ground
based targets. There is no question that that is illegal under
international treaty. If the existence of QUICKSILVER were made known,
how could we protest if China decided to orbit nuclear warheads in
response?"

"I take the point, Major," the President said. "But, simply from a
practical basis, my understanding until now was that the kind of
technology you've described was impossible, for the next two or three
decades at least." He glanced at Janukatys.

"The Air Force briefings I've been given say the Airborne Laser is our
most sophisticated and advanced beamed-energy weapon. And that thing
takes up a whole 747, needs a crew of, what is it, eighteen? Can only
carry enough fuel for the laser to get off twenty shots. And those shots
are just powerful enough, just, to bring down a single SCUD missile in
its boost phase. And that's mostly because the missile's skin is
extremely thin and it's loaded with rocket fuel, so all we need is a
single spark to set it off.

"But now you're saying General Vanovich's device can stay in space
without a crew, fire almost indefinitely, with each shot capable of
destroying something the size of the Shilo?"

"Basically ... yes, sir, though I would qualify the '."

Actually, we have several different ways of measuring the platform's
lifetime," the major said, turning to an easel fitted with a dry-erase
board and picking up a red marker pen. Hector watched as she jotted
figures on the board as she proceeded, almost like a teacher in a
remedial class.

"Overall, we estimate its lasing medium to have an operational discharge
lifetime of one thousand hours. Each discharge takes thirty seconds.
That works out to approximately thirty thousand shots. The solar panels
can collect enough energy in one daylight pass to fire twice in
forty-five minutes. That's, say, twenty-eight shots in a twenty
four-hour period. If QUICKSILVER were to be used in an all-out war
capacity, and assuming that its stealth characteristics made it
impossible to target, the platform could continue to strike the enemy
almost thirty times a day, for just over two and a half years. If used
on a more selective basis, it could remain useful for as long as its
propellant supply lasts, perhaps five to seven years."

General Janukatys stared skeptically at the summary equation that
Sinclair had written on the easel-mounted board. "Major, that kind of
space-based firepower is impossible. There is not enough launch
capability in the entire world to supply fuel for an orbiting energy
weapon with that kind of output. It's not even science fiction, it's
fantasy."

Hector was as surprised by General Janukatys's objection as Sinclair
appeared to be. Though QUICKSILVER did fire a laser beam, the
destructive energy it unleashed did not come from the spacecraft. To
him, what was most devastating about QUICKSILVER was not that its
technology was so powerful, but that it was so simple.

"General Janukatys," the major said, "the key to QUICKSILVER'S
effectiveness is the fact that it does not generate the energy that
reaches the ground. All it has to do is fire an extremely narrow,
relatively low-power ultraviolet laser beam at the ground, three hundred
pulses per second for a period of thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds," Janukatys repeated with disdain. "And you're telling
me that a laser beam that isn't energetic enough to give me a sunburn
can somehow destroy a guided-missile cruiser?"

"No, sir, I am not. All the QUICKSILVER beam does is create an
ionization trail in the atmosphere, and that ... well, it creates a
short circuit in the Earth's electromagnetic field. It's artificial
lightning."

"Our ships get hit by lightning all the time, Major. So do our planes.

And they survive."

"They do now, sir," Sinclair agreed. "The last plane to get knocked out
of the all by a lightning strike was back in 1963, just over in
Maryland. And, in 1983, NASA lost an Atlas-Centaur rocket to lightning
as it was launching. So the destructive power is still there. We've just
been forced to learn how to shield our technology from it.

"But, until now, what we've been protecting ourselves from is natural
lightning. And that's generated by the potential difference in electric
charge between the ground and a cloud that at maximum is a few miles in
altitude. In most circumstances, that difference isn't even strong
enough to cause lightning. We need a thunderstorm, with
negatively-charged rain falling down and positively-charged ice crystals
rising up to rapidly increase the difference in charge between two
regions. And then we need a trigger to release that charge."

The major continued, without pause, as she further developed her science
lesson for Janukatys. In Hector's opinion, the general had asked for it.
"In the case of natural lightning, General, it's what we call stepped
leaders. Barely luminous electrical feelers that propagate out,
zigzagging, bifurcating, looking for the path of least resistance
between two areas of electrical charge. They carry a current somewhere
between one hundred to a thousand amps, and they start ionizing the air
along their path. When the negatively-charged leader from a cloud makes
contact with a positively-charged leader rising from the ground, it's
like a circuit is connected and all the excess electrons in the cloud
are discharged into the ground, and the current strength jumps to
anything between ten thousand to two hundred thousand amps.

"In the case of QUICKSILVER, the low-power laser beam acts like an
artificial stepped leader that unleashes the full potential charge
difference between the ground and a point almost two hundred miles up,
where the magnetic field is even stronger than it is in a storm cloud.

Especially since that laser beam is moving through the magnetic field at
almost 18,000 miles an hour."

Hector was curious to see Sinclair glance quickly at her watch. The
President had already committed Delta Force to action and there was
little to be done until the attack began, so, as far as Hector knew, the
briefing had not been given any additional time constraint beyond one
hour.

"Let's go back to the beginning," she said, picking up a white cloth to
wipe the previous figures from the dry-erase board. This time, the major
used her red marker to draw simple diagrams to illustrate her examples.
"The first time this type of electrodynamic effect was noticed was in
1996. The Space Shuttle ran an experiment with TSS-1R-a Tethered
Satellite System. It was a half-ton, scientific instrument package on
the end of a twelve-and-a-half-mile cable that was supposed to unwind
from the Shuttle's cargo bay. Now, at the time, they knew that having
the satellite and the Shuttle orbiting at two different altitudes, and
yet remaining connected to one another by conductive cable would
generate an electrical current. That's simple physics. You did it in
grade school when you made a magnet out of a nail, some wire, and a
battery. Electricity moving through a wire creates a magnetic field. The
reverse is equally true: Move a wire through a magnetic field, and
electricity will flow through that wire.

It's how electrical generators and motors work.

"But what the tether scientists didn't count on was how much current
would actually be generated. The Shuttle and the satellite were moving
at more than 17,000 miles per hour through a magnetic field millions of
times stronger than anything we can generate. The power-coupling
predictions were off so badly that it was clear there was a new
phenomenon at work. That cable vaporized like an overloaded fuse when
the satellite was only seven miles out. Think of the power output if
that wire had been two hundred miles long, moving at that speed."

"So the laser acts like a wire?" the President asked.

Like any good teacher, Sinclair reinforced student insight. "Yes, sir.

That's precisely what it is. For decades, lightning researchers have
coaxed lightning to strike specific targets by launching small rockets
trailing thin copper wires into storm clouds. The charge shoots along
the wire because that's the easiest conductive path to follow. The wire
vaporizes, and creates a column of ionized air. And that's the path the
lightning follows a millionth of a second later.

"About ten years ago, the University of New Mexico perfected an
ultraviolet laser that had the same effect. Remember, the lightning
isn't drawn to the copper wire as a physical object, it's drawn to the
free electrons in that wire. By using a laser beam to ionize a thin
channel of air, the laser creates a column of free electrons. To the
lightning, there's no difference. Free electrons are free electrons."

Hector studied the dynamics of the room. Meyer of the NSA and Fortis of
the CIA hadn't asked a single question yet. And neither had the room's
newest participant, Douglas Casson, director of the National
Reconnaissance Office. To Hector, that could only mean that the three
men already knew all about the project. Likely even before the major's
announcement that she believed she knew what the terrorists were after
in the Pentagon's Site J, and that she had to take what she knew to the
President.

But if no one else had a question, General Janukatys did. "If the
scientific principles of artificial lightning are so obvious, Major, why
did it take this long to develop? Why are we seeing it first in a space
platform instead of a ground weapon? In our experience, the ground based
Tactical High Energy Laser defense system was much simpler and less
expensive to develop than the airborne version."

"General, if you create an ionized channel through the air by shooting a
laser up into a storm cloud it's the same as shining radar onto an F-16.
The F-16 fires a HARM missile straight back along the radar beam, and
the lightning comes straight down and hits the laser. That does not make
for an effective weapon.

"But, by shooting the laser from space, the almost nonexistent
atmosphere that the satellite flies through then acts as an insulating
barrier. At its normal orbit altitude, there's at least a thirty-mile
gap between the beginning of the ionization trail and the satellite
itself. If QUICKSILVER fired longer than thirty seconds, then there's a
chance there could be feedback all the way back to the platform,
destroying it. But thirty seconds is enough to trigger the discharge on
the ground."

Janukatys frowned, unconvinced. "You can't shoot a laser through two
hundred miles of atmospheric dust and turbulence and have it remain
coherent."

Again, just like a teacher, Sinclair turned a student's negative
response into a vote of support for what she was saying. "Sir, you've
hit on one of the reasons we thought the power output of the QUICKSILVER
strike on the Shilo would be lower by a factor of at least ten. On the
engineering side, QUICKSILVER actually sends out three laser beams."

The major quickly diagrammed the three QUICKSILVER laser beams on the
dry-erase board, first sketching in the main strike beam, and then the
two focusing beams. "In addition to the main ultraviolet strike beam, it
uses two, low-power infrared beams. Those are used as reference markers
to measure atmospheric turbulence. The atmospheric distortion those
beams are subjected to is measured, and the results are used to adjust
the flexible surface of the aiming mirror that transmits the main beam.
The main beam is distorted in such a way that the turbulence of the
atmosphere helps refocus it, instead of scattering it. It's adaptive
optics, exactly the same proven technology we developed for the Keyhole
surveillance satellites, and what civilian astronomers are using now in
their observatories. Also," the major said, "for the first five seconds
of the QUICKSILVER firing cycle, the ultraviolet beam is not even
intended to reach the ground. It's spread slightly by the mirror so it
ionizes a large but shallow pocket of air.

As the beam continues to fire and the platform continues to move, the
mirror also continues to adjust until the beam is perfectly coherent."

Hector watched with fascinated interest as the major continued adding to
her diagram to show what General Vanovich had expected would happen
during the tragic Arctic Shade exercise.

"By now," Sinclair went on, "about fifteen seconds into the cycle, the
ionized channel will have reached the ground and the first
electromagnetic discharge should be initiated. And all our estimates and
ground tests showed us that the instant the electromagnetic discharge
began, the beam's path would be disrupted."

The major turned away from her diagram. Her face was grave and Hector
knew she was reliving something few had ever seen. "That's what happens
to natural lightning. Most of the time, the stroke exhausts the
electrons in its path anywhere from a thousandth of a second to a full
second, and the current is shut off. That's why we expected QUICKSILVER
to create only a momentary electromagnetic pulse, like that produced by
an E-bomb when an explosive creates the pulse and destroys the mechanism
that generated it at the same time."

The major turned back to the board and used the red marker to indicate
how the ionized channel had become distorted. And lethal. "But in the
follow-on Arctic Shade test firings we ran on decommissioned ships after
the Shilo disaster, we discovered that the intense power of the initial
lightning actually reinforces the ionized channel, making it smear out
to follow the path of the beam slicing down from the moving satellite.
At that point, it becomes self-sustaining, like a nuclear reaction."

"But it does shut down?" the President asked, staring at the major's red
diagram of disaster.

"Certainly. Depending on atmospheric conditions, after between thirty
and forty-five seconds, the channel becomes so superheated, not even
electrons can remain in it, and as they migrate out, the short circuit
is, in effect, repaired and the discharge ends."

General Janukatys had only one other question, more specific than the
President's. "How superheated?" The speculative look on the general's
face as he stared at Sinclair's diagram brought distinct unease to
Hector.

"A regular lightning bolt heats the air to about fifty thousand
degrees," the major answered. "A QUICKSILVER strike reaches about
fifteen million degrees. That's fifteen hundred times hotter than the
surface of the sun. And that's what's responsible for the incredible
explosive energy that's coupled into a target. Heat stress instantly
fractures metals, and wildly fluctuating magnetic fields force the
separated metal segments apart. Even explosives which have been rad
hardened against EMP ignite."

The major's statement, based on firsthand experience, brought a moment
of reflective silence as all thought of the Shilo.

"The Shuttle's not flying any more of those tethered satellites?" the
President suddenly asked.

"No, sir," the major answered. "The Department of Defense put an end to
that in 1996. As soon as we realized what caused the Shuttle's tether to
burn out, all tethered-satellite experiments were shifted from NASA to
the Naval Research Lab and the National Reconnaissance Office for
re-evaluation. Both those agencies still work with civilian groups on
studies of the stability of tethered satellites, but everything
substantive having to do with electrodynamic effects went black."

Hector recognized that closing phrase as the Pentagon's code words for
describing what happened when public research was suddenly discovered to
have military value and became classified overnight. Sometimes, even the
scientist who created a particular line of research was forbidden to
work on it any longer if he was unable to qualify for the appropriate
security clearance.

Sinclair checked her watch again.

In that moment, Douglas Casson, the director of the National
Reconnaissance Office, finally spoke, and Hector's suspicions of
Casson's prior knowledge of QUICKSILVER were confirmed.

"Major Sinclair, as I'm certain General Vanovich has told you, I have
been aware of the QUICKSILVER project for several years."

Hector quickly glanced at the major for her reaction. She hadn't been
aware.

"No, sir. The general informed me that some of the President's national
security advisors knew of the project, but he did not reveal their
names."

Casson nodded as if that were of no importance, but from the reactions
of the others in the room, Hector saw that the slight man in the
circular-framed glasses had made an important point. Since Casson was
also Assistant Secretary of the Air Force for Space, he was outranked in
this room only by the President. But as far as QUICKSILVER was
concerned, he had been in a loop that had not even included the
President, nor anyone else who was present. Though Hector still wasn't
sure how much Fortis of the CIA and Meyer of the NSA actually knew or
when they had learned it.

"Regardless," Casson said, "though I remain skeptical of the extent of
the extraordinary powers you attribute to General Vanovich's platform, I
can confirm that the surveillance photographs taken of the Shilo
disaster did have their time codes altered."

Everyone but Hector and the major immediately demanded an explanation,
including the President.

Casson was unperturbed by the onslaught. "You all know the public
hearings were run to establish that the Shilo was sunk by a misfired
cruise missile. The secret hearings, in turn, produced evidence that the
Shilo was actually sunk by an improper test of a classified
directed-radiation weapon. Which was closer to the truth. In fact,
however, I can confirm that, based on the surveillance product of NRO
satellites which observed the test at the request of the NIA, the Shilo
was destroyed by a radiation pulse directed at it by the QUICKSILVER
platform. This event happened two days earlier than was reported in
either the public or secret hearings." Hector thought Admiral Paulsen
was going to start frothing. Even Fortis and Meyer were apoplectic.
Hector could only assume that they had been taken in by the secret
hearings just as the rest of the country had been fooled by the public
ones.

"Mr. Casson," the admiral said heatedly, "I understand the need to keep
certain information from the public in the name of national security.
But there is no excuse for keeping that information hidden from the
Chief of Naval Operations! Especially when it concerns the destruction
of one of my ships!"

Again Casson nodded. "I suggest you take that up with General Vanovich."

To Hector, it was almost as if Casson were revealing things only to
provoke strong reactions in the others. From his limited perspective, he
didn't understand what the director of the NRO was trying to accomplish.
Apparently, neither did the President.

"Doug, is there a point to any of this?" the President asked.

"A simple one, Mr. President," Casson answered. "QUICKSILVER is a
project that until today was unknown to the CIA, the NSA, the Joint
Chiefs of Staff, and even you, sir. In the NRO, I am one of two people
who know of it. At least, in its totality. I imagine there are more than
that in the NIA?" Casson looked questioningly at Sinclair.

"There are fewer than fifty people with complete access to the project,"
she confirmed. "It was totally compartmentalized."

"So, my point, my question, is this," Casson said, as he looked around
the table. "If so few people in our own government know about
QUICKSILVER, how is it possible that the Russians who have taken over
the Pentagon know about it? And if its capabilities were only
demonstrated in the past five months, how could they have possibly had
time to plan and prepare for such an elaborate takeover action?"

"Sir, we don't know that they are Russians," Sinclair pointed out.

But Casson kept to his argument. "On the contrary, Major. Your own
husband--ex-husband--identified them as Russian terrorists in his
ingenious message to us. The one hostage the terrorists have gone out of
their way not to shoot is General Kerensky. Whatever accent their
spokesman might have is effectively masked by the voice modulation
device he's employing. And"--he looked meaningfully at

Paulsen and Janukatys "there was just as much dissent in the Russian
military over their joining NATO as there was within ours."

Before Admiral Paulsen could respond, the President assumed full
leadership for the first time in the briefing session. "Doug, that
question will be moot in a few hours. Archie's got NIMA working on
enhancing the satellite images we have of the attack in the Courtyard,
and they tell me we should be able to resolve faces we can feed into the
national registries. Failing that, we'll have a pretty clear picture of
who they are when we start identifying the bodies after Delta Force gets
through with them. So forget arguing over who they are Major, that goes
for you, too. We'll know, and we'll know soon."

"Then I suggest, sir," Sinclair replied, "that we also don't worry about
how they found out about QUICKSILVER, either. The fact is, they know.
The fact is, General Vanovich so thoroughly restricted access to the
project that the only command site it can be controlled from is Site J."

Now Archie Fortis of the CIA joined in. "Uh, ... there is no such thing
as a ... um ... single command post for any operation of the National
Command Authority. As soon as ... as soon as Site J was identified as
being at ... uh ... risk, all the command functions for which it was ...
responsible automatically switched over to Site R."

Even Hector had heard of Site R. He had just never connected its letter
designation with the Pentagon's unique mapping labels. Site R was one of
the first secret Alternate National Military Command Centers to be built
outside Washington during the Cold War, and it was large enough to house
three thousand personnel and evacuees, including special quarters for
the President. Hector had become aware of the facility directly as a
result of his involvement in the President's calendar.

Every three months the President went through the motions of being
evacuated from wherever he happened to be as part of a Joint Emergency
Evacuation Program. Though, after going there once, the Man now firmly
resisted actually flying off to Site R with members of the White House
Military Office.

Though Site R's location in a hollowed-out mountain in Pennsylvania was
no longer secret, which meant it could be easily targeted in a missile
attack, Hector had heard enough discussions about it to understand it
still had a mission to perform. So much communications gear had been
built into the site over the years that it now served as a key,
day-to-day communications hub for the military. Site R's more public
existence allowed newer and more secret command centers to stay off-line
so that their locations wouldn't be inadvertently revealed.

Thus, as far as he knew, what Archie Fortis had just said was correct.

Hector wouldn't have been surprised to learn that there were at least a
dozen other secret, hidden sites that could take command of the
country's military assets in the event key command centers were
destroyed.

But Sinclair had an observation of her own to share. "The assets of the
National Infrastructure Agency are as tightly controlled as those of the
NRO, Mr. Casson. You do not permit command and control of your
satellites to be automatically transferred from one command post to
another, except in the event of planned exercises or catastrophic
events. Neither do we."

"Excuse me," the President said, "but am I the only one who would
classify the occupation of Site J as a catastrophic event?"

That was when Sinclair unleashed her own weapon of disruption. "Mr.
President, no one questions that we have a wealth of redundant systems,
backup strategies, and disaster scenarios for defending the Pentagon.

But they're all for events we are prepared to deal with. There is,
however, one event we never anticipated, and for which we have no
scenario. This means our National Command Authority has a fatal flaw."

And by accident or design, the major informed her audience, the
terrorists had found it.

TWO
SECOND ROOM. C RING, JOINT PROCUREMENT DATA-PROCESSING
FACILITY

Amy Bethune was exhausted, in pain, frightened, and had never felt more
alive in her life. She found no contradiction in that confusion of
sensation and emotion. On the contrary, she believed herself to be
lucky.

Every mid she knew had asked herself or himself the same question. And
probably so had everyone who ever joined a branch of the military. When
the moment came, when the new soldier or airman or sailor faced combat
for the first time, what would she do?

Training could only take a new recruit so far. No matter how realistic
the scenario, no matter if live ammunition was being used, no matter if
there was a parachute jump from an airplane or a fast-rope descent from
a helicopter. In training, one fact could not be escaped-no one was
actively trying to kill you.

The risks faced in training were, in truth, little different from those
faced every day by civilian police forces or firefighters. Equipment
might fail, accidents might happen, but such mishaps had always existed
outside combat. Even for those on leave, a commercial jet might crash on
takeoff, or a tire might blow out on the freeway.

But combat was different. No one could know how he or she would react to
that first stunning revelation that someone else whom you had never met
was attempting to end your life.

No person in any branch of the military truly belonged until he or she
had faced that moment, and gone beyond it.

But now, for Amy Bethune, still one year away from graduation, that
moment had already come. And gone. She had faced the beast, she had
stared it down. She had used her training, lived up to her oath as a
sailor, and done her duty for her country.

Exhaustion, pain, and fear had a way of evaporating in the comforting
light of accomplishment and self-knowledge.

Her only regret was that she had no one with whom to share her
experience. Because Tom Chase couldn't or wouldn't understand.

She and Chase had remained in the large office bay off C Ring, waiting
for a reply to the new JSAMS message they had sent. Amy had used the
time to search the desks for aspirin for her cracked tooth. Three desks
later, she found a treasure trove of over-the-counter medications and
candy bars. She'd chewed four aspirin at once and given half of the
three Snickers bars she'd found to Chase.

While Chase toiled at a computer keyboard on the desk she had selected
for him, inhaling his bar and a half of candy in well under a minute,
she'd crashed in a tilt-back chair to wait for her tooth to respond to
the aspirin. She tried to break her half of the Snickers bars into small
pieces but discovered it couldn't be done. She ended up with a handful
of smooshed and unappetizing chunks which she let dissolve in her mouth.

Now she watched him typing intermittently as he attempted to open a new
line of communication to the outside. Chase looked as exhausted as she
felt.

She had no trouble admitting to herself that in some small part of her
brain, the simple, basic, straightforward idea of throwing Chase to the
floor and ripping off all his clothes was becoming immensely appealing.

Fortunately, even if she were to lose all sense of reason, the rest of
her had no strength or inclination to follow through on the completely
unacceptable impulse. Whatever else might happen between them in the
future, for now, she and Chase were soldiers behind enemy lines, and the
no-fraternization rule made the situation much simpler.

Chase stopped typing.

"What is it?" Amy asked.

He held up his watch. "New message."

Amy left her chair--the aspirin were doing a fine job--and leaned over
his shoulder to read the text as it scrolled across his pager watch.

Hell, Chase even smells good. That's a first.

TELL BETHUNE MSG RECEIUD. FIMD SAFE PLACE. KEEP HEADS DOUN. MJR
SINCLAIR.

Chase snorted, not quite, but almost laughing. "What's the joke?" Amy
asked.

"Sinclair's my wife. My ex-wife."

"She's a major!"

"Army. DIA."

"But ... you hate the military."

Chase looked at her curiously. "No, I don't. I've spent most of my life
working for the military."

"Then ... let's just say you have an unusual attitude toward us."

Chase frowned at his pager. "Maybe toward some individuals. But only the
dinosaurs who still think you win wars with rocks and pointy sticks."

He was either the most complex person she had met, or the most confused.
"Basically," Amy said, "you win wars when your rocks and pointy sticks
are better than the enemy's."

"Maybe in the old days. Today you can win before the war even starts so
long as your information's better than the enemy's."

Amy was ready to argue that point. But Chase wasn't. "When this is over,
we'll have lots of time for a debate. For now, let's figure out what we
do next."

What are you thinking, she scolded herself, as she automatically began
analyzing that "lots of time when this is over" reference for all
possibilities. The mission. The mission. That's all that matters.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much of the mission left. Amy
wondered if the message she had taped to the window had been of any
help.

"Well," Amy said, "the major says we should find a safe place and stay
there. That sounds as if they're going to launch a counterattack."
"That's a given. You said yourself, Delta Force has to get involved."

Chase gave her another quizzical look. "But you don't want to stay put,
do you?"

Amy was tired of analyzing him and being analyzed herself. "What I want
doesn't matter. A major has told us to stay put. That's an order."

"My ex-wife is not your commanding officer. And she sure isn't mine."

Chase had a point. Because they were isolated in the Pentagon, Amy
couldn't be certain what new operational chain of command she had fallen
into, especially since the people outside knew she was inside.

But then she thought of something that might mean the major's message
wasn't necessarily an order. "Tom, why would a major in the DIA be
sending us this message?" "It's got to be Tyler," Chase said. "He
managed to convince the captain he was with to get my first message to
someone in charge, and then they called in Margaret when they realized
she was his mother."

Amy felt relieved. Under that scenario, the major wasn't her commanding
officer. She didn't have to sit out the rest of the action after all.

Then Chase spoiled it for her. "On second thought, better we stay put."

"But what about your friend? The general."

"My wife works for Milo," Chase said flatly.

"The same general you work for?"

Chase nodded. "We were both working for him ten years ago. He introduced
us. Milo fancies himself a matchmaker."

Something still wasn't making sense to Amy. "So ... you work for the
Defense Intelligence Agency, too?"

Chase shook his head. "Unh-uh. Let's not go there."

Amy had had enough exposure to military affairs to realize that when
conversations ended as abruptly as this one had, she had stumbled into
something classified above her need to know. General Vanovich, Chase,
and his ex-wife were involved in some secret operation at the Pentagon.

"Whatever you say," she reluctantly agreed. But her need to know was
working overtime now.

Chase turned around in his chair to face the desk's phone. "I'll send
back a confirmation message, let them know we'll stay where we are.

Maybe they can let us know when they expect to attack." He picked up the
receiver,  an inside line, and started to dial into JSAMS.

Amy's frustration made her voice sharper than she'd intended. "They
won't reveal intel like that on an unsecure line."

"Oh, Margaret and I are pretty good at reading between the lines.

She'll figure out a way." Chase started punching numbers, creating his
message.

Amy hated leaving a job half-finished. But orders were orders. At least
she'd taken four of the enemy out, and her window sign might have
prepared the reinforcements who'd come in to mop up the remainder. She
sighed as she headed back for her chair. It was over.

Then gunfire boomed up from the C Ring roadway and outside the office
windows, the screaming began.

THE WHITE HOUSE. SITUATION ROOM "This is the flaw in our system,"
Margaret said, knowing both that she had the full attention of everyone
in the room, and that her career could depend on what she said next.

"As long as everything is functioning normally," she emphasized, "no
crises, no international military threats, no equipment malfunction, our
National Command Authority remains monolithic, as it should. There is
one location and one location only from which all command-and-control
authority originates--the National Military Command Center in the
Pentagon. That authority cannot be taken from the Pentagon. It can only
be given by the Pentagon. That safeguard is specifically built into our
system in order to prevent rogue elements within our own military from
unilaterally usurping command of a squadron of bombers or a field of
missiles."

Margaret met the eyes of everyone in turn, except Hector. As far as she
could tell, the President had kept his young assistant here as a
witness, not as a player. "But, the terrorists--the soldiers--who have
taken over the Pentagon and Site J have accomplished their mission so
quickly, and with so little damage, that our command-and-control system
has not been disrupted. That means that command authority still rests
with the Pentagon. In fact, because of our doctrine of pre-delegated
launch authority, one of the actions those people can now undertake is
to communicate directly with the commanders of any of our nuclear forces
and transmit authorization codes for the preparation and launch of
nuclear missiles."

"No, they can't," the President said indignantly.

Margaret fought the urge to raise her voice at America's Chief
Executive. "Sir, I don't mean to suggest that those codes would be
accepted, but the enemy has control of that specialized contact
equipment. They have the encryption codes in the software and those
codes directly burned into the master computer chips. And all lines of
communication remain open. What prevents them from succeeding is that we
were able to contact our nuclear-ready commanders and order them to
ignore any authorization directives from Site J."

"Exactly," the President said. "The system works."

Margaret didn't want to believe the President was being deliberately
obtuse. Vanovich must have realized what was happening the moment the
enemy soldiers captured him. She herself had known the instant she had
read Tom's message and learned that the general had been captured
specifically for his Red Level clearance. Somehow, her explanation was
not doing its job. She forced herself to slow down, to go over her
argument step by step.

"Mr. President, our nuclear command system works, as you say, only
because we have flesh-and-blood commanders for our nuclear forces. But
there are no commanders on the QUICKSILVER platform. Just like the NRO's
imaging satellites and the NSA's communications monitoring satellites,
QUICKSILVER responds only to computer-coded signals transmitted from one
centralized command post. Site J. And as long as that site is active and
undamaged and maintains regular satellites are controlled through
Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado."

Margaret wouldn't allow that simplification to stand. "That base is only
a switchboard, sir. They can contact all of our satellites around the
globe, but the messages they send have to come from an authorized source
with the proper encryption codes. And in the event of war, when
Schriever would be a target every bit as valuable--and as long-lived--as
the Pentagon, the NRO, the NSA, the NIA, we all have dozens, if not
hundreds of backup sites hidden around the country which allow us to
directly transmit line-of-sight signals to our assets. With what we're
facing, Schriever doesn't enter into it."

Casson did not acknowledge Margaret's interruption. "If, and I stress
if, the Russians allow Site ] to remain in contact with our key space
assets, the major is correct."

The President sat back in his chair. "We have how many hundreds of
billions of dollars invested in satellites and you're telling me that if
something happened to Site ] we'd lose them all?"

"No, sir," Margaret said. "That's the point. If something happens to
Site J, if it goes off-line--because the Pentagon gets nuked, or if
there's a complete power failure, then as the critical satellites pass
over alternate command posts, we can upload reacquisition codes to them
and regain control by their next orbital pass. But as a safeguard to
prevent someone else from hijacking our satellites, they're programmed
to ignore any reacquisition signals as long as their primary command
post--Site J--continues to contact them each orbit."

"So the Russians--" The President shook his head to stop Margaret from
arguing with him about the identity of the terrorists. "--whoever is
down there, they have complete access to our satellites, and we can't do
anything to stop them?" Here goes, Margaret thought. "Sir, my point is,
we can do something, but we have to do it right away. When Delta Force
goes in, they can't slow down to rescue the hostages."

is known. But QUICKSILVER is classified above Top Secret at HALO level.
There's only one way to control it, even from Site J, and that's by
someone with Red Level clearance that cuts across all
compartmentalization." Margaret held up the sheet of paper Milton Meyer
of the NSA had given her. "Tom's message to us said General Vanovich had
been taken for his Red Level clearance. When you combine that with the
fact that they have taken over Site J without damaging it, there is only
one conclusion that we can reach."

The President tapped a finger on the table, but didn't turn it into a
drum roll. Throughout this day, she had noticed that he did that
whenever he was about to announce a decision. The fact that there was no
drum roll meant, to her, that he was still considering all his options.

The President turned to Casson. "Keeping everything the major said in
mind, what's your analysis?"

Casson didn't even pause to think about his answer, he was that certain
of his assessment. "Too complicated, sir. Not for an instant am I
willing to concede that in the time between QUICKSILVER'S test firing
last December and today, that anyone could have conceived of a way to
attack the Pentagon in the manner these Russians have."

"Maybe they've had these plans for a long time," Margaret said. "Maybe
they just needed a good enough excuse to put them to use."

Casson flashed a cold smile at her. "So, you do acknowledge that the
terrorists are Russian?"

Margaret wasn't going to play games. "Mr. Casson, I agree with the
President. We'll know who the terrorists are when we see their satellite
images or identify their bodies. What concerns me is that by the time we
get around to doing that, this country will have lost a critical weapons
system that can easily be used against us. For years.

We all know what happened to the Shilo. Imagine a QUICKSILVER strike on
the Capitol Dome, on the New York Stock Exchange, Hoover You can be sure
we will be following up on the QUICKSILVER project. But for now, I will
leave my instructions to General Brower unchanged. Delta Force is to
rescue the hostages and reestablish control of the Pentagon. And then
we'll have more than enough time to deal with Site J."

Margaret looked at her watch. "Sir, QUICKSILVER comes within
communications range of Site J approximately every one hundred minutes.

Two orbits is all it will take for someone else to gain control of it."

"// they know where it is," the President said, "and what it is. And I
accept Doug's analysis that that is most unlikely."

Margaret knew this was the time to sit down. She didn't want to give up
the fight, but all her powers of persuasion were useless against someone
who refused to listen. She wondered how Tyler was doing with Mrs. Petty.
She wondered if it was time to take him home.

No, not home, Margaret told herself. If QUICKSILVER was going to fall
into enemy hands, it might be a good idea to stay out of D.C. for a
while.

Margaret caught sight of the President's young assistant staring at her
with a bit too much interest. / really will have to speak to him, she
thought as she slowly sat down. Or else he could become a ... She
realized Macgregor wasn't staring at her at all. He was looking at
something behind her.

"There's something going wrong," he said.

Margaret turned to face the wall of display screens, bracing herself for
another view of hostages being murdered.

But instead she saw proof of everything she had just said.

The satellite image of the Pentagon was no longer crisp and perfect.

The edges of the building had blurred. There was atmospheric churning in
the lower-left side.

To Margaret, that particular type of image degradation could only mean
one thing. One of the arrays that contributed to the image of the
Pentagon had been taken offline.

And that could only be accomplished from one site. The site. Site J.

"There's your proof, Mr. President," Margaret said. "Whoever they are,
they're stealing MAJIC"

THREE SECOND FLOOR. C RING. JOINT PROCUREMENT DATA-PROCESSING FACILITY

The gunfire and screams were coming from the window side of the office.

Tom knew better than to run up to the windows and look. Besides, Bethune
beat him to it. She grabbed one of the H&Ks from a desktop, ran halfway
across the office in a hunched-over crouch, then dove down to the beige
carpet to belly-crawl the rest of the way, wriggling around desks and
between low office partitions.

By the time Bethune had her back to a four-foot-wide section of wall
between two large windows, there had been a second round of gunfire and
the cries outside had ceased. She waved a hand at Tom, telling him to
stay down on his side of the office.

Then Bethune braced one hand on the barrel of her H&K, and pushed with
her legs so she slowly slid up the wall, keeping flat against it as she
peered to the side through the Venetian blinds that covered the window.

Tom could see that from her angle there was a two-inch gap between the
plane of the blinds and the edge of the window. "Shit," Bethune
whispered. Tom took that to mean she could see something and he crawled
over to join her.

As soon as he was up against the wall beside her, his shoulders pressed
against hers, he heard the sounds of people talking outside. People on
the service road between the B and C Rings. He edged up the wall to look
for himself.

The body of a man lay facedown in a pool of blood in the center of the
black asphalt roadway, hands tied behind his back with plastic cord, his
green uniform torn apart by bullets. A hostage, Tom thought.

Someone who had tried to make a run for it.

Four men stood over the body. They were not Delta Force soldiers.

Two in white Naval uniforms were clearly from the group that had
replaced Bethune's classmates. The other two were completely in
black--black jumpsuits, black belts and harnesses, black backpacks,
black helmets and hoods, and small black machine guns.

"D'you see the new guys?" Bethune whispered.

"They didn't get in here with a pass," Tom whispered back.

Bethune turned her head in his direction, her face only inches from his.
Her hair felt soft against his cheek. He felt her breath on his face.
"Is there another way in?"

The same question had already been troubling Tom. "Never heard of an
underground connection going beyond the grounds. But if there is one, it
should be under our control."

"Maybe it is," she said in a low voice. "That stuff they're wearing?

Nomex BDUs. Gore-Tex assault boots. Kevlar ballistic helmet and armor.
That's all standard U.S. issue. It's for Special-Ops counterterrorism."

"Americans? Working with the terrorists?"

"Could explain a lot."

The sound of more voices on the roadway sent Tom and Bethune back to the
gap in the blinds again. Two more men in black joined the group already
in the roadway, pushing ahead of them three hostages, still alive, their
hands also tied behind their backs. Two men, one woman, in U.S. Air
Force uniforms, but not dress uniforms. Not NATO guests then, Tom
thought, maybe just unlucky enough to be working in the Building today.

The group of terrorists, four in black, two in white, now moved on with
their prisoners, leaving the dead hostage behind. As they moved out of
sight, Bethune slipped down and crawled to beneath the second office
window. Tom followed suit.

But the terrorists did not come into view again, and Tom heard no more
voices from outside. He did hear the distant, muffled sound of a metal
door closing, though. So did Bethune.

She slid up the wall to look out the second window. "There's a door down
there without a blast shield," she said. "And it opens into C Ring. That
gets us closer to the ops centers."

To Tom, it also explained how the men in black could have gotten into
the Pentagon after the blast doors went down. Inwardly, he sighed at the
complication. Margaret's message had told them to stay put and stay
safe. But Tom knew that when Delta Force finally arrived, they'd be
expecting fewer than forty adversaries in white Naval uniforms. "We have
to get a message out to Margaret about the guys in black," he said. That
part was okay, but the next definitely wasn't.

"We also need to count bad guys--black and white, so Delta Force will
know what they're up against."

Bethune's quick smile of approval reminded Tom of Margaret again, what
she'd been like at Bethune's age. The feeling of familiarity was
unnerving. He opened his mouth to tell that to Bethune, then changed his
mind.

"Need some help?" Bethune asked, puzzled, as Tom edged away from her.

"No, you stay here and keep watch. I'll send the message, then we can
look for a way down to the road."

Bethune turned back to her lookout.

Back at his desk, Tom found composing the JSAMS message unexpectedly
difficult. The first message he'd sent said the enemy in white were
Russians. And now his second would say the enemy in black could be
Americans.

In the end, though, he passed Margaret the new information.

Because, when he gave it more thought, there really was only one way an
enemy force could invade the Pentagon.

They had to have had help from someone on the inside.

There was no other way.

smj Standing at the center of Ground Zero, in the heart of the Pentagon,
Ranger surveyed his domain and felt the force of true power.

From this one underground facility, America's leaders had been ready to
turn the Cold War hot. Here they could map and target the entire world,
commanding missiles and bombers to any spot on the globe to wipe it out
of existence. And all without leaving the comforts of home. One floor
up, not fifty feet from the Red Level console was a cafeteria with an
espresso machine, Starbuck's coffee, and five different flavors of ice
cream.

The power wielded in American hands was both criminal and corrupt.

That's what Ranger was putting an end to.

He checked his watch. So far, the deliberately harsh diversionary
tactics up top in the Courtyard had worked as planned. There had been no
signs that the American negotiators had any doubts that their military
fortress was in the hands of domestic terrorists. As long as they
believed more lives could be saved by negotiation than direct action,
Ranger knew they'd keep their forces of counterattack on standby.

"Oh, they'll be here."

Ranger glanced back at the futuristic Red Level console and the old man
seated before it. "Who will be here, General?"

"Whoever you're worried about. Delta Force, probably." Vanovich was
still strapped into the chest harness of his high-backed chair, in front
of the command center's main workstation, awaiting Ranger's next order.
The general's chair harness was securely locked in place by a plastic
security tie. Ranger had attached the tie himself. Vanovich's
near-collapse after the female sergeant's death, coupled with his recent
loss of weight, no doubt due to some major wasting illness, had given
the old man the air of someone with nothing to lose. A dangerous state
of mind for a prisoner who was worth more alive to Ranger than dead. At
least until the mission was over.

A display screen to Vanovich's right showed a list of the remaining
thirty-one key orbital assets controlled by the Department of Defense-in
all, thirty-two assets that would be destroyed or in Ranger's control by
the end of the day--if he could persuade Vanovich to continue to do as
instructed. If not, he would secure what he could within the
thirty-minute window he would have after Vanovich's death.

In any event, the general would die--sooner or later. When was up to the
general.

"You must mean Operation Cloudburst," Ranger said. "Are you familiar
with this Delta Force response?"

"I know they always win."

Ranger placed a hand on the back of the general's chair as he studied
the screens, waiting for the next satellite to come into position.

"They'll win today, as well. Even your Rambo couldn't hold the Pentagon
or this facility against the might of your army."

Ranger marveled at Vanovich's quizzical look. The man was beaten, but
still possessed an insatiable need to know, even if there was no more
time to make use of new knowledge. He had been peppering Ranger with
questions from the time they had taken him, though he had not
reciprocated without the explicit demonstration of consequences if he
refused.

Ranger was willing to oblige the old man, to a point. If only to
distract him from questioning Ranger's directives. "In fact, we
anticipate up to three hundred of your over equipped and overtrained
soldiers to storm our positions within the next three hours. We're even
prepared for an assault to begin in the next thirty minutes. That is as
early as your Delta Force could be deployed here. Perhaps with SEAL Team
Six for company." "They'll kill you." Vanovich said it as if that would
be a good thing.

"Some things are worth dying for, don't you think?" Ranger looked up to
the top of the console where he had placed the package Kilo had given
him. Vanovich stared at the package, but Ranger doubted the old man
could even guess what was inside.

"You're not doing this for money' Vanovich said. His observation a
statement, not a question. "This is a military operation, not a
hijacking for ransom."

Ranger could see that the general no longer accepted the cover story
that had convinced him to access the first satellite, MAJIC 3. What a
pity. Ranger had told Vanovich that Team One was reprogramming the
thirty-two satellites to take them out of American control, and that for
a fee of one hundred million dollars per satellite, Ranger would supply
to the U.S. government the new orbit information and access codes for
each satellite.

From his preparatory shady of the general, Ranger had become aware that
Vanovich would rather die than allow his technology to be destroyed or
stolen by a foreign power. Hence the hijacking cover story. It had been
crafted to allow the general to believe his actions would not be
irreversible, that there was a chance his satellites could be recovered,
eventually. Even the illusion of hope had an oddly powerful effect on
Americans.

A line on the display screen began to flash and Ranger heard a chime.

"EKH-22?" he asked, even though he had the list memorized. The next
satellite to come into range was an Enhanced Keyhole optical
surveillance platform, eight years old and nearing the end of its
service life. It was also going to be an example.

Vanovich was silent, no doubt mentally reviewing the same specifications
as Ranger.

"Access it, General," Ranger said.

Despite his stated distrust of Ranger's real motives, the general
sensibly decided not to risk his life for the aging satellite. He pulled
himself closer to the workstation, then angled the black-rubber retina
scanner downward and looked into it. After a few moments, another chime
sounded and Vanovich typed in his personal access code.

Ranger was discouraged, but not surprised to see that Vanovich's code
changed each time he entered it. It was another level of security which,
like the encrypted digitization of retina images, Ranger's technical
support team had not had time to overcome. Unless his specialists onsite
could determine the pattern by which the code changed, the general would
have to live. As long as he was still cooperating.

The main screen directly in front of Vanovich responded to the scan and
the code by displaying a satellite-tasking menu. The menu provided full
access to all platform functions, from setting ground coordinates to be
photographed, to firing engines for changes in orbit.

Ranger called out to his specialist at the far end of the Red Level
console. "India, this is the first EKH."

The young woman in midshipman white was already typing on her keyboard.

Pleased, Ranger checked his watch again. There could be no slippage in
the schedule now, no estimates. Everything was driven by the celestial
precision of the orbiting satellites. Within five hours, all thirty
remaining platforms would have passed over Site J. Then Site J would
have served its purpose and could be left to the Americans, who would
likely still be trying to remove the hostages Ranger's teams had
scattered throughout the Pentagon.

Ranger glanced up at the red-railed catwalk that circled the main floor
of the command-and-control center. The black-clad commandos of Team One
continued to escort the captive Site J personnel, five at a time, to the
freight elevators, to take them up to the Pentagon. As they tried to
shoot their way into the Building, Delta Force would discover
considerably more hostages than expected, inconveniently and prominently
secured in harm's way.

"New firing instructions programmed," India called out.

"Execute," Ranger said.

The young satellite specialist touched a single key and the tasking menu
closed. "That's two, so far," Ranger told Vanovich. The first, whose
orbit and command codes he had altered, had been MAJIC 3, a much more
valuable surveillance asset. Ranger leaned forward to read the screen
list and confirm that the next satellite to come into range would be
VEGA 4, a space-surveillance platform operated by the NRO.

Following that, the next in line was MAJIC 7, in spite of the fact that
only six MAJIC arrays had been launched to date. It was time for Ranger
to take his web of deception to the final stage.

He read that entry from the list aloud, as if its inclusion was
unexpected. "MAJIC Seven? When was that launched?"

"Last September," the general said without hesitation. "There were
problems with its orbit. It's not on-line yet."

"But only six MAJIC platforms were scheduled to be on orbit at this
time."

"The full constellation calls for twelve first-generation arrays,"
Vanovich said, impressively convincing. "By the time the third one was
operational and the community saw how powerful they were, the rest were
put on fast-track development."

How reasonable, Ranger thought.

"Call up the tasking menu for MAJIC Seven."

"You'll miss the next satellite window," Vanovich observed.

Ranger feigned unconcern, as if merely curious. "We have time. Call up
the menu, please."

Vanovich shrugged, as if to comply to that request would only waste
Ranger's time, then leaned into the retina scanner again. After the
chime, he typed in the next iteration of his always-changing access
code.

The MAJIC 7 menu opened. Its CHANGE SPECIFICATIONS functions were dimmed
out. For security purposes, the Americans had made it impossible for
anyone to store commands for upload to this satellite at a later time.
All contact had to be carried out in real time, only within preset
orbital windows, and only through the encryption patterns hardwired into
Site J's custom control chips.

But there was enough information on the screen for Ranger to know this
satellite was distinctly unlike any of the other MAJIC arrays. In fact,
since there were no separation data, it wasn't an array at all.

It was a single platform. The difference was so apparent, Ranger knew
the general might become suspicious if he didn't comment on it.

"General, why is this one different?" "Like I said, problems. The array
hasn't deployed from its launch shroud yet. Probably never will."

Ranger accepted the general's dismissive evaluation at face value.

"Very well, we'll use it to set an example. India, when we access MAJIC
Seven, set it for a terminal orbit. I want them to see it burn up over
the Atlantic."

India confirmed the order. "We'll have a thirty-minute access window in
two minutes," she said.

Ranger pointed to the eye scanner. "Don't think of it as giving us a
satellite, General. Think of it as giving yourself a chance to erase one
of your mistakes."

Without comment, Vanovich put his eye to the scanner, waited for the
chime, typed in a command code.

A new window opened on the screen: a satellite-tasking menu for MAJIC 7.

Two minutes later, India announced that they had acquired the satellite
and that it was awaiting commands.

Ranger felt a moment of intense calm descend upon him.

He thought of Zeus, throwing lightning bolts from Olympus.

"Change orbit and upload the first set of target coordinates," he said.

He saw the general react with a sudden bunching of all his muscles as he
began to lunge forward, hands reaching out for the keyboard in front of
him.

But Ranger effortlessly caught the old man's wrists.

Appalled, enraged, helpless with frustration, Vanovich stared up at him.

"That's enough, General," Ranger said. "QUICKSILVER is ours now."

The final objective had been achieved.

Whatever happened next was up to Ranger.

THE WHITE HOUSE, SITUATION ROOM Like everyone else who was present,
Hector stared in horror at the image on the main screen in the Situation
Room.

It was an outline map of the world, the kind Hector would always
associate with NASA's mission control. Crossing it was a yellow line,
curved like the path of a roller coaster, dipping down over the Pacific
then rising up over Alaska, only to curve down again and end with a
flashing red dot just off the coast of Florida.

And if Major Wilhemina Bailey of the United States Space Command was
correct, the line wasn't the only thing that had come to an end there.

So had America's dominance in space.

"Mr. President, I am able to confirm that the bird was an Enhanced
Keyhole Twenty-Two," Major Bailey said. Her image was carried on a
screen to the side of the main one, and showed an African American woman
of some substance whose hands never stopped moving across the controls
on the console before her. Hector had recognized her insignia as Air
Force, but he had found it more difficult to identify the odd uniform
she was wearing. At first, it had appeared to be a tailored, sleeveless
blue tunic of some kind, worn over a long-sleeved white blouse. But
when, during the course of her report from Cheyenne Mountain, the major
had reached back for a binder on the table behind her, Hector had
realized she was wearing a maternity jumper.

The Keyhole satellites were under the control of the NRO, and Douglas
Casson was taking the loss of the platform as a personal insult. "Any
idea what brought it out of orbit, Major?"

Bailey shook her head. "Sir, from the telemetry we were able to pick up,
it appeared to be a deliberate deorbit burn, single vector, no sign of a
misfiring or any attempt at course correction or recovery."

Casson actually seemed to shrink lower in his chair as he looked over at
Sinclair. "How many satellites can they access from Site J?"

Hector saw the major check a list she had quickly written out by hand in
a small, black notebook she had taken from her briefcase. "In addition
to QUICKSILVER and the six MAJIC arrays, there are potentially
twenty-six others, all NRO or NSA."

"Major Bailey," the President called out. "Are you picking up any sign
of the MAJIC Three array reentering?"

Bailey's dark eyes flashed like the constellation of status lights that
flickered on and off, slightly out of focus behind her. She was looking
up at something beyond the video camera on her desk. "No, sir.

MAJIC Three is off the board, so all we know is that its orbit has been
changed. Whether it's still up there, it could take a few hours to
confirm --that kind of an array is a hard little sucker to reacquire.

But if it did reenter like the Keyhole, it most likely would have been
over the Gulf of Mexico in full daylight. That means there might not
have been a lot to see from the ground."

The President got to his feet, started to pace. "What's the status on
Delta Force?"

Hector had become the group of eight's unofficial timekeeper. He checked
his notes from his last quick phone call to Colonel Tobin. "C Squadron
has linked with the 4th in Virginia. They'll be brought in by air when
the ground assault begins. A, B, and E Squadrons are enroute and will
be in position in one hour. General Brower will be leaving to join them
in fifty minutes."

The President looked up at the wall of display screens and Hector could
tell he was watching the one showing the UPN feed of General Brower in
the Map Room. "Forty-five minutes," the President repeated. He leaned
down to switch on a speakerphone connection. "General Brower, once your
men go into action, how long will it take them to go directly to Site J,
without stopping to rescue hostages?"

It was odd to hear General Brower reply, while on the television feed he
did nothing. Because of the tape delay which Colonel Tobin had set up
through the UPN news crew, the viewers were seeing Brower as he was ten
minutes ago. In ten more minutes, they'd see him pick up his phone and
have this conversation again. Fortunately, only his half of the
conversation would be broadcast.

"Could take hours, sir. The doors are designed to withstand heavy
explosives." "Hours," the President repeated. Hector thought he was
familiar with most of the President's moods but he had never seen the
Man like this.

"General, listen carefully. Whoever's down there is using Site J to
access and destroy our most vital space-based assets. In a few hours,
we're going to be out a couple of hundred billion dollars of taxpayer
money, and we're going to be blind and deaf to what the rest of the
world is doing. Do you understand, General? We will no longer be a
superpower.

"Now, I ask you again. If your men bypass the hostages, if they have
whatever equipment they need, how long will it take them to recapture
Site J?"

There was a long pause. Hector knew the general had to be circumspect,
because whatever he said next would be heard by the terrorists ten
minutes later. "Sir, in that case, I believe you'd be looking at the
seventh threat condition for that facility. That would be my
recommendation."

The President looked around the table. "What the heck is the seventh
threat condition?"

Sinclair answered. "That would be Threat Con X-ray, sir."

Earlier, Hector had been thrown by all the discussion about Threat Con
Echo as a classified, sixth-level threat condition. At the Pentagon,
Major Christou had been very convincing as she described there being
only five Threat Cons from Normal to Delta. But going from the fifth and
sixth letters of the alphabet directly to the third from last sounded
extremely ominous.

"Brower can't be serious," Casson said.

"Somebody better tell me what Threat Con X-ray is," the President
warned.

That duty once again fell to Sinclair. "Threat Condition X-ray
acknowledges that the enemy has attacked and holds a location, such that
the only way to deny them that location is to destroy it."

The President stared at her in disbelief. "Destroy it? As in ... what?
Am I to understand that ..." He flicked on the speakerphone to Brower
again. "General Brower, am I correct in thinking you've suggested I
order an air strike on the Pentagon?"

"That would ... seem to fulfill your needs, sir."

"Sweet Jesus." The President turned the speakerphone off.

The room was silent. Hector had to take a chance on the obvious. "Uh,
sir, instead of destroying Site J, couldn't you just shut down whatever
they're using to contact the satellites?"

The President pursed his lips, spoke to the display screen. "What about
it, Major Bailey? You seem to be the one who knows about shutting down
the Pentagon's lines of communication."

Bailey stopped adjusting controls to answer the President. "We can do a
lot from here, sir. I could take out all the site-to-site traffic
between J and R. I can lock them out of MIL STAR and all the SATCOMs.
But they're pumping out a lot of signals through landlines in their
immediate area. Those would have to be physically cut to completely
isolate the facility."

The President looked to Milton Meyer. "You're the NSA. Can we cut or
block or blow up all the physical lines linking Site J to the outside?"

Meyer was glum. "In theory."

"I'm not interested in theory. Can it be done?"

"It might take fifteen, twenty hours. We'd need blueprints, network
diagrams, twenty to thirty construction crews. You have to remember,
sir, the system was designed to withstand nuclear war. It's robust and
highly redundant."

The President turned to General Janukatys. "What does the Air Force say?
Is it even possible to bomb Site J? It's what, three hundred feet down?"

"Three hundred and twenty," Sinclair confirmed.

General Janukatys pointedly ignored her. "We have the B61-11, sir.

It's basically the old B53, but with significant earth-penetrating
characteristics."

The President was almost vibrating. "B? We're talking '," right?

A nuclear bomb? Is that right?"

Janukatys nodded, completely neutral in the face of the President's
agitation. Hector got no sense the general was playing any games with
his commander in chief now. He was committed to serving his country,
nothing more, nothing less. He recalled Christou's words. It's our job.
"The B61-11 was designed to deliver warheads to hardened, underground
facilities in North Korea and Iraq. If dropped at altitude from a B-2,
it will penetrate two hundred feet of typical soil."

"That's a hundred and twenty feet short," the President said.

"And then it detonates a twenty-megaton nuclear explosive," Janukatys
added. "Whatever's left of Site J after that won't be functioning."

Hector watched as the President continued to walk from one side of the
room to the other.

"A nuclear bomb on American soil," he muttered, almost to himself.

"What does that do to Arlington, General? Do we have to evacuate D.C.

to avoid fallout?"

"My BDA people will need to see soil reports for the Pentagon
reservation to make accurate predictions," the general said. "But as I
recall from our plans for using the penerrators on other facilities--at
a depth of two hundred feet, the blast chamber is self-sealing. There
will be minimal radioactive leakage to the atmosphere, though I'm not
prepared to discuss the long-term effect on the water table."

The President nodded his head nervously. "And what happens to the
hostages in the Pentagon if the bomb goes off two hundred feet beneath
them?"

Janukatys spoke to his folded hands on the table before him. "I would
anticipate that the shock of the initial blast wave coming up from the
ground would be enough to kill them instantly. At the very least, it
will render them unconscious, and then ... it will be like a sinkhole,
Mr. President. The Pentagon building will essentially be pulverized by
the blast, and then collapse inward, into the depression made by the
sudden vaporization of the soil beneath it."

After the brief moment of silence Janukatys's description provoked, the
President looked over at the assistant director of the CIA. "What did
you estimate, Archie? A hundred hostages?"

Fortis was as low-key as Janukatys. "With the uh ... personnel at Site
J, it's more like ... more like two hundred and eighty, sir.

About a third of them civilian."

The President stared at the bandages on his palms. "So I can order the
deaths of two hundred and eighty American citizens and allies.

Including my wife ... Or I can risk losing our greatest military ... no,
let's call it our greatest technological asset. Our ability to monitor
our world. To look behind our backs. To make certain our enemies aren't
working against us. To defuse wars. Prove crimes.

Defend not just our country, but the world." Hector watched as the
President's shoulders sagged. "What's that worth? A million lives? A
billion? ... Two hundred and eighty ... ? Can two hundred and eighty
lives measure up to what QUICKSILVER might do to us? If the terrorists
know about it? If they can control it?"

Then Sinclair stood up. "Mr. President, there might be another way."

The President regarded her with intense skepticism. "Dear God, I hope
so."

"What we want is a surgical strike against one target in the Pentagon.

We don't have to use a nuke. And we don't have to send in two hundred
and twenty-five troops."

General Janukatys rose to his feet at that. "That's insane, Major."

Hector didn't know what he meant.

But Sinclair did. She walked around the table to approach the President.
"One Delta team from one Delta squadron. Six men ... even four men. With
explosives. They enter the Building, go down the elevator shafts, target
the generators and the backups. Contact with the enemy is minimal. If
General Brower puts the right people in, the enemy won't even know
they're there." "Who the hell are the right people?" Janukatys asked. "A
mission like that, soldiers train for it, at least for days. I would
hope for weeks."

Sinclair held her ground. "Delta Force is trained to respond in hours,
sir. Three squadrons of them are good to go in--" She looked at her
watch.

"Fifty-five minutes," Hector said.

"Fifty-five minutes. You could have more than two hundred of them
fighting for hours to go through the Pentagon, ring by ring, floor by
floor, or you could send a smaller force in to go straight to Site J."

"Still going to take time," Janukatys said.

"Much less time," Sinclair countered.

The President had watched each of his officers speak. Now he asked a
question of his own. "How long would it take to bomb the Building,
General? With the penetrator nuke?"

Janukatys looked off to the side for a moment. "We have B61us with the
28th at Ellsworth, South Dakota. That's about ninety minutes flying time
for a B-1B Lancer ... maybe a half-hour, forty-five minutes to prep."

"You're saying two hours," the President concluded. "And I'm going to
guess that you're being optimistic."

Janukatys didn't argue. "We are no longer on instant, standby alert for
our bombers, that's correct. But we can get half our bombers off the
ground, loaded, within an hour. We'll do it in forty-five minutes,
guaranteed."

The President rubbed his bandaged palms together, but before he could
say anything else, Major Bailey broke in from SPACE COM

"Excuse me, sir. We're putting through a download from the National
Imagery and Mapping Agency. Do you want the images at your location?"

"Uh, those will be the ... the enhanced frames from ... from the
morning's satellite imagery," Fortis said. "Send them through, Major."

Fortis looked at the President. "At least we, uh, ... will see the face
of the enemy."

A screen beneath Bailey flickered once, changing from an AOL/ CBS
network feed to a satellite picture frame. Technical data which Hector
didn't understand formed a smeared pattern to the left, reminding him of
a seismograph record of a major earthquake. Then a black-and-white
picture of the Pentagon's Courtyard flashed into the frame, and a moment
later, it became full-color. Hector checked the time code at the bottom
right of the screen. The image had been captured at 10:05 a. m." just
about the time the President's party had arrived. He looked at the gray
roof over the innermost A Ring. When that picture had been taken, he had
been beneath it, standing at a window with the President, talking about
Ground Zero. And Major Christou had been alive.

Hector stared at the insignificant white figures in the Courtyard's
center. He wondered which of them had killed the major.

"Here's enhancement number one," Bailey said.

Two yellow boxes flashed, side by side, above a round white circle that
Hector realized must be one of the luncheon tables. Suddenly, the boxes
zoomed up as the picture was enlarged. It became an image of two
midshipmen, flipping a linen tablecloth up over the table, both of them
looking skyward, one more than another.

"What altitude was that taken from?" the President asked.

"It's a composite image, sir," Bailey answered. "And it's been enhanced
by NIMA. So, there's no absolute answer. Figure an average altitude of
three to four hundred miles."

Hector knew why the President had asked. The face of the one midshipman
who was looking directly up was clear, almost sharp, easily seen.

The face of the other midshipman was at more of an angle, but Hector
thought he could be recognized by anyone who might be familiar with his
face.

"No identification on these two, yet," Bailey said. "But they're running
them through the FBI photo files." She adjusted a control.

"Here's enhancement number two."

A second photo of the Courtyard appeared, first in black and white, then
in color. This time, only a single yellow box flashed over one figure in
white who was on a path some distance from the other midshipmen. Hector
could see the oblong blob that was an upturned face at the center of the
box.

Then the box enlarged, dragging the pixels inside with it. Blocks of
them smoothed as he watched. The oblong blob acquired depth and shadows,
eyes, nose, and mouth, and white-blond hair.

And a name.

"End! ..."

All eyes turned to Sinclair as she stood absolutely still, eyes riveted
to the screen.

"Do you know him?" Casson asked.

The major started to speak, had to clear her throat to continue. "Yes,
sir. Hauptmann Erich Kronig."

She turned to the President, and to Hector it seemed she no longer was
able to believe in what she said next. "Sir, he's a captain in the
German KSK." She held a hand to her forehead, trying to recall
something. "Kommando Spezialkrdfte. They're the German Delta Force."

Despite everything that had happened today, it was the first time Hector
had seen the Army major look rattled.

"And how do you happen to know him?" Casson demanded.

"Sir ... I trained him." Sinclair looked around the room. "We all
trained him. Two years ago, he worked at the Pentagon."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The President continued to stare at the screen, his set and grim
expression that of someone whose mind was made up.

"General Janukatys," the President said. "I want that bomb in the air in
thirty minutes. And God help me, your target is the Pentagon."

FOUR FIRST FLOOR, B RING

There was only one thought in Amy Bethune's mind as she and Tom Chase
silently emerged from the utility staircase off Corridor Eight: I remind
him of his wife.

She was positive that's what he'd been about to say when they were tight
up against each other beside the window upstairs. It wasn't too shabby
being compared to a major, she admitted to herself. But how could I be
like anyone who'd marry someone like him? General Vanovich had to be a
real joker to have put Chase together with someone in the service. It
took more than looks to make a relationship. Amy could guess why it
hadn't worked out.

But this was not the time to think about Mr. and Mrs. Tom Chase. The
doors she and her reluctant civilian partner had just come to marked the
end of the B Ring corridor on the ground floor. On the other floors
above, the corridor continued unbroken. But just outside these doors was
the ground-level access road connecting the Courtyard to the AE service
road which ran between B Ring, where they were, and C Ring, where they
wanted to go. To get to C Ring, she and Chase would have to exit the
Building, go up the access road to its intersection with the service
road, and then take the AE road to the doors into C Ring. All without
being seen or neutralized by the enemy.

"You're sure this is a good idea?" Chase asked.

It was just the kind of question she'd come to expect from him. He knew
nothing about tactics. She explained the situation to him slowly, as if
he were a plebe and this was his induction week. "No one is watching the
Courtyard access road. If there were, the guys we saw from the window
wouldn't have had to shoot the hostage who tried to escape. Because they
did shoot him, that means there's no one else on guard duty out there
who could have stopped him. We just have to be careful when we reach the
corner. Okay?"

"As long as they think the way you do." Of course they do, Amy thought,
without bothering to say anything more to him. They're professionals.
She remained silent as she checked Chase's H&K to make sure his safety
was still off and that the weapon was set to fire single shots. The last
thing she needed was for Chase to pull the trigger once and then expend
all thirty rounds in one wild burst. She had already warned him about
staying aware of his barrel-if he had to start firing, she didn't want
him to sweep across her from behind. But from the tentative way he was
holding the weapon, she wasn't convinced he'd actually pull the trigger,
even if someone were about to fire at him first.

Amy checked her own weapon, thinking about how good it was going to be
to finally get to the ops centers. Then Chase would be their
responsibility, and she could join the Pentagon's own security personnel
for the rest of the mission.

She composed herself by refocusing on that mission now. The terrorists
who killed her classmates were going to die. Missions didn't come any
simpler than that.

She held her finger to her lips to remind Chase to be silent, then
slowly pushed on the pressure bar until she felt the mechanism click and
the door to the access road begin to move.

She held the door open, motionless, at six inches, counted to five,
feeling the hot, humid air rush over her. Then she opened the door
another foot, followed by another five count. When no hail of bullets
responded, she crouched down to quickly check to the left, toward the
Courtyard. She saw nothing. She looked right toward the intersection
with the service road. Clear again.

Amy held the door for Tom as she motioned him through, then slowly, and
silently let the door close.

For the moment, they were in a protected shelter. The underside of the
overhead second-floor B Ring corridor ran above them like a bridge. But
when they moved out from its shelter, they would be completely exposed
on the narrow roadway, which, to Amy, had all the disadvantages of the
floor of a deep canyon or a constricted urban alley. On either side of
them, the Pentagon rose up its full five stories. On both sides, the
exterior wall of the first floor was solid brick. The exterior wall of
the next four floors was concrete, but at a distance it resembled
limestone slabs. The concrete had been set in wooden forms deliberately
constructed to create that appearance.

On either side of the roadway, the upper floors of the Building all had
regular rows of windows, any one of which could have a terrorist shooter
behind it. The only possible cover along the road that Amy could see was
provided by two bright blue garbage Dumpsters, one to the left about
halfway to the service road, the other to the right, just at the
intersection. But neither Dumpster would provide protection from
shooters on the upper stories or the roof.

Though Amy would not tell Chase--she still couldn't be sure of his
reaction--she knew this was their moment of highest risk. They had to
move swiftly to the right, reach the intersection, then turn right again
to reach the C Ring doors they had seen from the second-floor window. If
they met another group of terrorists moving hostages, things were going
to get very messy, very quickly.

If they didn't meet the enemy, then they would soon be safely in C Ring,
behind the perimeter doors that in B Ring had prevented them from
reaching the below-ground operations centers.

There was no advantage in delaying the inevitable, so Amy eased forward
along the brick wall to scan the roofline on both sides. Seeing nothing
and no one, she motioned to Chase to keep close to her, and then she ran
across to the other side of the access road. As she advanced toward the
service-road intersection, she kept her eyes moving from the windows
above to the intersection ahead and back again. Behind her, she heard
Chase's footfalls, keeping pace.

The access road met the AE service road at a corner of the Pentagon, so
the two roads formed an arrowhead. The access road was the shaft, with
the service road forming the sharply angled downstrokes to the right and
to the left.

Amy hugged the brick wall until she came to the second blue Dumpster at
the intersection. The bin was half-filled with chunks of old plaster,
stained wood, and other renovation debris. She moved quickly around it.
There was another five feet of wall between the end of the Dumpster and
the beginning of the intersection. As Chase joined her now, breathing
audibly, Amy made a solemn promise to herself to still be in shape when
she hit her mid-thirties.

Slowly, she moved forward to within inches of the end of the wall, then
rapidly angled her head around the corner to look to the right, down the
service road, just for an instant.

The instant was enough. Thirty feet away were two gunmen in midshipman
white, guarding the C Ring doors that she and Chase needed to reach.

A torrent of appropriate words for their situation sprang into her mind
in Russian, English, French, and Spanish. But she knew better than to
say them aloud. Instead, she turned back to Chase and whispered, "Two,
by the doors."

She saw his face tighten. "What's the plan?" he whispered back.

Amy raised her H&K.

Chase's eyes narrowed with concern. "How far are they?"

Amy frowned. She didn't like being reminded of her failing, but his
point was valid. With her marksmanship, if she emptied an entire clip at
both terrorists at thirty feet, she'd be lucky to hit one of them.

"Just means we have to get them closer," he said softly.

"Yeah? How?"

Chase stretched out his left hand and wiggled his fingers. She stared at
them, baffled. Was he suggesting they wave the terrorists over? But
then, in a move too fast to anticipate, he reached up to her ear with
his right hand. Jerking her head away, she was just in time to see the
fingers of his right hand roll to reveal his folded-up Swiss Army knife,
as if he had pulled it from the air.

He waved his left hand in front of her. "Misdirection," he whispered,
and then he asked her for the flash-bang grenade.

Suddenly, his behavior made a lot more sense.

Amy slipped the cylindrical explosive from her jeans pocket. It was the
size and shape of a small aerosol spray can.

"Set it off around the other corner," he told her. "They'll come to
check it out. We'll hide behind the Dumpster. And when they go past us,
we'll take off for the doors."

Amy only had to think that one over for a second. How could someone be
so smart and so absolutely clueless at the same time? Yes, she'd roll
the flash-bang down the other branch of the service road. And, yes,
they'd hide behind the Dumpster as the gunmen ran to investigate the
explosion.

But she wasn't about to take a chance on herself and Chase outrunning a
bullet.

She had a better idea, though she didn't share it. She didn't think he
could handle it.

"Get behind the Dumpster," she told him. "And cover your ears."

When he was safely on the Dumpster's far end, Amy twisted off the
flash-bang's no-snag cap, keeping the release tab in place. Then she
sprinted to the opposite side of the road, and carefully rolled the
grenade down the service road, to the left. The cardboard canister was (
specially designed to roll flat and straight, but she didn't waste time
watching it as she ran to rejoin Chase behind the Dumpster.

At the same instant, the brick and concrete canyon rang with the
reverberation of a startlingly loud thunderclap. So did her ears.

Chase took his hands from his own ears, getting ready to run. Then his
eyes widened. "I hear them," he whispered. "Get down!"

But Amy was already at the edge of the Dumpster, waiting for the enemy
to round the corner, her submachine gun a comforting weight in her
hands.

Chase might not know what to do next.

But she did.

SITEJ "

"We hold these truths to be self-evident ... that whenever any form of
government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the
people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government."

"

Ranger read from the creased and cracked sheet of yellowed parchment he
held in both hands. The words were faint, the ink badly faded, but he
had memorized the words. It was essential to know the enemy. "You
recognize this, General?"

"The Declaration of Independence, you son of a bitch. You killed all
those people at the Archives."

Ranger crushed the antique document in his hands. "What we do here today
is an act of self-preservation. But what you do, every day, is
insidious. Your country's stated, published, strategic goals are to
recast the world order in its own image. One type of democracy. One type
of '' market. One currency. One goal--the dominance of America. And to
enforce that agenda, look what you've created here-a network of
satellites that watch our every move, listen to our every conversation
... how is what you're doing to the world any different from what
Stalin's secret police did to Russia? Or the Stasi did to East Germany?
I'll tell you what's different--those were only state police. You're
applying their tactics to the world!"

"Are you Russian?" the general asked. "Is that what this is about?"

Ranger opened his hands, heard the parchment crackle as it slowly
unfolded from the new creases he had given it. "General Vanovich, sixty
years ago, most of the nations of the world united to stop a single
madman who had dreams of global domination. It was a just cause. And
now, the cause is just again. Except this time, instead of a single
madman, we are faced with more than three hundred million of you, each
one determined to reshape the world in America's image. That will not
happen. Today, you will find out that all men--all players on the world
stage--are created equal and have equal right to a level playing field."

"Whoever you people are, you don't understand my country."

"Better than you, General. That's why we'll keep these until your
country remembers what they mean again." Ranger refolded the Declaration
and stuffed it into the envelope that held the rest of the Charters from
the Archives--the Bill of Rights, and the first and last pages of the
Constitution. All priceless and worthless at the same time.

"Ranger!" India called out from her station on the console. "The
QUICKSILVER platform is approaching the target coordinates. It will be
in range in three minutes."

"Stand by to fire." Ranger tossed the thick envelope back on top of the
console. "Don't look so shocked, General. Why did you build it, if not
to use it?"

"It was supposed to be a nonlethal ' switch,"
" Vanovich answered wearily. "To shut down a radar site. Turn off
engines of tanks and trucks and ships. Erase computers at chemical
weapons factories ... I wanted it to end wars before they could start."

"Then you got what you wanted," Ranger said. "After today, America won't
be able to go to war with anyone. You should be very proud."

THE WHITE HOUSE, WEST WING Margaret Sinclair barreled through the crowds
in the West Wing hallway, shoved two colonels and a general out of her
way with hurried apologies, and pushed through a cluster of staffers
from the State Department talking urgently in whispers. Though she knew
four of them, she'd almost not recognized them because they were all
wearing jeans.

Every hallway she entered was packed so full the White House
visitor-control office had evidently run out of passes. Some of the
people she saw were reduced to wearing their driver's licenses on index
cards signed by a Secret Service agent.

When Margaret finally reached the door to the Cabinet Room and its
uniformed Treasury guards, she paused for just a moment and looked down
the hallway in the direction of the Oval Office, thinking of Tyler. She
always thought of Tyler. But no matter how much she needed to see him
right now, to hug him, to let him know that everything would be all
right, there was something else more important that she had to see to
first.

More important than Tyler. Just to think those words seemed wrong to
her. Though she had long ago realized that everything she did for her
country, she did for her child. She was insuring both their futures.

The Cabinet Room was standing room only. Some people were shouting. Some
people were whispering. Phones rang unceasingly, landlines and cellular
chirps. Ignoring them all, Margaret pushed her way through to the end of
the lustrous, dark-wood conference table, stacked almost a foot high
with maps of Arlington, the Capital Region, and ... she dug through the
pile until she came to what she remembered seeing there earlier--the
blueprints.

She didn't even bother to wait for the elevator on her way back. She ran
down the short staircase to the lower Mess level. The physical activity
was helping tone down the shock she'd felt seeing Erich's face on the
display screen.

The guards outside the Situation Room made no attempt to stop her as she
quick-marched past them, straight-arming the door to reenter the inner
circle.

Ignoring everyone but the President, Margaret headed straight for the
black conference table and unfurled the loose roll of blueprints like
carpets before him. "This is what I was talking about, sir."

"I am not accustomed to having someone walk out while I am talking to
them, Major." The President was livid.

And what if I'd stopped to tell you all the truth, Mr. President,
Margaret thought. That one of the Pentagon terrorists who had the
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Vice President and the
Secretary of Defense and maybe even your wife shot made me remember what
it's like to make love in the afternoon, smell tropical flowers in the
moonlight, have a man's hands in my hair again?

Instead, she had abruptly left the Situation Room and run up to the West
Wing hallway. Now there were six large sheets, dark blue lines on pale
blue paper, on the table before the President. And what was on them was
more important than her brief affair with Captain Kronig.

Two years ago, Erich Kronig had arrived at the Pentagon as part of an
ongoing officer-exchange program conducted between NATO partners. As a
captain in Germany's newest special forces group, Kommando
Spezialkrafte, he'd already cross-trained with Britain's SAS and
America's Delta Force. Like Delta, the KSK's mandate in Germany was a
combination of missions. Where Germany's GSG-9 police force operated
domestically in counterterrorist and hostage-rescue situations, the KSK
was set up to perform the same activities as part of military missions
outside of Germany, in defense of German territory and that of its NATO
allies.

As part of the National Infrastructure Agency, Margaret had prepared a
training course on Infrastructure Counterterrorist Operations. It was a
crash course covering everything from protecting the C3I network of a
counterterrorist force in the field, to wireless uploading of computer
viruses into the enemy's C3I network. Portions of the course were
conducted at the Army's Special Warfare Center at Fort

Bragg where Erich, and others like him in the exchange program, were
taught how to take down or take over phone-switching systems, bank
computers, and local law-enforcement radio networks.

And sometime in the course of that program, she and Erich had become
discreet lovers, neither of them wishing to extend the magic of their
time together into their everyday lives. She'd had no contact with him
since that one week in Hawaii at the end of his tour. They had known
their careers would allow them no future together. That had been part of
the magic.

"And as I said then, sir, he's a dedicated professional. In the field
exercises, Captain Kronig was as good as our own special forces. On the
theory of infrastructure counterterrorism, he was brilliant."

Margaret turned to cut off Douglas Casson before he could even begin to
speak. "And he was here, being taught by us, as part of an ongoing,
long-established NATO exchange program designed to foster familiarity
with our allies. NATO officers attend West Point and the Naval Academy.
They fly in our fighter squadrons. Our officers train with their
officers overseas. Our Special Ops forces train with the SAS and the
KSK. There was no breach of security. It was all SOP!" Casson smiled one
of his tight little smiles as he pushed up on his ridiculous circular
glasses. "It's just that you seemed to react to his presence here a bit
... shall we say, personally."

"How do you expect me to take it, Mr. Casson? There's a damn good chance
he defeated Pentagon security today because of information my agency
gave to him." She returned to the President. "Sir, I believe these
blueprints show a way we can still save the hostages, unless you are
determined to kill them all with General Janukatys's bomb."

Margaret heard the President's sharp intake of breath and knew at that
moment that he wasn't going to listen to another word she had to say.

His wife is one of those hostages! Why did I say that? But she knew the
reason she had. It was seeing Erich on the screen. And feeling
personally guilty, no matter what she'd just said to Casson.

Hector Macgregor spoke up to save her from herself. "Mr. President, sir,
I think we're all understandably a bit overheated about this. And ...
and if you just take a moment to think about it, the situation is as
under control as you can make it right now."

Margaret watched the President glare at his assistant the way he had
glared at her. Hector's about to get his butt kicked out of here, too,
Margaret thought. She had a picture of them both in some bar, buying
each other a beer as satellites fell from the sky and a mushroom cloud
grew over the Pentagon because she'd slept with the enemy and insulted
the President.

"This is how it stands, sir," Macgregor said quickly. "The penetrator is
being loaded onto the bomber in South Dakota right now. Do I have that
right, General?"

Janukatys nodded without speaking, obviously having no wish to appear on
the President's radar.

"Okay, so the bombing option is a little over two hours away. And
Colonel Tobin reports that the Delta Force squadrons are about thirty
minutes from full deployment around the Pentagon. So we've got that
option covered, too. So ... if we look at it from another perspective,
why not listen to what the major has to say as a third option? You've
already set in motion everything you can set in motion."

You're losing him, Margaret thought. She could see the President's anger
at her reckless comment building, not dissipating.

But then Macgregor trumped it.

"That way, when this is over," he added, "no matter how it turns out,
you'll be able to tell the American people that you really did consider
every possibility."

As she saw the President pause to consider his assistant's argument, she
tried not to think that the President's mind could be swayed not because
it was the right thing to do, but because he cared about how he'd go
down in history, or on the six o'clock news. Though all that really
mattered was whether or not he would hear her idea.

The President picked up one of the six blueprints Margaret had spread
out on the table. "Five minutes, Major. Show me what you've got."

Margaret gave Macgregor a significant look, telling him as plainly as
she could: I owe you, kid. Then she reached for a blueprint from the
Pentagon Renovation Program. It showed the work done on Wedge #4--the
section of the Pentagon whose renovation had just been completed. Wedge
#4 spanned from halfway through the Metro Side to halfway through the
River Side, taking in Corridors Nine and Ten.

"This is the wedge they've just renovated, Mr. President," she began.

"It's where part of the Joint Staff and the SECDEF offices are located."
"I am quite familiar with it," the President said.

"All right, are you familiar with this, sir: The old Pentagon had too
many bathrooms."

It was only a matter of time before they connected her uncharacteristic
emotionalism of a moment before not to her passion for the mission, but
to her shock over Erich. Margaret pressed on without waiting for an
answer.

"Before the renovation, the Pentagon had twice as many bathrooms as any
office building its size should have had. So many that when

President Roosevelt toured it, just before it was finished, he asked
what the hell was going on. Why so many bathrooms?"

The incredulous looks on the faces of Casson, Fortis, Meyer, Paulsen,
and Janukatys were almost comical. Each of them was likely already
fashioning a joke-by-joke accounting for replay later of how she'd lost
both her job and her reputation this afternoon, with no help from them.

"The reason, sir, was segregation. Roosevelt had signed an executive
order forbidding discrimination based on race in the government. So, the
engineers building the Pentagon interpreted that as meaning they had to
have the same number of toilet facilities labeled

"Colored Men' and "Colored Women' as for

"White Men' and "White Women." That's how they saw equality."

"Three and half minutes, Major," the President said. Margaret picked up
the pace of her delivery.

"Roosevelt was furious. Refused to allow it. The signs were never
painted on the doors. The bathrooms were never segregated. And because
the use pattern of the toilet facilities was going to change, become
more evenly distributed throughout the building, the contractors changed
the plumbing specifications to speed up construction."

Now Margaret placed a second blueprint over the first one, this one
showing underground pipes and conduits on the north half of the
Building. With her hand, she circled an area to the north of the
completed Wedge #4, just skirting the edge of the River Side Parade
Grounds. "Here's where those main sewage lines connect, then run out to
the sewage lift stations by the North Parking Lot."

The President stared at her. "Are you suggesting someone should crawl up
a sewage pipe to get into the Building?" "Yes and no, sir," Margaret
said. "After Roosevelt gave the order to stop segregating the bathrooms,
to save time and money the plumbing contractors joined together groups
of sewage branch pipes under the basement of the Pentagon.
Here"--quickly pulling up a third blueprint, she pointed to a web of
pipes coming together at the center of the wedge, merging into one
larger pipe,--"rather than running all the separate lines out to be
joined here, at the main outflow pipes. Sir, what it comes down to is
that there are five concrete conduits leading through the foundation at
this point. And those five conduits have never been sealed."

"That's absolutely impossible," Casson said. He pushed his chair back,
stood up, and walked around the table for a closer look at the
blueprint. Then he took off his glasses to peer more closely at the
detailed drawing. "The NRO is a tenant of the Pentagon, and I guarantee
you there are no unobstructed water lines, or steam pipes, or gas pipes
into or out of the Building. And no one can crawl through the Pentagon's
air ducts, either."

"Mr. Casson, what I'm referring to are raw concrete conduits, not
working pipes. They were all put in place when the concrete slab was
poured. But by the time the plumbers got there, these five conduits were
no longer needed."

Casson scornfully jabbed the blueprint with a finger. "Then where are
they, Major? They're not on this blueprint." Casson looked at the
President as if his, and the Chief Executive's time, were being wasted
by an unstable lunatic.

"That's the point! They're not on this blueprint. They're not on any of
the original blueprints. The Pentagon was built so fast, its engineers
couldn't keep up with the architectural drawings. A lot of the
underlying structure was made up on-site as the contractors went along."

"Preposterous." Casson was already on his way back to his chair.

"You can call the Army Corps of Engineers to confirm what I'm saying,"
Margaret said to his retreating back. "They had to make a study of the
Pentagon the way it really was before they let the vendors draw up their
renovation plans."

"How do you know so much about this?" the President asked, almost
suspiciously.

Margaret knew she was on dangerous ground. If her idea for saving the
hostages were rejected, all that she might accomplish could be to make
an investigation of her connection to Hauptmann Erich Kronig more
serious. She might well be suspected of being his inside contact, with
her undue interest in the layout of the Pentagon added to their romantic
entanglement. "I had a friend who--"

Once again, Macgregor came to her rescue. "That's right, sir. Major
Christou even told me stories about the ghosts in the Pentagon's
basement."

"Sir, because these five conduits aren't on the blueprints, Kronig
doesn't know about them. They're our way in. We've got a little over two
hours before the bomber gets here. We could lose half our satellites by
then, plus QUICKSILVER. But if you send in a surgical strike, sir, you
could shut down the power to Site J. Then you could call off the bomber
and send Delta Force in for the hostages."

Macgregor added the last word. "It does keep all your options open. No
restrictions."

The President nodded at his assistant, then turned to her. "And just
where do you access these conduits, Major?"

Margaret felt the tide of battle turning. She reached for another
blueprint, one showing the road system around the Building. She spread
it out and the President followed the path of her finger as she spoke.
"With a couple of jackhammers, we could get to them here in the
parade-ground overpass tunnel. An MIR scanner could see through the
concrete and find them in a second."

"And where would the team come out?"

Knowing she was going to have to set him straight about a team soon,
Margaret indicated the edge of the sub-basement apron, underneath the
River Side parking lot and the Tricare health facility beneath that.

"Right at this wall, sir. They've had so much trouble with groundwater,
there's a gap surrounding the exterior basement wall that's outfitted
with pumps to keep it dry. There are access hatches every twenty feet
for pump maintenance. Here. And here."

The President nodded, sighing deeply. "If there's really a chance , ..

All right, I'll talk to General Brower, and tell him to get a team
ready."

This is it, Margaret thought. Time to make the last sale.

But Douglas Casson beat her to it.

The director of the NRO was unexpectedly at her elbow, his glasses in
his hand, bending forward to more closely examine the blueprint showing
the plumbing connections beneath the basement floor. "Excuse me, Major,
but are these the kind of pipes you've been talking about?"

She saw exactly where Casson was pointing, knew what he had noticed.

"Yes, sir."

"The ones that are designed to go through the five conduits you want a
Delta team to use."

"That's correct, sir."

Even the President could tell there was a problem. "What is it, Doug?"

Casson straightened up and replaced his glasses. "According to the
blueprint specs, this kind of liner pipe is only sixteen inches across.

Which means those unsealed conduits couldn't be more than eighteen to
twenty inches in diameter."

"We can't put a man through something that narrow," the President said
with a frown.

"No, sir," Margaret agreed, "not a man. But " "You?" Casson . Margaret
knew that in the NRO director's mind, she had just handed him the punch
line to the story of her defeat.

"You can't be serious, Major."

"I can fit through that opening, sir. And ten years ago, I was with the
First Special Forces Operational Detachment under Colonel Brower."
"Delta Force?" Casson said. "So, you were in intelligence?" He turned to
the President. "They do let women in that unit, sir. It has a special
name as I recall ... the Funny Platoon? Something like that."

The President pushed the blueprints away from him. "Major, I will not
send a desk soldier behind enemy lines."

But Margaret had not gone this far to give up now. She spoke more
forcefully to regain his attention. " I was an operator, sir. There were
five of us. All women. We were the fourth group taken through Delta
Force selection and training since the eighties. Our involvement was
classified. Because of the politics. I was in operations in Iraq,
Liberia, and Vancouver."

Casson was dismissive. "Doing recon, no doubt. Spotting for snipers.
That sort of thing."

"Call General Brower, sir. He'll tell you." Margaret's voice rose with
her urgency. Her idea was being lost in the confrontation over her
personal involvement in the operation.

The President looked at his watch. "General Brower will be joining his
forces in five minutes. I'm not going to disturb him for "

Margaret used her combat voice on the President, the deafening sound
startling everyone in the small, windowless room, including her. "SIR,
WHAT CAN I SAY TO GET YOU TO DO THE RIGHT THING? SIR?"

The President looked aghast. "You are dismissed, Major!"

Everyone at the table was standing now, but Margaret wasn't finished.

Too many lives were at stake. For the first time in her military career,
she did not obey an order instantly. "Sir, I apologize for my conduct.
But you agreed the mission was good. You know the conduits are there.
And I am the only soldier for the mission."

The President's chin quivered slightly. Margaret recognized the telltale
movement as a sign of someone under great strain. She knew she was
facing court-martial. Hector Macgregor could not save her this time. But
the President surprised her.

"Major, I know we are all emotionally stretched right now. My wife ..

. your husband "

"Ex-husband, sir."

" so I suggest that you leave the room now, so none of us does anything
we will all regret. That is an order!"

A display screen flickered to life on the far wall.

Along with everyone else, Margaret looked up to see Major Bailey at
SPACE COM in Cheyenne Mountain.

"Mr. President," the major said, "you asked for an update when I had
one."

"Go ahead, Major."

"We are confirming loss of the automatic tracking signal from the
QUICKSILVER platform, sir. Everything checks out on the ground, so we
are assuming that it was turned off at source." That's it, Margaret
thought. They've got what they were after. She began rolling up her
blueprints. Macgregor sympathetically moved to assist her.

"Major Bailey, do you have any way of tracking the platform?" the
President asked.

On the screen, Bailey shook her head. "Based on the specs I've been
given, I'd say that thing is pretty much invisible. I have an active
search running on all likely orbital paths it might have taken after the
signal stopped, but every minute that goes by increases the search
space. It's your needle in a haystack, sir."

"Do you have an update on the other satellites you've been tracking?"

Bailey held up a sheet of paper. "Yes, sir. As of "

The screen went blank.

Beside it, the seriously degraded MAJIC image of the Pentagon winked
out, too.

Casson, Janukatys, and Paulsen immediately went to the controls on the
table's raised consoles and turned dials and pressed contact switches.

The television feeds on the other screens were intact. But the two
screens that had carried information transmitted by U.S. military
satellites had gone dead.

"Something to think about, gentlemen," Margaret said as she wedged the
rolled-up blueprints under her arm.

"So far, everything I've told you has turned out to be right. So I'll
tell you this. Whoever hijacked QUICKSILVER just used it. And you can
bet he's going to keep on using it. I would. Now all you have to ask
yourself is: What's he going to use it on?"

She was halfway out the door before she heard the President calling her
name.

FIVE 50TH SPACE WING. SCHRIEVER AIR FORCE BASE. COLORADO

It began as nothing. At first, the brief flicker of an unfocused beam of
infrared light, so weak it would not have registered on a soldier's
infrared scope.

The beam found a spot of barren soil and locked on to it. It had been
guided to that location by signals received from three NAVSTAR
satellites making up part of the Global Positioning System. Beside the
beam, a twisted tuft of prairie grass was still. Beside the grass, a
white concrete pylon, four feet square, formed a structural support for
a seventy-five-foot radio dish that looked blankly to the deep blue
Colorado sky.

There were ten other dishes within half a mile of the large one. Some
were covered by radomes, protective shelters that hid the orientation of
the dishes within and shielded them from the sun and rain. Nearby, there
were arrays of smaller dishes, arranged in rows as if mechanical aliens
had planted fields of robotic flowers.

Underground wires united the dishes, combining them into the most
complex and expensive satellite-tracking facility in the world,
transmitting vast amounts of data through that network into space, and
from space to the computers and technicians and specialists who worked
at the Jack Swigert Space Operations Facility.

The infrared beam had found its target within three feet of the
operational center of the Schriever Air Force Base. From this one
location, once known as Falcon AFB, each Department of Defense satellite
was subject to ultimate control. Communications.

Electro-optical surveillance. Everything. From this base, Cheyenne
Mountain received
the radar scans that would either keep the country at peace, or trigger
a massive launch of Minuteman missiles and plunge the world into war.
Schriever even controlled the navigation system that had allowed its own
position to be targeted so easily.

It was Sunday afternoon. Eight hundred and fifty-two personnel worked in
the Swigert SOF. Another two hundred were active across the more than
three thousand acres of the base, most either on security patrol or
conducting maintenance work. Many of those indoors were keeping track of
the staggering events at the Pentagon via the radio or via the
ceiling-mounted televisions in the cafeterias.

Outside, by the grass, by the seventy-five-foot dish, the weak infrared
beam was joined by a second, slightly stronger beam. This second one was
ultraviolet, again invisible to the eye. After traveling five hundred
miles through the atmosphere, it wasn't even strong enough to cause a
sunburn.

But it was strong enough for its purpose.

The sky was torn by a silver blade of liquid fire.

The silver flame flowed down from the deep blue above as if being poured
into a flattened funnel, the two sides of it forming straight lines that
converged on the one spot of soil the laser beams had marked.

Miles above, its topmost portion kept widening, stretched by the
movement of the rushing satellite that fired the beam. Though after a
few more seconds, the beam itself was no longer necessary. The effect of
a superheated plasma gas propagating through the atmosphere, fueled by
the force of the planet's electromagnetic field, had become
self-sustaining.

The burning gas, bound by the lines of magnetic force that moved through
it, created an interface with the untouched atmosphere that reflected
light like a mirage, shimmering like a sheet of molten silver.

Summoning the lightning.

For just an instant, the seventy-five-foot radio dish glowed as if it
were sculpted from light. And then it was transformed into an expanding
ball of crackling blue fire, wild tendrils spinning out from it to touch
every other dish.

One by one, the other dishes were cocooned in electrical fire, and if
that fire made noise, it could not be heard over the thunder. Thick blue
bolts of lightning blazed in random patterns from one structure to
another. Some dishes exploded. Some metal-walled maintenance sheds
melted. Some antennae lifted into the air from their pylons only to
shatter like crockery.

The ground itself fused in angry veins, as the lightning found the
underground wires and raced along their pathways, vaporizing them within
their tunnels and conduits, forming sealed channels of ionized air that
even more efficiently drew the lightning directly to the Swigert Space
Operations Facility.

The entire bottom floor of the building blew out in one conflagration as
every computer, every backup generator, and every storage battery
vaporized simultaneously.

Then the top floors dropped straight down into the void formed by the
demolished bottom floor. Everyone inside became weightless for that
instant between falling and ignition in the up rush of fire. Their only
warning was the sudden loss of power three seconds before the end.

A moment just long enough for all to wonder how the outside and the
backup power could fail at the same time, in a place where the power
never went off.

After thirty seconds, the entire Swigert building was ablaze, along with
all who had been in it, or even nearby. Then, from those flames came a
final flurry of electrical tendrils that whipped out to dance over cars
that had been parked around the building. The tendrils jumped to each
vehicle in turn, igniting each gas tank, until the burning building was
encircled by smaller infernos, as if watched by an audience.

By now, the superheated plasma gas had consumed its fuel and lost the
energy that had bound it. Released, it melted away into the cool air,
creating a gentle swirl of ice crystals that quickly sublimated in the
bright sunshine, and dissipated like mist.

The silver blade evaporated as it was drawn back to the sky.

In less than one minute, Schriever Air Force Base was no more than a
boundary drawn on a map. All that remained standing were three older
dishes on the outskirts of the Air Force base, though their circuits and
wiring had melted.

Five hundred miles downrange, its function fulfilled, QUICKSILVER
traveled on, patiently waiting for orders.

THE WHITE HOUSE, SITUATION ROOM America was blind. Literally. Hector
could hear the disbelief and even the fear in the voices of Fortis and
Meyer and Casson as they each shouted into their telephones, with
General Janukatys and Admiral Paulsen adding to the chorus.

The Chief of Staff of the Air Force was trying to work through a White
House operator to get a direct-dial line to Ellsworth AFB and check on
the status of the penetrator bomb and Bl-B bomber that would carry it.

The Chief of Naval Operations was still waiting to be put through to any
Naval base that could tell him the status of the Navy's satellites.

Feeling more useless than ever, Hector Macgregor pushed himself up from
his chair, then used his crutch to hop over to the President and Major
Sinclair. As he approached, he studied Sinclair as if he might see some
detail he had missed earlier. All he could think was Delta Force. He
tried to picture her in a red bandana, bare arms, muscles glistening as
she sprayed a machine gun into a room full of terrorists.

But the image was ludicrous. She was so small ... so blond ... so ...
beautiful.

"He used QUICKSILVER to take out Schriever," Sinclair was saying as
Hector stopped beside her. "It's the perfect move." "Explain," the
President said. The Man was listening as intently as if the Army major
were his most trusted advisor. And she should be, Hector thought. She's
been right about everything. From the beginning.

"He's after our satellites, sir. That's why he's in the Pentagon.

That's why he's in Site }. He forced the EKH to burn up. He might have
done the same to MAJIC Three. Or maybe he just changed its orbit and
uploaded a new command set. The point is, whatever he's doing, the end
result is that he's denying us access to our satellites. And by using
QUICKSILVER against our key tracking and command station, he's just made
it more difficult for us to figure out exactly what he's doing."

"You know him so well, where's he going to strike next?"

"Depends where QUICKSILVER goes. Obviously, it was just over Colorado.

It still has to be in some sort of polar or near-polar orbit. It doesn't
carry enough fuel to change orbits too drastically and still maneuver.
If it's preceding easterly ... if I were him, I'd go after Fort Meade on
the next orbit, shut down the NSA. Then we'd be blind and deaf."

"How long?"

"At its operational orbit, its period is one hundred minutes."

"And the bomber won't be here for one hundred and twenty."

Hector couldn't stand it when the answer was so obvious. "Sir, let her
go in."

The President locked eyes with the major. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Sinclair's expression became unreadable. "Yes, sir."

"Up close?"

"Do you want me to describe what they were wearing?"

"All right. You're going in. And I advise you to get out before that
bomber arrives."

Hector was surprised that Sinclair's demeanor changed so little at that.
She had just been given the opportunity she had demanded. It was her
chance to play the hero. Captain Kagan, in Site }, had been almost
joyful when the President had ordered him into action. Why wasn't
Sinclair the same?

She turned to Hector. "You have to promise me something."

Hector was startled. "Anything."

"You stay with Tyler."

Oh, shit, Hector thought. Her kid. Her kid could hse both his parents in
there, Sinclair touched his arm. "Don't look so nervous. I mean, just
for today. Tonight. Maybe for a couple of days, but that's all. Tom and
I have our wills made out. We have friends in Sacramento ...
everything's arranged. That's all you have to know. Can you do that?"
"Of course," Hector said. She's preparing to die. "But you're coming
back."

"Roger that." And then it was as if he no longer existed as she turned
her full attention back to the President. "I need you to tell General
Brower what your orders are." "You tell him," the President said. "He's
on his way in two minutes.

His helicopter's waiting."

Margaret drew herself up, saluted. "Thank you, sir."

The President self-consciously returned the salute. "Good luck, Major."

"You're letting her go?" Casson said from across the room.

"You're darn right I am," the President answered.

"Mistake, sir."

"Only if it doesn't work," Hector said, earning a smile from the major.

She rushed to the door, then backed up just in time to avoid being hit
as it burst open.

Four Secret Service agents crashed in; one elbowed Sinclair aside as two
others grabbed the President's arms.

"What is this?!" he protested.

One agent bellowed like a foghorn. "We are evacuating the White House.

Move! Now! NOW!"

The two agents began pushing the President toward the door.

Hector's first reaction was to try to stop them. "What's going on!?"

All four agents were shouting now and there were loud cries from the
hall outside. Then James Gibb, director of the FBI, appeared in the
doorway. "Mr. President, you have to get out! All of you! Now!"

Hector hobbled toward the door as the President was propelled through
it. Fortis, Meyer, and Casson pushed through ahead of Sinclair, who held
back, and reached out for Hector.

"Tyler," she said.

Hector nodded. He hadn't forgotten. "Oval Office, I know."

"That's two I owe you." Sinclair pulled him down for an instant to give
him a swift kiss on the cheek, and she was gone, into the stampede in
the hallway.

Hector hesitated, unsure if he could manage his crutch in the crowd.

Then Paulsen and Janukatys were behind him.

"Move it or lose it, son," the admiral said.

"You first," Hector told him. He held up his crutch. "This is going to
slow me--"

That was the end of the discussion. The admiral grabbed one arm, the
general the other, and they both dragged Hector out the door just as the
agents had dragged out the President.

The wave of fleeing people in the hallway tore the crutch from Hector's
hand. A pulsing alarm began to sound--something that Hector had never
heard in all his time at the White House.

The admiral and the general began to haul him up the short flight of
stairs to the ground level, just as twelve soldiers rushed down, in full
combat gear, carrying rifles.

Seconds later, Hector and his escorts were in the main hallway of the
West Wing and Hector was able to tell them about Tyler. Instantly, the
two men turned against the tide of evacuating personnel, in the
direction of the Oval Office.

Hector saw Tyler coming toward them, his head bobbing up and down above
the crowd. He was being carried by Captain Lassiter. As the throng
parted, he also saw Mrs. Petty and Anthony Granville beside Lassiter.

Tyler looked scared and confused, his small face pale beneath his
freckles.

Hector stopped in front of Lassiter. "His mom said he was to stay with
me." He looked up at Tyler. "Your mom's okay! You're going to be okay,
too!"

Lassiter looked to the two officers. General Janukatys nodded and
reached out for Tyler. "C'mon, soldier." A second siren blasted.

Flinching, Tyler pressed his hands over his ears and clung to Janukatys
without squirming.

As they were swept along to the exit to the Rose Garden and down the
steps outside, Tyler in the general's arms, Hector with his arm around
the admiral's shoulders, the harsh blasts of the sirens gave way to the
buffeting rumble of massing helicopters.

A green-and-white VH-3D rose into the air, banking crazily as two others
identical to it lifted upward to cover each flank. Another gunship
bucked into the air only seconds later. Looking upward, Hector counted
at least four other military helos blanking out the sun as they circled
overhead. All had guns. Some had missile launchers.

The rush was on to the South Lawn.

As Hector hopped mightily to keep up the pace, he wasn't sure anything
would ever be okay again, no matter what he'd told Tyler.

In two hours, the Pentagon was going to be consumed by a nuclear
fireball.

And Tyler's parents would be at Ground Zero.

AE DRIVE Pressed against the brick wall, behind the cover of the
Dumpster, Tom saw Bethune turn and move into position. "No!" he hissed
at her. The two trained killers would be round the corner any moment.
But it was too late. She was ignoring him, and he'd risk giving away
their position if he protested any louder.

Tom felt his hands begin to sweat around his weapon's grip and barrel.

He forced himself to think about firing the submachine gun. He really
didn't know if he could.

He peered over the edge of the Dumpster and saw the first terrorist
enter the intersection and move cautiously to the other side. There he
stopped to look ahead to where Bethune had thrown the grenade. The man
was in midshipman white.

Tom braced himself for Bethune to begin blasting. But, instead, she held
her fire.

He gripped the H&K even tighter, hoping Bethune was at least waiting for
both terrorists to come into range.

The first terrorist held his position, sniffed the air. Then he dropped
down out of sight, as if bending to pick up something.

Tom shot a glance at Bethune. But she was absolutely motionless,
crouched down at the edge of the Dumpster, her gun barrel still in a
raised position.

Then the terrorist rose into view again, just as a harsh voice called
out, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Tom paused, perplexed. French? The first terrorists in white had spoken
Russian. Their partners in black were dressed like Americans.

Mercenaries? But working for whom?

The first terrorist turned, holding up a small piece of something, maybe
shredded paper. Tom thought of the scattered fragments he'd seen in
Vanovich's inner office after the grenade had exploded.

The first terrorist shouted back something, again in French, about what,
Tom couldn't hear. He looked again at Bethune, but she still hadn't
moved.

The second terrorist stepped into the intersection. He held a small
sideband radio in one hand. Tom stiffened. They're going to report this.

There was only one thing he could do. He whispered to Bethune, "They're
both in sight." Tom's stomach twisted as he said the words because he
knew what Bethune would do. Or, at least, attempt to do.

And she did it.

In a move almost too quick to follow, Bethune lunged forward, still in a
crouch, bringing her H&K down, firing a full burst.

Tom's body vibrated in time to the staccato explosions of her gun.

The silence had barely begun before Bethune charged forward, away from
the Dumpster, so quickly it was as if she'd been yanked out by a rope.

All in one moment, Tom took a breath, clutched his weapon, darted out
after her, not knowing which of two options was worse--to have death
come to him, or to rush off to meet it. But he wouldn't let Bethune face
it on her own.

Tom charged around the Dumpster and saw the midshipman down by the body
of the first terrorist, ripping his neck pass from the chain around his
neck. Then she swiftly patted his pockets, pulled out two clips, and
picked up his submachine gun. Tom caught up to her at the second body.

This terrorist was still alive. Every few seconds, the man's body
shuddered as his chest rose in a long, wheezing breath.

Each breath was followed by a frothing of blood from the huge holes torn
in the man's chest. Air leaking out, Tom thought in a daze. It was one
thing to see a dead man, it was another to see someone die before one's
eyes. And to see someone suffer, without making any move to help them.
Because of something he himself had done.

As if gathering a trophy, Bethune ripped a bloody pass from the dying
man's neck, then pulled a spare clip from his trousers. "The radio," Tom
said. He could barely breathe or talk. His ears still rang with gunfire.

Amy looked up at him, emotionless. "You get it," she said. "I'll handle
the weapons."

Tom made himself bend down to take the small radio from the second
terrorist's tight grip. Avoiding the man's gaze, Tom began to pry his
fingers from the radio. Then he heard a final, awful bubbling sputter
from the man's torn chest and throat as the man's grip relaxed.

Tom stood up, holding the radio. The man's eyes were still open. A small
trickle of blood ran from the corner of his slack mouth. Tom saw the tip
of the man's tongue lying on the asphalt beside him.

Tom stumbled backward.

"Let's move," Bethune said. Then she ran for the C Ring doors without
looking back. So did Tom.

Bethune was holding the door open for him as he burst through, back to
the cool air and subdued light of the Pentagon. At once, Tom saw that
the blast door that was supposed to have covered this entrance to the
Pentagon's most secure area had been jammed open by metal shims. The
terrorists had kept a path to the interior sections open.

Which meant they knew more about the Pentagon's layout than even he did.

Bethune had removed the clips from the two terrorists' guns, and pulled
small pieces from the firing mechanisms. She left the guns on the floor,
then handed Tom four clips. "You carry these." He nodded as he took
them, not wanting yet to talk.

"Misdirection," she said. "Worked out great."

Tom nodded again.

"So--which way to the ops centers?"

Tom looked around, got his bearings, realized there would be a passage
to the Mezzanine Level at the next corridor. He pointed.

"You okay?" she asked. Tom got the feeling her question wasn't asked out
of concern for his mental health, but more to ascertain if he were going
to become a liability. The thought pushed him into speech.

"Do you feel anything about what you just did?"

The midshipman's reply was that of a schoolgirl reciting a lesson.

"Take no pleasure, feel no regret. Do the job and move on."

Tom shuddered inwardly, half-expecting her to change shape before him.

Whatever else she was, how could he ever have thought of her as a kid?

"They would have killed us the same way," Bethune added.

For Tom, that was the worst part.

He knew she was right.

SIX

SITE J

Hauptmann Erich Kronig of the Kommando Spezialkrafte, code name Ranger,
felt liberated at last. He had divested himself of the deceitful
American Naval uniform. He was no longer in the enemy's colors.

Instead he was dressed as his soldiers were, in the black coveralls,
boots, and belt of a commando.

He stood in that garb, in the center of Site J's main floor, knowing he
had accomplished the impossible. His total force, including the four
workers he had placed three months ago in the Pentagon's privately run
main kitchen, had numbered only ninety-two, with twelve of those already
dispersed after the attack on the Naval Academy bus. Thirteen, if he
included the soldier who had been dropped from the team because her
midshipman counterpart had missed the bus.

Just under a thousand others had contributed to the overall operation,
though. That larger number took account of everyone from the American
engineering student who had assembled the FCG in New York, to the
foreign construction teams who had built the wooden replicas of Pentagon
interiors in Spain. There, the actual assault had been painstakingly
rehearsed in enormous warehouses leased from owners who thought their
vacant buildings were being used to make movies.

Ten months it had taken to perfect the plans Kronig had followed today.

The work had begun immediately after the momentous week in which the
Joint Chiefs had testified before the Senate NATO Observer Group, and
QUICKSILVER had been placed in orbit as MAJIC 7. The combination of
those two actions had been disturbing. The negative response to the
Joint Chiefs' testimony made it obvious the President was determined to
push through his insane invitation for Russia to join NATO. And the
cynicism with which a weapon like QUICKSILVER had been simultaneously
and illegally moved closer to operational status only underscored how
duplicitous the American government was in its foreign policy--preaching
peace to hide its preparations for war.

Even before the devastating QUICKSILVER test that had destroyed the USS
Shilo, the true nature of the weapon was clearly to destabilize what
little was left of the balance of power in the world.

At the time, Kronig had been dismayed that, in Moscow, the subsequent
protest marches against NATO membership had attracted so few students.

As an officer in the German army, he was all too familiar with how
modern warfare assigned spoils to the victor. Countries were not so much
occupied as they were absorbed. His deepest fear had been that the
Russian students who had not protested, who didn't even realize their
country was being stolen from them, had stayed home because their secret
wish was to be Americans.

Kronig had felt the outrage the Russian students had been too
compromised to be able to feel themselves. The disease of Americanism
had infected more than half the world. Even China would not be able to
resist it once she joined the twenty-first century and the satellite
Internet wormed its way into her people's minds.

Now he looked up to follow the curved steel beams of the Site J dome
arching two stories overhead, and once again he acknowledged the
astonishing audacity it had taken to build this facility, so far
underground, so secretly, putting it in the one place no one would
suspect because it was the first place everyone would suspect. Ground
Zero.

Americans, he thought. There is so much that is exemplary about them.

Yet he still wondered if some of what made them unique could also exist
without the evil that had blossomed within their culture in the last
half-century. Kronig hoped so. His war was not with the American people.
Only its leadership. It was his sincere desire that in the aftermath of
this day's events, Americans would finally get a government that was
worthy of them.

The silent alarm on his watch vibrated, alerting him that the next
satellite to reach his horizon would appear in ten minutes.

Reflexively, Kronig straightened his belt and his Kevlar-lined jacket,
and aligned the center of his coveralls, as if they were a formal dress
uniform. Then he went to join his people at their stations.

Two specialists now worked at an electronics test bed table to the side
of the floor. It had been intended for fast repairs and troubleshooting
operations when time was critical. But today his technicians were using
it for another purpose, to rework specific components of Site J into a
transportable configuration. Their work was proceeding on schedule.

Then he went to the Red Level workstation. India was still at her
station at the end of the console. She was drinking from a can of
Coca-Cola from the cafeteria upstairs, as she monitored four different
network news feeds on the console's smaller monitors. One of them still
showed General Brower in the Map Room of the White House, apparently
doing little except conducting brief phone conversations in which
everything he said was broadcast for the world to hear. Kronig had been
truly surprised by how quickly the President had been persuaded to
capitulate to the outrageous demand that General Brower be given his
position. Even more surprising had been how easily the general had
accepted the demand that he be continuously shown on television--tele
captivity as it was sometimes called, was a form of imprisonment which
controlled the prisoner by taking away his privacy, and thus his ability
to cause harm.

And Kronig knew the general could cause harm to his operation. He had no
illusions about being able to resist an assault from the assembled
forces of CONDEFCOM for any length of time, whether General Brower was
involved or not. Though preventing Brower from taking an active role in
the planning of the counterattack would certainly decrease its eventual
effectiveness and efficiency.

From the moment Kronig's commandos took the Pentagon, it was a given
that they were holding an impossible position. Their only purpose was to
give their commander and his satellite specialists enough time to
complete their work in Site J, then make their foolproof escape. Every
communication and every demand they had made as supposed terrorists had
been designed to sow confusion and reap delay.

But by this point in the mission plan, Kronig had fully expected his
teams in the Pentagon to be engaged in firefights with an invading
force. He had anticipated that the Americans might delay any attack
until they could be certain of the motives of the Sons of Liberty. But
once the first satellite had been lost--burning up on reentry because of
commands sent from Site J--Kronig would have thought those motives would
have become exceptionally obvious. Even to Americans trained since birth
to hope for the best.

And then, once QUICKSILVER had been taken over and Schriever AFB
attacked, Kronig had been prepared for an almost instant response. But
none had come.

Still, whenever the Americans finally did decide to make their move,
Kronig's commandos would be ready for them. All the key paths through
the Pentagon to Site J were now blocked in some manner, either by
explosives or hostages, or both.

On the small screens, India flipped through more television stations.

Every one of them was carrying live coverage of the Pentagon. "They
still don't know what happened to their tracking center in Colorado,"
India said. "No one's mentioned anything about it."

"They know," Kronig assured her. "But it's not anything the government
will announce on television." He leaned in closer to check the screens
himself. "Which stations are carrying the helicopter views?"

India touched a control and the screen on the left switched to Fox. It
was one of the stations the government had charged with fulfilling the
Sons of Liberty's demand for live television surveillance of the
Pentagon's grounds.

From the helicopter's point of view on this channel, Kronig was able to
see the entire Building from the southwest, and about a quarter mile
extent of the grounds around it. A thread of black smoke still rose from
the blackened hull of the President's helicopter on the scorched landing
pad. There were clouds building to the north, but other than that, it
was still a perfect summer afternoon.

Other helicopter surveillance coverage was carried on MSNBC and SORRY ,
and India brought those channels to her screens as well. With curiosity,
Kronig noted the crowds that were building in the park areas around the
Jefferson Memorial across the Potomac. The apartment and office building
roofs of Pentagon City to the south also seemed to be covered with
onlookers.

Kronig undipped the small sideband radio from his belt. "Ranger to
Kilo."

Kilo answered at once. He was on the next level up, directing the
defense of their position. Now that the Site J personnel had all joined
the other hostages in the upper levels, Kilo's responsibility was to
monitor the television surveillance, to look for the first sign of
impending attack.

"Status?" Kronig asked. He was certain that first sign would be the
surveillance "inexplicably" shutting down. Though Kilo would be watching
for any unusual movement of vehicles and personnel which might indicate
from which direction the attack might be launched.

But so far, Kilo had seen no signs of a counterattack. "No threatening
movements against our position," he reported. "Significant helicopter
traffic over Washington. Seven helicopters left the White House a few
minutes ago, all within a minute of each other. Some television stations
are saying the White House has been evacuated but they're not saying
why, and there's been no official confirmation."

"What about the crowds across the river?" Kronig asked.

"Combination of news teams and civilians. They've been gathering at the
security perimeters that were established this morning. There's been no
police or military action to move them back. If the troops come in,
that's as close as they can get and still be hidden by the crowds.
They'll have to cross an open mile to get to the Building.

That'll give us the warning we need."

"Road traffic?"

"A few HUMVEEs speeding back and forth on the perimeter roads, but no
apparent pattern. Two of them are ambulances. My guess-they're carrying
receivers, trying to pick up our transmissions."

Kronig puzzled over the Americans' inactivity. He could almost accept
the fact that they hadn't launched a counterattack yet. They were
cautious. But what was troubling him most was that they didn't appear to
be making any preparations for one. Was it possible his teams had killed
all the top U.S. military leaders in the Courtyard?

"Thank you. Ranger out." Kronig switched the radio to standby and
checked his watch again. He still had five minutes before the next
satellite came within communications range. Not that satellites had ever
been his primary interest. By acquiring QUICKSILVER, the mission was
already a total victory. The capture or destruction of any other
American space asset would merely lengthen the time it would take this
country to crawl out of a pit of its own making.

Kronig told India to stand by, then returned to Vanovich. The old man
was slumped in his chair in the Red Level console's center position,
held up only by the locked chest straps of his padded chair. Half an
hour ago, the general had been tricked into passing over control of
QUICKSILVER. Kronig knew the old man could not be manipulated or
threatened in the same way again. Vanovich was no longer a man who was
merely unafraid of death, he was a man who would willingly embrace it.

But Kronig was determined to put the general at his ease for as long as
possible. They were both officers, after all. "It is a remarkable
device," he said. "As far as we can tell from down here, when the
Schriever Air Force Base was shut down, your people lost contact with
every satellite they own. I'll be interested to see how long it takes
for your backup sites to reclaim them." Vanovich said nothing. From the
expression he wore, the sullen grief and self-recrimination in his eyes,
Kronig could see that the general knew exactly what would happen the
next time QUICKSILVER returned.

Still, Kronig couldn't resist one final attempt.

"In five minutes," he said, "an NSA Trumpet satellite will pass by.

Are you going to let me access it?"

Vanovich looked away.

"I rather thought not," Kronig said.

"Kill me now," Vanovich growled, but his voice was weak. "Kill me in
five minutes. It doesn't matter."

"I could kill more hostages."

Vanovich's grunt conveyed his disgust. "I know what you're doing.

You've been taking them up to the Pentagon. You're going to let Delta
Force kill them all, anyway."

"A few will die, at first. Enough to slow your soldiers down." Kronig
looked at his watch. "For one hundred minutes. Just long enough to
reactivate QUICKSILVER and instruct it to accept command and control
from another station."

"Reactivate?" Vanovich asked.

"I shut it down, of course. Put it into its safe mode." Kronig wondered
why QUICKSILVER'S operational status was of interest to Vanovich. "Why
so puzzled, General? Now that I have QUICKSILVER, why would I allow one
of your backup stations to take it back from me?"

Vanovich looked away again, but a fraction too late. "QUICKSILVER has no
backup station?" Kronig was astounded. He had considered the planners'
inability to locate a backup command-andconrrol station for the weapon
to be a failure of intelligence, not a foolish omission on the
Americans' part. "Were you that frightened of it, to keep all control
here?"

"Any sane man would."

"You are fortunate that QUICKSILVER is in the right hands now. We shall
not make the same mistake."

Vanovich closed his eyes for a moment, sighing deeply as if all he
wanted to do was sleep forever. "D'you know what you did to that
tracking station, you goddamn bastard?"

"I have a good idea. I've read your report about what really happened to
the Shilo."

"That was on water, you ... cretin. Salt water. We tested QUICKSILVER at
sea because we knew the salt water would draw off the current--restrict
the expansion of the EM field through the air, just in case there were
any ... unexpected results." The general's eyes blazed in sudden anger.
"I was on a ship five miles away, and we got hit. On land, the effect
could cover triple the area, maybe more. You say you wanted to
short-circuit some radio dishes. I say you killed every soul on that
base. And that's what you call in the ' hands."

"

Kronig barely heard the old man's accusation. QUICKSILVER was an even
greater prize. With his creation, Vanovich had established a completely
new paradigm of warfare. Unlimited energy delivered with pinpoint
accuracy at the speed of light. From an invisible, untouchable platform
in space. No missile flight time. No warning. No defense.

The general was right. In the wrong hands, QUICKSILVER would have become
an instrument of world domination. And how could America have been
entrusted with that?

"General, I understand your concerns. Your gift will not be misused.

I work for honorable men."

"Do you? Who?"

"You still don't know?"

Vanovich stared at him, waiting.

"Then ask yourself: Who does your satellite network threaten most?"

"China."

Kronig shook his head. "How can you use satellites to spy on a country
where most of the people have no phones or computers? And where the
people who are worth spying on already have full schematics of your
satellites and know precisely what countermeasures to take? I know
Americans are obsessed with China, but you're wrong."

"Russia."

"Another good guess, but wrong."

"India."

"They certainly don't like your satellites, the way you meddle in their
affairs with Pakistan. Try again."

"Iraq? Iran? Oh hell, I don't know." Vanovich pushed against the straps
to sit up straight.

The conversation was reawakening some of the old man's fighting spirit.

"Don't forget Libya--and most of the Middle East, in fact. But the kind
of people you're thinking of are fortunate if they can set off a bomb
near one of your embassies every few years. Do you honestly think they
could accomplish what my soldiers and I achieved today? Try again,
General."

"I won't play your game."

"Game," Kronig repeated, suddenly feeling provoked. "That's another of
your people's problems. Everything's a game to you. There must always be
a winner and a loser. Black or white. No give and take, no compromise. A
most urealistic philosophy. You're always dividing the world into US and
THEM, allies and enemies. No room for partners or equals or independent
thought. That's what makes your country so dangerous. A worldview like
yours can only have two outcomes: Either the entire world becomes
America, or, inevitably, there will be war."

Vanovich spoke through clenched teeth. "My country has always fought for
peace."

"Listen to yourself--to fight for peace." Kronig paused, to let the
passion of the moment flow from him, restoring his focus. He was
allowing himself to become distracted. The general was too old, too set
in his ways to understand the truth about his country. "Forgive me,
General. It doesn't matter. What's important is that after today,
America will have to work for peace, in partnership with every other
nation on Earth, because you will no longer have the advantage over
them."

"Because you will."

"One minute to acquisition of Trumpet Fifteen," India said.

Kronig shook his head at her. This one he would allow to pass.

"What's wrong? You don't want another satellite for your collection?"
Vanovich asked. "Why don't you kill me and hold my eye up to the
scanner?"

Kronig stepped back from the vanquished general. "Soon enough," he said.
"In ninety-five minutes. When QUICKSILVER comes by." What Vanovich
suggested had always been an option. The general's retina would continue
to be useful for identification, up to thirty minutes after his death.
But Kronig's technical team had not been able to guarantee that the
computers wouldn't also require Vanovich to confirm his identity by
inputting a personal-access code before QUICKSILVER would obey him
again. Without knowing how that code changed, the general had to be kept
alive, for insurance.

Vanovich looked away, in equal parts despair and disgust.

How ineffective their generals are, Kronig thought. Vanovich so willing
to give up his life. Brower so easily placed under The discrepancy
suddenly hit him. Kronig strode back to India's station.

On the middle screen he saw it--General Brower in the Map Room of the
White House.

And the White House had been evacuated.

Erich Kronig felt almost relieved by his discovery of the deception.

The Americans were predictable after all.

He switched on his radio. "Ranger to all stations. We are now at general
quarters. The counterattack will come at any moment, and it will be
commanded by General Elias Brower."

Kilo radioed back at once that Brower was still under surveillance at
the White House.

Kronig only smiled, savoring the victory he had already achieved.

And hungered for the even greater victory to come.

JEFFERSON DAVIS HIGHWAY. ARLINGTON. VIRGINIA "Get ready, Major!" the
driver shouted.

Leaning forward in the right-front passenger seat, Margaret braced her
gloved hand on the edge of the speeding HUMVEE's open door. The warm
wind whistled through her Army-green flight helmet. The memory of Tyler,
age three, puffed out in his first snowsuit, an immobile Pillsbury
Doughboy, perfectly fit the way she felt now as the HUMVEE roared north
toward the parade-ground underpass directly in front of the Pentagon's
River Entrance. On one of the hottest days of the summer, she was in
four layers of clothing: an oversize green flight suit over a
cold-weather camouflage jacket and lined pants, which in turn covered
the black Nomex coveralls she wore over her jungle-camouflage shirt,
pants, and tan T-shirt. Between the heat and the protective padding, she
was finding it difficult to breathe.

The HUMVEE flashed into the shadow of the underpass and in a split
second the driver jammed on the brakes, squealing from fifty miles an
hour to ten, throwing Margaret forward. Directing her momentum out the
door, she tucked and hit the pavement rolling, even as she heard the
HUMVEE's engine growl as the driver floored the accelerator. The vehicle
would be coming out the other side of the underpass, only one hundred
feet away, at the same speed with which it had entered. And a second
soldier, outfitted in the same Army green helmet and flight suit as
Margaret, would be in her seat, after springing up from his hidden
position in the back of the HUMVEE.

As Margaret rolled to a stop on her side, already checking if she had
any unusual pain or numbness, she felt herself hauled to her feet by two
sets of powerful hands.

She pulled off her flight helmet to find two Delta Force commandos
saluting her. The larger of the two said, "Welcome to Grand Central,
Major."

Margaret snapped back the salute, then looked past the two commandos to
find sixty more standing at the sides of the underpass tunnel, all in
black assault gear, even their faces covered in greasepaint. They were
the men of Delta's Assault Squadron E, the cutting edge of CONDEFCOM,
experts in domestic, close-quarters urban combat and hostage rescue.

Each one had arrived as she had, jumping from a speeding HUMVEE at the
covered assembly point closest to their target, only two hundred feet
from the River Entrance.

Some of the commandos gathered by small equipment pallets designed to be
dropped from helicopters. For this operation, the pallets had been
pushed from the backs of speeding ambulances. Margaret saw specialists
unpacking explosives, weapons, ammunition, and rapid-ascent gear from
the open crates. She knew that the ascent gear--grappling hooks, fast
ropes, and winches--was for scaling the Pentagon's walls, getting to and
through the windows. That was the core of Brewer's planned assault.

The CONDEFCOM CINC had advised the President that using the kind of
heavy artillery they'd need to get through the blast doors would
absolutely rule out a surprise attack, which is what Delta Force trained
for and relied upon--moving so quickly the enemy was unprepared to
resist. A conventional artillery attack would take several minutes to
set up within line of sight of the Pentagon, and would likely require
several rounds to be fired as well. Brower made it clear that there was
only one option for penetrating the Pentagon quickly enough to both
rescue the hostages and get out before the bomb literally dropped. That
option required bypassing the blast doors.

No matter which route Delta took into the Pentagon, Brower told the
President, eventually they would have to enter the River Entrance side
to gain access to Site J. So the general had decided to start there from
the beginning: Delta was going to enter the Pentagon through the second-
and third-floor windows of the River Entrance side. That section of the
Building, housing the ops centers and the National Military Command
Center, also gave direct access to the Site J elevator shaft, through
the utility corridor beneath the central Courtyard.

When the time came, eighteen commandos armed with Stinger-RMP
single-shot firing systems would lead the attack. Nine would rise up on
scaffolds from behind the south embankment wall flanking the
parade-grounds overpass. Nine would rise up from behind the north
embankment wall. Each commando would aim at a specific window on the
second and third floors, in the two sections of wall that were to either
side of the pillars of the main entrance. Specialists from the Army
Corps of Engineers had confirmed that the blast proof laminate in the
Pentagon's exterior windows could not survive the double impact of the
supersonic Stinger and the resultant detonation of its 2.2-pound warhead
of penetrating high explosive.

The instant the small Stinger missiles were launched, a second tier of
riflemen would launch smoke grenades at the base of the River Side
Entrance facade. As soon as the smoke began billowing, the rest of
Assault Squadron E would race across the two-hundred-foot open area
between the embankment wall and the Pentagon, fire their grappling hooks
into the open window frames, and enter the Building.

While the ground attack was under way, the next phase would begin: the
arrival of the Night Stalkers, also known as SOAR--the 160th Special
Operations Aviation Regiment.

Six AH-6 Little Bird helicopters would form the first airborne assault,
sweeping the Pentagon's roofs to prevent any terrorists from taking the
high ground. As hostages were found, they would either be rushed to the
open windows and lowered with ropes and harnesses, or taken to the roof
and extracted ten at a time by SOAR's MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters.

Execution of Brewer's ambitious plan could take no more than forty
minutes. But Margaret knew that even if everything went perfectly, all
two hundred hostages and three hundred soldiers would not be able to
escape the Pentagon before the Lancer bomber arrived with its payload.

As the only one who had any chance of reaching Site J and ending the
terrorists' control of QUICKSILVER, Margaret was fully aware that the
lives of the hostages, and of Assault Squadron E, had become her
responsibility.

She rid herself of the clothing she had worn for padding until she
reached her black Nomex coveralls. Then she and her two escorts
double-timed across the three lanes of highway, jumped the guardrails of
the center divider, and crossed three more lanes to reach a small
utility-access opening in the concrete wall of the underpass, about five
feet above the shoulder of the road.

The opening's cover, a plate of steel, four feet by four feet, was off
to the side, eight lug nuts lying on top of it. To the other side, a
compact, 2-kw Military Tactical Generator, about half the size of a
standard office desk and painted in green-brown camouflage,
unobtrusively rumbled like an idling car. A thick cable ran from the MTG
into the access opening. In the space beyond, Margaret heard voices and
saw flashlight beams moving quickly.

"Your gear's inside, ma'am," the first commando said.

"Any trouble finding the conduits?"

The second commando cupped his hands to give Margaret a boost. "No,
ma'am. They found two of the five in the first minute. They say it looks
mighty cramped in there."

"Good thing I skipped lunch." Margaret put her hand on the monstrous
shoulder of one commando, her boot in the cupped hands of the second,
then pushed up and suddenly found herself flying through the opening to
land on her knees in the access chamber. They had launched her like a
missile.

At once, three flashlight beams converged on her and she shielded her
eyes with her hand as she squinted to the right. She could smell
something damp and rotting mixed with concrete dust. Her sinuses started
to swell almost instantly. In the rush of getting away from the White
House on General Brewer's helicopter, she had forgotten to take
decongestants.

"Major Sinclair?" a deep voice called out.

"Yes, sir," Margaret answered. She got to her feet. There was just
enough clearance for her to stand upright in the chamber. It was little
more than a squared-off concrete tunnel, just over five feet high and
five feet wide. Along the gray concrete floor, power lines ran, thick
black cables three and four inches across, marked by yellow bands every
two feet.

Twenty feet along the runnel, three soldiers from the Army Corps of
Engineers were gathered by a pile of concrete rubble. Margaret jogged
toward the light from the flashlights, shivering as the cool air in the
tunnel began evaporating the sweat she'd worked up in all the protective
gear for the HUMVEE jump.

An electric chisel and three sets of dynamic noise earphones lay beside
the rubble, directly beneath a hole punched into the side of the tunnel.
The soldiers' green utility uniforms were covered in concrete dust and
they wore white filter masks around their necks. Two of the soldiers
were crouched beside the wall, their flashlights now on the ground
beside them. The third soldier, too tall to fully stand, remained
partially bent over. He pointed his flashlight into the hole, but
Margaret could not see any light reflect back from inside.

"You sure about this, ma'am?" he asked.

Margaret made out sergeant stripes in the backscatter from the other two
flashlights. "What's it look like, Sergeant?"

"Pretty much like a garden hose, I'd say." Then the sergeant gave her
his flashlight and she looked inside the old, unused sewer pipe conduit
for herself. She felt the chill of failure.

The conduit looked considerably smaller than she'd expected. And its
surface was unfinished concrete, roughly textured by gravel that hadn't
been troweled into place. She reached in to feel the surface she'd be
crawling along--it was pebbled with sharp bits of stone and concrete.

Some of them flaked off as she pressed her fingers against them, but
others held firm. At the very centerline of the conduit, she could also
feel a layer of fine silt. That told her the conduit had cracked over
the years, allowing groundwater to seep in. It wasn't a promising
development. Since the conduit appeared to be sloping down, that meant
sixty years' worth of run-off could have collected down there, possibly
plugging it with dirt.

"How wide is that?" Margaret asked.

"It checks out at twenty inches, ma'am." The look on the sergeant's face
clearly showed he thought her mission was impossible.

Margaret knew if she stopped to think about what she was planning to do,
she'd never be able to get into the conduit, let alone crawl through two
hundred feet of it. "Let's do it," she said.

The sergeant dragged a narrow, plastic-impregnated canvas bag forward.

It held the equipment Margaret and General Brower had requested while
still in the helo, before they'd landed at the Navy Annex. The general
had remained there. His command post for the assault was on top of the
roof overlooking the heliport and South Terrace sides of the Pentagon,
half a mile away.

The first thing Margaret took from the equipment bag was a black
balaclava to keep her twisted-back hair from catching on any
obstructions in the conduit. Next, she pulled out a roll of duct tape
and had the other two soldiers tape slender, Maglite flashlights to her
wrists. Finally, she had them tie the end of a 300-foot long nylon cord
to the back of her belt. If she made it through to the other end, she'd
use that cord to pull through a stronger rope, and then use that to haul
in her equipment.

Her preparations took less than five minutes. Margaret checked the time,
and for a moment recalled waking up this morning, worrying only about
being ready for General Vanovich's QUICKSILVER briefing to the President
in the Pentagon. Now, at the time scheduled for the briefing, she was in
an underground tunnel, attempting to outrace an in-flight nuclear
weapon, launched by the President, that was only ninety minutes from its
target--her.

"Okay, good to go," she told the soldiers.

But the three were also engineers. One of them had cut open the armored
vest from her equipment bag to remove a single plate of dull-gray,
ceramic armor. He suggested she slide that along to give her something
to protect her elbows from the rough-finished concrete.

Another soldier handed her a Beretta with its clip removed, just in case
the cord broke or got hung up and she ended up without her equipment.

"In that case," Margaret said, "give me the MSB link, too." If the
engineers thought there was the slightest possibility she might lose the
nylon cord, she at least wanted a radio that would let her transmit
directly through the conduit, though she knew it would have little
chance of working once she moved away from the opening. The portable
Mobile Subscriber Equipment terminal, now in her equipment bag, was what
she would use as a relay station at the end of the tunnel. Wire leads
running back through the conduit would connect to another terminal at
this end. Margaret would then be able to transmit, from within the
concrete-shielded Pentagon, using a small MSB digital radiophone. Her
messages would be relayed via the two connected terminals to the MSB
network already established by the Army's llllth Signal Battalion.

The digital radio was the size of a deck of playing cards and she
slipped it into the front of her black coveralls along with the gun.

She put the clip in a side pocket on her leg.

The soldiers wished her luck, and said they'd stand by to feed out the
cord, transfer the equipment, and monitor for her radio, in case
anything went wrong.

As Margaret thanked them, she added, "But in seventy minutes, if the
order comes for Delta to withdraw from the area, you go with them.

That's a direct order." "Yes, ma'am," the tall soldier said, his gray
eyes serious.

Margaret pulled on a pair of black Nomex gloves and switched on one of
her wrist flashlights. Then she turned to face the conduit opening,
stretched her arms straight ahead, holding the gray ceramic armor like a
swimmer's kick board and told the three soldiers to lift her in.

Very carefully, they did, feeding her into the conduit as if she were a
torpedo being loaded.

They got her in as far as her knees; then she wriggled forward on her
forearms and knees until she was completely within the conduit.

A thousand thoughts flooded through her at once. The age of the
stale-smelling, crumbling concrete. The dense presence of the earth
pressing on all sides of the conduit. The bomber streaking through the
sky with a nuclear payload. Fear engulfed her. How could it not?

But her secret weapon saved her.

She thought of Tyler, the babe she'd cradled in her arms, the boy she'd
see become a man.

How could any fear withstand the determined courage of a mother?

Margaret pointed her flashlight ahead and saw its beam disappear into
the darkness that pressed down on her, threatening to suffocate her,
ready to crush her.

But it hadn't crushed her yet.

She crawled forward, into the Pentagon.

SEVEN

FBI HEADQUARTERS. WASHINGTON, D.C.

Hector still wasn't sure what had happened. He and Tyler had been
swiftly loaded onto a green and white VH-3D helicopter, the kind used to
transport the President, and had been lifted away with the same sort of
sudden acceleration he'd felt in the special-forces rescue helicopter.

After the helo stopped climbing, the pilot's voice had come over the
cabin PA saying they weren't in danger, the President was safe, and that
everyone on board was being taken to a safe landing area. The pilot
hadn't been able to say where that landing area would be, because he was
still waiting for instructions.

They'd circled D.C. for the next twenty minutes, and then, with no
explanation, made their landing just over half a mile from the White
House, on the roof of the FBI Headquarters building.

The fifteen other passengers on the helo were all as confused as Hector.
They were White House staffers, a few State Department aides, and two
junior liaison officers from the Defense Intelligence Agency.

None of them could tell him why the White House had been evacuated, nor
why so many soldiers had rushed in.

From the conversations he overheard, it appeared that most of them had
no real idea about what was going on in the Pentagon, either. Hector
realized that he himself had been so caught up in the intensity of the
decisions facing the President that, for the first time in his two years
at the White House, he had forgotten to do his job. Right now, he had no
insight to share with the Man about what ordinary Americans felt or
thought about the day's events. He only knew the inside story. The
moment was humbling.

When the rear helo door swung open and the metal stairs unfolded, the
passengers exited quickly, but without panic. Hector waited to the end.
Still strapped into the seat beside him, Tyler was swiping his nose with
the hem of his oversize Orioles T-shirt. His eyes were red tinged,
deeply shadowed.

I know what's going on and I'm confused, Hector thought. What must this
kid be going through? Both his parents are out there, somewhere.

Hector experienced a rush of protectiveness. Whatever happened in the
next two hours, his mission had to be to make Tyler's world as easy as
he could.

His first challenge arrived with a large man in a blue FBI baseball cap
and nylon windbreaker who came into the cabin from the forward door.

"You Macgregor?"

"That's me," Hector confirmed as he leaned over to unfasten Tyler's seat
belt.

"The President's been screaming for you." He saw Hector's bandaged and
braced foot. "You need a hand or anything?" Hector thanked the agent,
but said he thought he could manage as long as he didn't have to carry
Tyler. He meant that as a joke. But the agent wasn't smiling.

"You just get movin'. I'll take the kid."

Hector saw the boy shrink back in his seat.

"Tyler's with me."

"No kids allowed in the SIOC. We got a day-care room downstairs."

"One more time," Hector said. "Where I go, Tyler goes. That's it."

The FBI agent stood face-to-face with Hector. He was Hector's height but
a good fifty pounds heavier. "I said the President wants you

ASAP."

Even a day ago, Hector might have given way. But now, a loud voice and
obnoxious manner just didn't seem all that troublesome.

"Then I suggest," Hector said calmly, "you go tell him the reason I'm
not joining him is because you are being an asshole and causing trouble
for the son of Major Sinclair."

The agent leaned forward, unpleasantly close. "What'd you call me?"

"Don't even think of fucking with me," Hector said, surprising even
himself with the forcefulness of his voice.

Now the helo's Marine pilot and copilot had come to the forward door,
obviously wondering if they should intercede.

But the agent backed off first, as if he were the one who'd been
intimidated. "Your problem then," he said with a shrug. "I don't make
the rules. I'll take you down to the SIOC entrance, and you can work it
out with Security. Bring the kid with you." He turned, and shouldered
his way past the pilot and copilot.

Hector looked at Tyler. "How much did that cost me?"

"Three quarters."

"Two for the f-word, and one for what?" "You said ..." Tyler dropped his
voice "... asshole."

Hector dropped his own voice, "So did you."

He could tell Tyler found that funny, even if he didn't exactly smile.

"Let's see what a SIOC is, okay?" Hector asked, as they headed for the
hatch.

Hector hobbled down the small metal stairway ahead of Tyler. The warm
wind whipped at him, helping ease the day's heat. He saw clouds building
on the horizon.

"Where'd my mom go?" Tyler said, jumping down the stairs two at a time.

"She went to get your dad."

"In the Pentagon?"

Hector turned toward Tyler and put an arm around his narrow shoulder, as
if the fifty-pound eight-year-old could now help him by being his
crutch. He could feel Tyler straighten up to offer him more support.

The large FBI agent was waiting up ahead for them by an entrance door at
the side of the helipad. The gusting breeze was making the agent's nylon
jacket flutter against him and he kept a hand on his baseball cap.

"In the Pentagon," Hector said as he and Tyler started walking toward
the agent.

"Are they coming back?"

That question tore at Hector. He didn't want to lie to Tyler, but how
could he tell the truth? He took the coward's way out, regretting the
words even as he said them. "Of course they are."

But Hector could see that Tyler had caught the slight delay in his
answer. His shoulders tensed and he ducked his head down.

The waiting FBI agent took them through to an elevator and down to the
fifth floor. When they stepped from the elevator, they faced a security
desk, and beyond it a low-ceilinged, dark hallway with two sets of
doors. The individual white letters attached to the gray wall above the
bland, gray desk said: strategic information and operations center. At
least that explains SIOC, Hector thought. He and Tyler waited by the
desk while the agent went inside to talk to whoever would give
dispensation to Tyler.

It took less than a minute. A familiar, long-legged figure, Drew Simons,
the Treasury agent responsible for White House security, pushed quickly
through the hallway doors to speak to the security guards. Hector and
Tyler were to be allowed in, at once.

The guards hung an fbi visitor pass around Tyler's neck, alongside his
White House pass. Hector took it as a good sign that as he and Tyler
followed Simons through the doors and into the dark hallway, the boy
held his two passes together in one hand, as if they might be talismans
against evil.

As they headed toward a set of metal-covered doors, Hector asked Simons
what had caused the evacuation from the White House.

"It's related to what actually happened at the Archives," the Treasury
agent said. "You know there's a high-security vault beneath them?"

Hector nodded. For preservation, until the renovation of the Archives'
Exhibition Hall was completed the Declaration of Independence, the first
and fourth pages of the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights were kept
in individual glass-display cases filled with inert helium and sealed in
bronze frames. Every night when the Archives closed, the Charters'
display cases descended twenty-two feet into a reinforced
concrete-and-steel vault. The vault beneath the Charters' display
pedestal in the rotunda of the Archives Exhibition Hall dated from 1952,
and had been designed to protect the fragile documents in the event of
nuclear war.

"But it's not the only vault beneath the Archives," Simons said.

"Remember PROJECT JERICHO?"

Hector nodded again. PROJECT JERICHO had been covered in Colonel Tobin's
briefing, just before Site J had been taken over. The evacuation-system
project had been built in two stages. First, the deep underground
evacuation centers--the ATLANTIS facilities. Second, the evacuation
network of RUSH HOUR tunnels.

"It turns out there's a second ATLANTIS vault another one hundred and
thirty feet below the original vault." Hector thought that actually made
sense. The '52 vault was only twenty-two feet deep and it wouldn't have
offered much protection against the nuclear weapons of the sixties and
seventies. He remembered that that was the reason Tobin had said PROJECT
JERICHO was undertaken in the first place.

"So that's why the terrorists broke into the Archives," Simons
continued. "Not to steal the Charters, but to access the RUSH HOUR
tunnels. And Gibb and General Brower are really having a fight about
that. But you'll find out."

Then Hector, Tyler, and Simons entered the FBI's largest and most
advanced crisis-management operations center--forty thousand square feet
of giant video screens, time readouts, and a staggering number of
computer displays. FBI agents, men and women, sat at desks or consoles,
or hurried between glassed-in offices and computer stations with files
and printouts. Hector sensed that the surface order was only an
illusion. The situation was far from resolved.

Every screen in the vast area seemed to involve the Pentagon crisis in
some form or another. The SIOC wall screens, five feet by fifteen,
carried multiple windows in which dozens of different television news
feeds appeared. On many of the screens, there were identical photo
portraits of a very attractive and very serious young woman in a Naval
uniform. She had the same clear-eyed, focused look as Major Sinclair.

The captions on the photos identified her as Midshipman Amy Bethune.

Hector realized the photos meant that, despite the efforts of the UPN
news director, other news teams covering the story had discovered
Bethune's message taped to the Pentagon window. He felt sorry for the
kid. If the terrorists hadn't known she was hiding in the Building, they
did now. How did broadcasting that story serve the public good?

A few screens were carrying his photograph, too, along with a wide
variety of captions, ranging from millionaire staffer risks life for

PRESIDENT, to PRESIDENT RISKS LIFE FOR PLAYBOY STAFFER, and TEMPORARY
STAFFER ENDANGERS PRESIDENT IN DARING ESCAPE. Hector Wasn't bothered by
the misrepresentation of what had happened. He had been marginally in
the public spotlight long enough to know that no quote was ever
accurate, no story ever complete.

The computer displays offered more crisis-related images--Pentagon
schematics, along with what Hector recognized as street plans of D. C.,
and a large number of subway maps. The connection was not immediately
apparent to him.

The tension in the huge, windowless area grew palpable as they
approached the cluster of offices and workstations identified as the
counterterrorism center. Simons had Hector and Tyler wait outside a
large conference room which had its own wall-sized video screen. A
floor-to-ceiling glass barrier served to isolate the room from the
office cubicles outside.

Inside the conference room, Hector could see the President, FBI Director
James Gibb, the CIA's Archibald Fortis, and Douglas Casson of the NRO.
Outside the conference room, where he and Tyler stood, Hector saw
several senior officers from all branches of the military rushing back
and forth. That meant General Janukatys and Admiral Paulsen were most
probably also somewhere nearby. But Hector saw no sign of the assistant
director of the NSA, Milton Meyer.

Whatever conversation Gibb and the President were having in the
glass-walled Center, it also involved General Brower. Hector could see
his image quite clearly on the room's video wall. From the soldiers and
the equipment in the background of the general's video link, Hector
guessed the CONDEFCOM commander in chief was already on the front lines
And that made him wonder what effect General Brewer's disappearance from
the White House might have had on the fate of the hostages. The Sons of
Liberty had made no new demands or attempts to communicate for more than
an hour. Though by now, everyone understood they had been a diversion.

Just as Tyler was reaching the end of his ability to stand still in one
place, Simons returned with a mop-haired young agent in dark slacks and
a white blouse, wearing FBI ID around her neck. She introduced herself
to Tyler as Sophie Newman. She said she had a special desk for him,
right against the wall, where he could keep an eye on Hector in the
Center. But she closed the deal when she offered to bring up lunch from
the FBI cafeteria and confirmed that there was official FBI pizza
available.

Reassured, Hector followed Simons through the sliding glass door into
the conference room to hear FBI Director Gibb shouting at General
Brower. Gibb stood between a long conference table and the video wall.

The President stood beside him. Fortis and Casson were seated at the far
end of the table, in deep conversation, paying no attention to the
battle of words raging in the room.

"Because you people have screwed this up from the beginning!" Gibb
snapped at the general.

Brewer's temper was easily a match for the director's. "Let me remind
you, sir, that your people have full jurisdiction over the Archives
massacre. And I say it is unconscionable perhaps even criminal that you
didn't realize what was going on at once!" You are the ones who put the
President at risk!"

Gibb was clearly refusing to accept responsibility for the Archives
disaster. "As soon as my agents confirmed that the Charters on display
had been removed from their cases and were missing, they went straight
down to the original vault. The second and third pages of the
Constitution were still in their storage racks. And there was no
indication that anyone had been in the vault."

"There is no question the terrorists were in that vault," Brower
thundered from the wall screen. "They had to pass through it to get down
to the next one."

Gibb indignantly pointed his finger at the screen. "Which you military
people kept so classified that none of my agents on the scene knew about
it."

"You knew about it, sir!"

"And I was forbidden to tell my agents."

The effort and energy these two men were wasting arguing over Cold War
policy decisions was appalling to Hector. Particularly when Major
Sinclair was trying to break into the Pentagon while a nuclear bomb was
on its way there. At the same time that an unknown madman with a super
weapon was destroying the country's satellite capability.

Hector looked over at the President, wondering why he wasn't breaking
this up. The Man was still standing on the far side of Gibb, his
attention now on a photograph he was holding.

Hector carefully skirted behind Gibb to reach the President's side. He
spoke very softly to the Man. "Mr. President, what they're fighting
about, isn't this something you can deal with later?"

The President looked ten years older than he had this morning. The
photograph was of the First Lady. "Hec, bottom line is that the
terrorists who took the place of the midshipmen were just the first
wave. A second wave took out Site J by rushing it when they got ready to
evacuate their civilian workers."

Hector finally grasped the connection among the images on the computer
displays he'd seen in the outside area. He forgot to keep his voice
down. "Through the underground tunnels? RUSH HOUR?"

"Tom Chase and that midshipman sent us another message. They reported
seeing new terrorists in black commando gear, like the fellow we saw on
the Site J video link."

Gibb turned to the President. "They're in the same equipment worn by our
own counterterrorism forces." "And," General Brower now  from the wall
screen, "the counterterrorism forces of the SAS and Captain Kronig's KSK
and the Russians' Black Berets and half the Hostage Rescue Teams in the
world.

I will not have anyone cast aspersions on the men and women of CONDEFCOM
or the U.S. Army. Sir." The President sighed. "The point is, Hec, those
RUSH HOUR tunnels, they're connected to the White House, too."

"Really?"

"You know the Roosevelt tunnel?"

Hector did. He'd learned about it his first year in Washington. The idea
that the ground below the city was riddled with known and unknown
tunnels had been fascinating to him.

The Roosevelt tunnel was a narrow passageway under the White House built
in the days immediately following Pearl Harbor to evacuate President
Roosevelt in the event D.C. was also bombed. It ran under the East Lawn
from the Executive Mansion, under Madison Place, and into the
sub-basement of the Treasury Building. During World War II, the
President's escape route from D.C. had relied on a special train car
kept on standby at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing across the Mall.

Another runnel had been built after World War II, making it possible for
future Presidents to travel all the way from the White House to the
evacuation train. Until he'd learned about PROJECT JERICHO, Hector had
believed this second Presidential tunnel to be the longest and most
elaborate of the underground network connecting to the White House.

Most of the tunnels only ran a block or two and led to other Federal
buildings. The most commonly used one now was the short tunnel under
Pennsylvania Avenue that came up in the Treasury Annex.

"Well, the Roosevelt tunnel's just the tip of the iceberg," the
President said. "When Gibb here realized the terrorists had access to
the RUSH HOUR network, the Secret Service decided the White House wasn't
safe and got everyone out of there."

"Doesn't the White House have vault doors and security gates?" Hector
asked.

"Mr. Macgregor," Gibb said acidly. He looked at the President. "And this
is my last word on the matter unless someone decides to have hearings."
He returned his attention to Hector. "Those tunnels were built to
increase the safety of government officials. But now, there are so many
of them, that they have made D.C. one of the least defensible cities in
America. Once terrorists gain access to any part of that network, they
can pile up as much explosive as they can carry under the White House,
the Capitol, the State Department ... almost any key government building
you can think of. And because people like General Brower, who are
supposed to defend us from exactly that scenario, continue to maintain
this system under Top Secret classification, the FBI and local police
can do nothing to lessen the threat to this city, our government, and
our way of life."

Hector was afraid to look up to see the general's reaction to that
statement. He also didn't like the picture Gibb painted of D.C. being a
security minefield. But this still wasn't the time for this kind of
disagreement, and the President was obviously too distraught to bring an
end to it himself. Hector decided to change the subject.

"Mr. President, have you been keeping up with the news reports?"

"There is no news, Hec. Only rumors." The President found a chair with
arms, rolled it over to the table, and sat down heavily. "Some stations
are reporting that I've already resigned and General Brower is Acting
President."

"Lying to the enemy is as dangerous as using bio weapons Gibb said
sanctimoniously. "The lies can strike our own people."

"That he," General Brower snapped, "saved the lives of sixty hostages.

Any misperceptions the American people have can be corrected in the
morning."

"I don't think saving those lives amounted to much, do you?" Gibb asked.
"Considering you're going to nuke them to death in the next two hours."

"Uh, it's ... ninety minutes, actually," Fortis said diffidently,
looking up from his discussion with Casson.

Gibb didn't even appear to hear him as he pressed on with his attack on
General Brower. "If you had allowed my HRT to go in two hours ago, this
would already have reached its conclusion." "Sure would," Brower said.
"With the record you people have, the Pentagon would be in flames and
all the hostages would be dead. That's a conclusion we've seen before."

Hector felt helpless to stop the bickering and knew it had to stop for
the President to regain his role of leadership. But the situation was
unique. The Man had always been surrounded by a layer of officials who
would never have permitted this to intrude into the President's inner
circle.

Then General Janukatys rushed into the room, providing the interruption
that changed the subject for everyone.

"Mr. President," the Air Force Chief of Staff said, "we've heard from
Grand Central. Major Sinclair is in the conduit and making her way to
the Pentagon."

"I'll be darned," the President said with new energy in his voice. He
straightened in his chair. "They found one."

Hector realized that whatever the President and General Brower had
planned to happen next, they must have been waiting for this news before
proceeding. They'd just been letting Gibb hang himself in the meantime.
Hector felt foolish for thinking the President could not function
without his intervention.

The President looked up at the wall screen. "How long do we give her,
General?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes to get through the conduit, then it depends on
what sort of resistance she encounters."

"All right," the President said. He tapped his index fingers on the edge
of the table. "Have your men stand by to attack. We'll give her thirty
minutes to report back. We'll either go then or reconsider based on what
she has to tell us."

"Yes, sir," Brower said. Hector could tell those were the orders the
general had wanted to hear.

"I strongly object," Gibb said.

"Objection noted," the President said.

"You will never get Brewer's men in and out of the Pentagon in time. By
sending them in now, you risk losing them in the bombing at a time when
we could be facing even more of these attacks across the country."

The President narrowed his eyes. "Gibb, are you suggesting we need
CONDEFCOM now?"

"I'm suggesting that if we had done this my way, we'd be debriefing the
survivors and interrogating the terrorists by now, and we'd know what
was going on. Since we're completely in the dark, I think it's
irresponsible to risk resources we might need in the days and weeks
ahead."

"So now you're willing to let all the hostages die without making even
an attempt to save some of them?" The President was as confused as
Hector.

"Sir, with respect," Gibb said, "you already made that decision when you
prevented me from acting at once."

The room became silent, except for a faint electronic humming that came
from the video wall. Fortis and Casson stopped talking and stared in
Gibb's direction. No matter how politely he had said it, the director of
the FBI had just accused the President of criminal incompetence.

The President sat back in his chair, rested his elbows on its arms, and
folded his hands before him. He spent several seconds in thought, then
spoke in a remarkably calm tone. "Earlier today, I listened to the
objections of two of the Joint Staff, and in the heat of the moment, I
accepted their resignations, without knowing what I would do next. That
was a mistake, but a fortunate one, as those two Chiefs survived the
attack and are now able to help defend their country.

"I am not inclined to make that mistake again, so soon. So, Director
Gibb, I'm going to forget you said that, until this is over. And then we
will discuss what your future will be. But until that time, get out of
this room, and get out of my sight."

"Sir, I must object again and--" "Mr. Director!" the President said. "I
pride myself on having a team of people who are free to object to
everything I say, when we have the leisure to discuss policy. We have no
such leisure now. This is a crisis of national importance. General
Janukatys and Admiral Paulsen, despite our many disagreements, know that
there is a time when we cease being politicians and policymakers, and we
become Americans, united, and nothing more. They are doing their job for
their country, not for me. And you do not belong in their company. Now
get out before I have the Secret Service take you into custody."

As Hector saw the look of mixed resentment, shock, and humiliation on
Gibb's face, he resisted the impulse to applaud. He was also over
whelmed, not by what the President had said, but because it was
something that Sinclair might have said just as easily, and something
that made sense of what Christou had done. Hector saw that whatever
underlying connection bound the two women together and all the members
of the military he had seen today, the tie actually connected more than
just those who served in uniform.

It included the President.

Hector thought about it again and realized it also included him.

As the FBI director stormed out of the conference room, Hector looked
through the glass wall to see Tyler and Special Agent Newman sharing
pizza at the desk outside. The boy was earnestly explaining something to
the agent, who was listening to him with her full attention.

Without ever having asked the question, Hector suddenly knew why someone
like Margaret Sinclair had chosen to become a soldier, why Elena
Christou had done the same, and it probably even held true for the lost
midshipman, Amy Bethune. And, he was certain, that reason would hold for
Brower and Paulsen and Janukatys. It would be the same for everyone.

The answer was Tyler and what he represented--America's future.

But it was one thing to know what you were fighting for, and another to
win the battle.

EIGHT

BASEMENT LEVa. F RING

Amy Bethune knew that somewhere within her, rage still burned. She
carried in her pocket six pass cards, each with a photograph of a
classmate, a fellow mid, a friend. And each had been taken from the body
of an enemy she had killed.

Her rage had not interfered with her actions, nor did it now drive her
on. But she knew it was there, carefully compartmentalized. She
acknowledged it, used it, but it did not own her.

She asked herself the question Chase had asked. What do I feel, then?

A single word flashed into her mind. Balance. Right now, that was
enough.

She heard Chase stop behind her on the narrow utility staircase. She
stopped, too. It was just possible that he had noticed something she
hadn't. He had been the first to think of diverting the terrorists on
the service road.

She looked back at him. They were five steps away from the Pentagon's
basement, two floors beneath ground level. Chase was sniffing the air.

"It's like the grenade," he whispered.

Amy sniffed and smelled the acrid aftermath of an explosive. Then she
realized she had been smelling it all the way down the stairs, but she
had thought it was coming from her H&K.

A battle had been fought in the area they were approaching, and there
might still be more fighting to do. Amy prepared herself for
disappointment. It was entirely possible the ops centers might no longer
exist.

Calm swept over her and she moved on, down the stairs.

At the bottom of the staircase was a landing and a door. The door was
unlocked and unsealed. She opened it slowly. The smell of gun smoke
became stronger.

Amy led the way down the narrow hallway. On either side, the locked
doors had red signs warning that electronic devices were not to be taken
inside. Some doors had five different kinds of locks: doorknobs,
deadbolts, number pads, card readers, and eye scanners. The door facades
looked old, as if the renovation hadn't yet reached this area.

She studied the floor ahead. It sloped downward, abruptly, for about
eighteen inches. That might mean that they were moving from an old
section of the Pentagon to a newer one, an underground expansion of some
kind. Beyond the slope, the corridor ran another twenty feet, to a
T-intersection.

The light was brighter up ahead and she could see in the distance a thin
tendril of blue haze hanging in the air. She looked back at Chase. His
face told her he understood what the haze meant, as she did.

In less than a minute, they were at the entrance to the Army Operations
Center. What was left of it.

The hallway here widened to fifteen feet across. Many light fixtures
were inset in the ceiling, but few of them were working. Most had been
shattered.

Bullet holes defaced the pale green walls, battle debris littered the
polished terrazzo floor. Evidence of blast damage everywhere. Pools of
blood beneath twisted bodies clad in Army green. Several shot in the
face or in the back of the head. There were no weapons. The attackers
had taken their victims' guns.

Amy looked up and down the corridor and replayed the events that would
have brought it to this condition. The holes on the left side of the
entranceway to the Army ops center were like cannon balls had hit.

Every surface was sprayed with blood just beyond that opening.

"It was an ambush," she told Chase. She assessed her companion's
reaction. She knew she'd almost lost him in the roadway. He still wasn't
talking much, but he was keeping up. Maybe he was finally getting used
to it. "The attackers waited for the sealed door to open, then opened up
with a fifty-caliber weapon."

"We'd better check it out," Chase said.

Amy nodded. It was the right thing to do.

She and Chase entered the Army ops center by going through a short
corridor with a second set of security doors at the end, and onto
the lower floor of a two-level chamber. Amy looked up to see large NEC
television monitors suspended from an encircling overhang. Wall racks
held groups of smaller Mitsubishi monitors in rows. A few displays
rolled slowly with gray or colored bars. Some flashed like strobe
lights. Most were dark. Blue smoke wreathed the chamber like morning
mist.

Where it hung low to the floor, the haze almost covered the remains of
the soldiers, but not quite.

Amy checked out the closer ones. A few showed no apparent wounds. She
rolled one intact body over to look for injury, but jerked back when she
saw red bubbles glistening in the victim's nostrils and open mouth.

A biological agent was the first thing she thought.

Chase was at her side in an instant.

"Is that a chemical or disease weapon?" she asked.

"A disease organism wouldn't work that fast. And a chemical weapon
wouldn't cause the scorch marks everywhere. See?" Chase pointed to burnt
patches on the beige carpet, on the pastel-colored walls, and on the
blank, wall-sized video screens.

Amy understood. "Fuel-air explosive," she said, and the rest of the
scenario played out for her. "When the doors were opened, the attackers
fought their way past whoever was coming out. Got to the second set of
security doors. Then lobbed in an FAE and let the doors close again. It
turned the whole chamber into a single bomb." "I don't get it," Chase
said, looking around the devastated room.

"An FAE's really effective. Low-risk. Good for neutralizing a large
volume like--"

"No, I don't mean the weapon. They had to be taking Milo to a facility
with a Red Level computer workstation. There're two over there." He
pointed to what had obviously been a glassed-in alcove office off the
main room. All that remained of the glass panels were slightly warped
frames and a mound of shattered glass. "But the FAE destroyed them."

"There're three other operations centers and the National Military
Command Center," Amy said.

"They're all gone, too," a voice said from behind them.

As if she lived in a slow-motion world, Amy became acutely aware of
every detail of her surroundings. Effortlessly, gracefully, she spun
around as she flipped her H&K into her hands and prepared to aim and
fire.

But the target she found without thought was in Air Force blue and held
no weapon, so the impulse to fire never flickered into being.

The man in Air Force blue was a technical sergeant, last name Wiley, and
he was dying whether he knew it or not. Amy could see that Wiley had
been caught by a burst of 9mm rounds in his lower abdomen. His pants
were soaked with blood and his brown skin was ashen with shock.

Amy cleared a section of the floor and Chase helped the sergeant lie
flat. Then Amy sent Chase to locate the mess room and bring back water
and napkins, a first-aid kit if they had one.

"We didn't know they were out there," Wiley said shakily. He was
shivering. Amy looked away from the seared bloody mess above his hip,
remnants of cloth and skin and glistening intestines matted together
with thick dark blood. All she could do was kneel at his side, hold his
hand, and listen.

"The President called the ... called the CO ..." Wiley's teeth were
chattering. "He called all the COs ... told us to get the bastards ..

. but they were waiting out there ... the shooting ... threw in
something ..."

"Have you seen the other ops centers?" Amy asked.

Wiley nodded weakly. "I looked everywhere ... saw what they were doing
..."

"What who were doing? The enemy?"

Wiley went into a spasm that lasted only a few seconds. "Y-yes ...
Taking everyone who wasn't injured ... tying them up ... gonna-gonna tie
them to doors ... put them--put them by windows in the River Side ... so
... so ..."

"So when Delta Force comes in, they'll hit the hostages first?"

"... b-bastards ..."

Chase was back with a large med kit It had more items in it than Amy
knew how to use. There was a Ringer bag she could use to start an IV
drip, maybe buy Wiley a few more minutes in case a miracle happened and
a real Delta Force medic turned up. But she had never inserted a needle
before. That hadn't been part of her training yet.

"Is there a manual in there?" she asked Chase, as she realized she
herself was shivering. She couldn't be panicking. That was impossible.
She'd killed six people today. She couldn't ... She felt Chase push her
aside, his knife already in his hand, slicing through the sergeant's
dark blue sleeve, exposing his arm. "Hang in there, Sergeant," Chase
said sharply. "Concentrate on me. How many people were in here? How many
people did you work with?"

Even as he spoke, Chase's hands moved swiftly and surely. He snapped the
coued-up tube free of the Ringer bag, then handed the plastic sack of re
hydrating fluid to Amy and told her to hold it above the sergeant. "Come
on, Sergeant. What's your name?"

"Michael ... Mike ..."

"Okay, Mike, this is really going to hurt, keep you awake. Here goes!"

Chase jabbed the IV needle into Wiley's arm and a weak trickle of blood
spurted into the liquid-filled clear tube from the bag. He opened the
valve on the tube. "How was that?"

"... didn't feel a thing, sir, thanks ..." Wiley said, tried to smile.

Chase determinedly dug through the med kit until he came up with a large
packet of antibiotic ointment marked for use on minor burns. He ripped
the bag in half and quickly squeezed the contents onto Wiley's wound.
"You married, Mike? Got any kids?"

It was as if electricity had flooded through the sergeant. He grabbed
Chase's shoulder as Chase ripped the wrapping off large sterile pads and
placed them on the wound.

"Chiissie ... ," the sergeant whispered, urgent, desperate to
communicate. "Chrissie ..."

Amy watched, transfixed. She had both hands on the Ringer bag to keep it
steady, to keep herself steady.

Chase cracked open a small brown vial. "What, Mike? What about Chrissie?
Your wife? Your little girl?"

Chase held the vial under the sergeant's nose. "C'mon, Mike, keep
talking to me! What should I tell Chrissie?"

Sergeant Wiley sighed then, as if finally relaxing after a hard day at
work. "... sorry ..." Then his body stopped shivering.

Chase slowly straightened up. He threw the vial away like throwing a
knife.

Amy was still holding the Ringer bag. She didn't know what to do with
it. "I don't think there was anything else you could have done," she
said.

Chase took the plastic bag from her and laid it in Wiley's lap. "Did I
hear him say they were putting hostages in position to stop a
counterattack?"

Amy nodded, wondering who Chrissie had been ... was ... and if he had a
picture of her in his' Nuke Chase said loudly.

Amy rocked back, startled.

"We have to let CONDEFCOM know about the hostages. We need a phone, and
we aren't going to find one working down here."

Amy forced herself to focus on what Chase was saying to her. She didn't
like what it meant. They'd have to go back up. Away from the enemy and
whatever basement lair they'd established. "What about General
Vanovich?"

Chase picked up his H&K. "Hey, this is one of your lines: The general is
just one man. If those guys cleaned the ops centers out, I'd say they
have more than two hundred hostages to spread around. I think that
changes things." "Right. Let's go," Amy said, even though it meant
delaying her mission.

Saving lives was more important than taking them.

Much as she hated to admit it, Chase was right.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER. FBI HEADQUARTERS Inside the
conference room, there was nothing to do but watch the wall clocks count
down, so Hector had taken the chance to go out and check on Tyler. The
eight-year-old was in the midst of lecturing Special Agent Newman about
the intricacies of the World Wrestling Federation's ongoing story line
"How're you guys doing out here?" Hector asked.

Tyler stopped in mid-sentence to show Hector his pager. "My dad's not
sending me any messages."

Newman shook her head. "They don't work in here, hon. No pagers, no cell
phones. We're completely shielded."

Tyler looked at Hector for confirmation.

"She's right. There's a lot of top-secret stuff around here."

"Like what?" Tyler asked.

"If I knew, it wouldn't be secret, would it?"

"Like bombs?"

Agent Newman raised her eyebrows at that. "Oh, we don't like to talk
about bombs in here."

Tyler turned back to her. "Do you know how to make things blow up?"

Hector missed Newman's answer as he turned toward the sound of running
footsteps and saw the NSA assistant director, Milton Meyer, charging
toward the SIOC conference room. Admiral Paulsen was right behind him.

"I'll be right back," Hector said. He hopped back through the sliding
glass door.

"We've got a way to track QUICKSILVER," Meyer announced breathlessly.

He was holding up a sheaf of printed pages.

"Is Schriever back in action?" the President asked.

"No, sir," Paulsen answered. "We're getting firsthand reports from
disaster crews dispatched from the Petersen base. It's just ten miles
away. Sir, the whole facility is gone. There're only three antennae
standing. The buildings are in ruins." "Survivors?" the President asked.

"None so far."

The President turned to Meyer. "Then how do we track it?"

Meyer referred to the pages he held. "Sir, these are transcripts of the
phone calls General Vanovich made and received today. He paged Tom Chase
at 700 hours. Chase called back at 7:02. And at--" "Excuse me' the
President . "How is it you have this kind of information about the head
of the NIA?"

Hector had been wondering the same thing. He saw Meyer's pained
expression and decided the explanation was as bad as the President
probably feared.

"Sir," Meyer said, "I will provide full disclosure as to how and why
this information came into my hands, but time is short today."

The Man wasn't pleased, but he was practical. "Go ahead."

"The general received a call from a Dr. Helen Shapiro. She's a physicist
... well, she consults for the NIA on ... the point is, she works at a
company that monitors lightning strikes across North America, and one of
her employees apparently had recorded the QUICKSILVER test firings
earlier this year and had figured out where the tests took place. To
within twenty miles, she said."

"This physicist, does she know about QUICKSILVER?"

"She has some knowledge. Her specialty is lightning and EMP."

"Do we know who the employee is?"

"I've got his personnel file here."

"And will twenty miles be close enough for us to do something about
QUICKSILVER?"

"That will significantly narrow our search window."

Admiral Paulsen had something to add. "Mr. President, I've been
coordinating an operation between the Air Force and the Naval Research
Lab to bring down the satellite. We have Pegasus antisatellite missiles
mounted on B-52s and on standby alert at Vandenburg and Cape Canaveral."
"I thought you couldn't see this thing, Admiral?"

Meyer rapidly scanned his pages. "If this ... Stan Drewniak ... can get
us to within twenty miles of its position, we should be able to
calculate an orbit and have a good shot at spreading enough flak in
front of it to bring it down."

The President rubbed at the back of his neck. "And just so I understand
why you're bringing this to me: First, firing the Pegasus missiles will
be a violation of the START III Treaty. Second, those transcripts of the
general's calls are probably illegal. And third, Shapiro and Drewniak
don't have clearances for everything you'll have to tell them." Paulsen
actually smiled. "Three out of three, sir."

The President shook his head. "Do what you have to do, gentlemen. I will
want full reports, but you are now operating with the direct authority
of this office."

Both men exited the conference room as quickly as they had entered.

"At least that's some good news," Hector said. He'd just checked the
countdown for Major Sinclair. In about two minutes, she'd be through the
conduit. Then she'd have twenty minutes to report. Meanwhile, the bomber
was eighty-two minutes away. And there was no way to be certain how many
satellites were being shifted in orbit or forced to reenter in the
meantime. But' Not really, Hec. You realize that if that fellow can only
detect the satellite when it fires ..." "Oh, shit," Hector said as he
understood. "We're going to have to take another hit first."

The President nodded. "And we have no idea where."

SEWAGE CONDUIT FOUR The silt had been accumulating for decades. Margaret
Sinclair had only minutes. But the farther she crawled on through the
narrow concrete conduit, the thicker the silt at its bottom became.
After one hundred feet, almost halfway through, the clearance between
the silt and the top of the conduit was down to fifteen inches. There
was no way she could pass through it. She might actually fit in that
narrow a space, but it would be so tight she'd have no way to move her
arms and legs.

No way to move, period.

She castigated herself for not bringing some kind of digging tool to
scrape the silt away. She had her knife, but that was strapped to her
calf inside her coveralls. No way to reach it. And she had abandoned the
ceramic armor plate after twenty-five feet. It had just slowed her down.

She bowed her head for a moment, trying to think. Her scalp prickled
under the balaclava she wore as sweat ran off in constant beads. Her
vision was blurred from perspiration, but her gloves were so filthy she
couldn't wipe her face.

Finally, though, that one irritation among so many--the cuts on her
knees and elbows, the heat, her completely blocked sinuses--there was
one thing she could do.

She brought her silt-encrusted gloves up and pulled at the balaclava
until she had ripped it free of her face. For about five seconds, she
felt some relief. She could even use its sodden mass to wipe her eyes.

But the air in the conduit was no cooler or drier. She was still hot and
she was still sweating.

She shone her flashlight forward--at least that was working properly
--but the conduit's curve kept her from seeing more than another twenty
to thirty feet ahead.

Then she realized she did have a digging tool. The second flashlight.

She bit at the duct tape holding the spare flashlight to her left wrist,
then started to unwind it until the flashlight was free. Her shoulders
started to cramp with the constricted movements she was forced to make,
but she wouldn't slow down.

She unscrewed the top of the Maglite, shook out the batteries, and held
up the tool--a metal tube with sharp edges.

She plowed the empty metal tube into the silt and the silt broke apart
easily. Four deep furrows later, she banged the flashlight barrel
against the conduit wall to empty it out, and swept the silt to both
sides. Her digging had gained her another three to four inches of
clearance.

That was when she realized she didn't have to clear the entire surface.

She crawled forward, wriggling side to side more than moving on her
knees and elbows. Then she hollowed out a clear area to crawl into.

She could just squeeze through a fifteen-inch constriction, provided she
had enough space beyond it to move her arms and pull herself through.

The system worked. The silt wasn't too compacted. She started making
good time again.

Until she saw the vertical shelf of soil up ahead. For a moment,
frustration almost overwhelmed her. The conduit was blocked and she
wasn't certain she could crawl backward through the constrictions she'd
left behind her.

She forced her head down so she could watch her flashlight beam trace
the full interior surface of the conduit just before her.

There was one dark gap that remained even when the light hit it.

The conduit's shifted, that's all, she told herself. It's cracked and
dropped down a few inches.

She dug and crawled her way forward another three feet, grateful to the
silt, at least, for its protection from the sharp edges of concrete that
had ripped through her coveralls in just the first few feet of her
journey.

She reached the break in the conduit. The section she was in had
settled. About eight inches. She angled her head to the side and pushed
up as hard as she could against the top of the conduit, then shone her
flashlight through the elevated section. No silt.

But the gap she'd have to crawl through was barely twelve inches top to
bottom. Side-to-side, it was just wide enough for her shoulders to get
through. And once through, the conduit was clear so she'd have enough
room to pull herself up. And while twelve inches might not be a problem
if this were a water slide and she were in a bathing suit, the gap was
ringed by concrete splinters, and she was wearing coveralls stuffed with
equipment, covered in pockets, over her BDU pants and shirt.

She might make it through. But then again, she might snag her coveralls,
or she might just be too bulky in all her gear.

There was only one thing to do.

She had to lose her coveralls. She mentally rehearsed the steps.

She'd peel them off like a banana skin down to her waist, freeing her
arms at least. Then she'd pull herself through the gap and the
bunched-up coveralls would jam in place on the concrete, and she'd
simply pull herself out of them.

Just like pulling sleepers off Tyler when he was a baby, she told
herself. It would mean losing the nylon cord and all the equipment she
had planned to drag through after her. But she would still have the
radio. Information was still what was most important.

She pushed her back up against the top of the conduit and tugged the
coveralls' front zipper down as far as she could. Then she grabbed one
sleeve and pulled her arm down, and in. Wriggling an inch at a time, she
finally got one arm free. It was slightly easier to free her other arm.
Then she took the radio she had stuffed into the front of the coveralls
and tossed it up into the raised half of the conduit. She left the
Beretta behind. It would be useless without the clip in her coveralls
pocket.

Margaret took a few deep breaths, though that only made the walls of the
conduit seem to close in on her more tightly, then reached up with one
arm into the raised section and kicked with her feet to propel herself
forward.

She turned to the side and edged one shoulder in first, in order to
clear the bottom edge of the conduit, for once in her life glad her
chest wasn't a single inch larger.

Now when she took a breath, she could feel the edges of the gap on her
back and across her ribs at the same time. The sensation was
panic-inducing. She fought back the instinctive impulse to breathe
deeply and forced herself instead to empty her lungs so she could pull
herself clear.

Her waist was through. Still holding her breath, she wriggled,
struggled, finally felt the coveralls snag, and then she angled her
elbows against the rough concrete and pulled her backside through.

Now she allowed herself the luxury of breathing again. Three deep slow
breaths, and it was time to start forward. Using mostly her arms, she
pulled herself along, pushing the radio ahead, until even her feet were
in the new clear section of the conduit. It was still only twenty inches
across, but it was almost like being outside again.

Her legs were still tangled in the trapped coveralls, but that was fine.
She pulled herself along another four feet, and then the tension on her
combat boots told her she had stretched the Nomex coveralls to their
full length.

Now it was just a question of determination. The cuffs of the coveralls
were outside her boots. They were wide enough to be pulled on over her
boots. Therefore, she told herself, they were wide enough to be pulled
off.

Inch by inch she hauled herself forward, her shoulders cramping from the
stress. Her boots began to strain against the coveralls. Her BDU shirt
and pants began to shred, torn by the rough concrete. And then, after
one mighty shove forward, her left foot jerked free of the coveralls. At
once she used that boot to push against the fabric already halfway down
her other boot.

She was wheezing now with every breath. Her ice-cold hands had so many
small cuts and scrapes that they were raw and bleeding. But she had not
come all this way to be caught by two lousy inches of ugly fabric.

And then with one last push she was free.

She lay flat in the conduit for only a moment.

It wasn't time to rest. And she'd been through worse in her training at
Fort Bragg. Yeah, right.

She angled the flashlight to look at her watch. It felt as if she had
spent hours in the conduit, but only fifteen minutes had elapsed.

Five minutes too long.

She crawled forward again, falling into a rhythm, pushing the radio
ahead of her. She kept shining her flashlight ahead, certain she had
progressed at least four hundred feet. But the conduit seemed endless.

There was only darkness before her.

She pushed herself faster, until a merciful numbness set in to her
abraded arms and legs. She shone the light forward again. Still no end.
Just darkness.

For one terrifying moment, she wondered if the original plans had been
wrong, and instead of this conduit ending at an exterior foundation
wall, it continued on beneath the Pentagon.

Her breath came in gasps now as if she were running. Right elbow, left
elbow, right knee, left knee. Light forward, nothing, keep crawling,
keep crawling.

The end of the conduit would come soon. She had to get out soon. Two
hundred feet. That was all it was supposed to be. Two hundred lousy And
then her right elbow came down on absolutely nothing, and Margaret
Sinclair fell into the void.

NINE

TUCSON, ARIZONA
Start Drewniak floated blissfully in the hot tub overlooking his Fiji
estate. His neck was stiff, but the soft hands of Gabrielle were working
wonders on his tired muscles. And as for Xena, Warrior Princess, it
truly was remarkable how long she could hold her breath as she Gabrielle
punched his shoulder.

He pushed her hand away. "Gabrielle, don't--"

Then her powerfully muscled hand grabbed the sheet off Stan's chest,
along with half his chest hair, and Stan was instantly and terrifyingly
awake in the disaster area that was his bedroom. Gabrielle, Xena, and
the Fiji estate raced back to dreamland, leaving Stan staring in
slack-jawed shock at two Men in Black.

They loomed over him, both in identical dark suits, both with identical
close-cropped hair. One was holding an eight-by-ten photo of Stan. The
other held Stan's Disc Man Its headphones were swinging back and forth
like a noose.

"Are you Stanley N. Drewniak?" the one with the photo asked.

Stan nodded slowly. He was painfully aware that except for the dingy
white sheet balled up in his lap, he was naked. He was also even more
aware that whoever these two were, they had to be in law enforcement,
and there was a half-smoked joint in the stolen Maria's Restaurant
ashtray on the floor beside the mattress.

Stan breathed in deeply, through his nose. The room still smelled of
pot. GAI was a zero-tolerance company. His job there was finished. He
was busted.

"Get your clothes on, sir," the one with his Disc Man said. "You're
coming with us."

"D-don't you have to read me my rights? Or something?"

"You're not under arrest."

Both men flipped open badge cases.

"Holy crap," Stan said, reading each ID card. air force intelligence
agency They really were Men in Black.

"Why me?" he asked plaintively.

But the one with his Disc Man was not interested in a discussion. "If
you do not get dressed now, we will take you out wearing that sheet.

Have I made myself clear, sir?"

Stan edged off his bed, clutching the sheet, and backed up over
paperback books, CD cases, and old towels and plates with pizza crusts
until he found his black shorts and the least dirty T-shirt he owned.

He reached down for his shorts and put them on with one hand.

"Where are we going?" Stan dropped the sheet and pulled his T-shirt over
his head.

"We're taking you to work, sir."

Stan stopped in the middle of fastening one of his desert sandals.

That made no sense. "You mean, Global Atmospherics?"

"You have to hurry."

"But I'm not supposed to go back in till Tuesday."

"Change of plans," one said as he hooked his arm around Stan's and
started dragging him toward the door. Stan's left sandal was half off
his foot.

"What kind of plans? I don't have any plans!"

The second one was right behind him, pushing. "Sir, the United States
Air Force wants you to find the Grinch."

"Holy crap," Stan gasped. If these two really are from the Air Force,
then the Grinch isn't one of ours! It's one of ... theirs!

He was propelled through his living room and out the front door of his
tan stucco bungalow, toward a white Chevy Suburban parked on the street.

It all made sense now--the one special scenario he hadn't had the nerve
to suggest to Dr. Shapiro.

Suddenly, Stan was as anxious to get back to work as these two were to
get him there.

"I knew it!" Stan said as he was stuffed into the backseat of the Chevy.

"Knew what, sir?"

"I found a goddamn alien spacecraft!"

Stan saw the two Men in Black exchange a glance and shake their heads.
But then, what was he honestly expecting them to say? That he, Stan
Drewniak, was the first to crack a decades-old government coverup?

With a flashing orange light on its roof and a siren, the white Suburban
ran all the red lights on the way to Global Atmospherics.

Deep in his own thoughts, Stan didn't notice. He was busy.
Trying to decide which talk show to go on first.

BASEMENT LEVEL, AUXILIARY GROUNDWATER ABATEMENT AREA As Margaret
Sinclair pitched forward, she threw her hands out, to empty space,
catching sparkling reflections from the beam of the flashlight taped to
her wrist. Then, with a grunt, she stopped falling. She was halfway out
of the conduit, her upper body and arms free. She'd reached the end.

She was now hanging head down from the edge of the conduit, her hands
dangling five feet above a still, dark body of water. Ripples radiated
across its surface from the handful of gravel and debris she'd
dislodged.

Then she felt herself slip forward another inch.

At once, she braced her knees and feet against the sides and top of the
conduit. She twisted up and back to place one hand on the edge of the
conduit so she could direct the beam of her flashlight around the open
space she was in. Four feet beyond the opening to the conduit was a
rough concrete wall that ran down to the water. She swung the flashlight
up. The ceiling of the wall was only a few inches above the top of the
opening.

Made it, she exulted. She knew she had to be in the water abatement area
built around the Pentagon's basement. She ran the beam of her flashlight
along the wall. Six feet along, she located an access hatch, whose
bottom lip was about three feet above the surface of the water. But
there was nothing to indicate how deep the water might be.

She didn't think it was likely it would be over her head, but neither
did she like the idea of sinking into another sixty years' worth of silt
that could grip her boots like quicksand. And unfortunately, except for
her radio and the knife strapped to her calf, which she could finally
reach back for if she had to, she had nothing to test the water's depth.
And with the conduit so tight, she had no way of changing her position
so she could come out feet first.

There was nothing to do but go on.

She rocked back and forth in the conduit until she was certain she was
securely braced by both her thighs and boots. Then arching up and back,
in a form of reverse sit-up, she pulled off her camouflage shirt with
its tattered long sleeves, leaving her in her standard, light brown Army
T-shirt.

Breathing hard from the exertion, she tied a knot in one sleeve of her
camouflage shirt, creating a pouch for the radio. Then she did her best
to snag the other sleeve on one of the sharp crusts of concrete at the
edge of the conduit. Now the radio hung two feet from the surface of the
water. Even if the water were ten feet deep, she'd be able to reach the
radio and swim it over to the access hatch. Provided the silt didn't
grab her boots.

By now, Margaret's legs were shaking with the strain she had placed on
them. A check of her watch showed that it had been twenty-three minutes
since she entered the conduit. She had no more time to waste.

She braced one hand on the edge of the conduit opening, then started
rocking herself forward, using her other hand to push, until her knees
were right at the edge. Squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath,
she gave one last push and kicked with her feet and dropped down to the
water.

It was three inches deep.

Her fall had only been three feet, not enough to break the hand she used
to absorb the impact of her fall, but enough to send sharp pain through
her left wrist, and then her left shoulder as she hit the water covered
concrete floor and rolled.

She was on her feet a second later, half her body soaked in brackish,
foul-smelling water. But, except for what felt like a minor sprain in
her wrist, and raw patches of skin on her forearms and shins, she had
made it unscathed.

She took the radio from her shirt pouch, and switched it on.

"Midnight Special to Grand Central," she whispered. "Do you copy?

Over."

The response was instant, though garbled. "Grand Central to Midnight
Special, we copy. Are you on the landing field? Over."

The reception was less than optimal. Margaret doubted she'd be able to
travel very far from the runnel and still remain in contact with the
soldiers at Grand Central--the Delta Force staging point under the
parade grounds.

She continued with the simple codes she and General Brower had agreed
to. "Negative, Grand Central. I'm off the landing field and in the
helicopter. I am about to open the hatch. Over."

But there were some things the code couldn't handle. "Midnight Special,
do you have the nylon cord? Over."

"Negative, Grand Central. That got hung up and I left it behind. I'll
report in five. Over."

"Midnight Special, make it faster if you can. We're ready to go home any
minute. Over."

Margaret felt a new burst of urgency. In this case, "home" was the
Pentagon. They were getting ready to counterattack before she even had a
chance to reconnoiter.

"Copy that," she radioed back. "Back in five. Midnight Special, out."

Margaret slipped the radio into the front pocket of her camouflage
service trousers, then approached the access hatch. It had two lever
latches that had been recently oiled. She tried one. It moved easily.

She took a breath, then turned off her flashlight.

The darkness was absolute.

Now she worked by touch, finding both latches, moving them down and then
in, so the hatch opened out to the left.

No light came in from the Pentagon basement beyond, but Margaret spotted
a constellation of tiny green lights. LEDs, she decided. She must be in
some type of equipment room.

She listened for a moment, but heard only a faint hum. Most likely the
room's air-circulation system or transformers.

She slowly eased herself through the access hatchway and pulled herself
out, onto carpeted floor. On this side of the basement wall, the floor
was only a foot beneath the lip of the hatch. The fetid swampy stench of
the water behind her gave way to the scent of plastic, the sort of smell
she'd always associated with new electronics out of the box.

Silently, she rose to her feet, feeling the chill of the room's air
conditioning on the drenched side of her body. Now she could see dozens
of the tiny green lights, arranged across two sides of a corridor. The
sound impression of the room suggested she was in a small enclosure, so
she risked turning on the flashlight again.

She was surrounded by shelves full of storage batteries. The green
lights were their charging indicators. Fifteen feet ahead of her was a
large door with an in case of fire diagram on it. It had to be an exit.

She moved quickly to the door, tried the latch handle. It wasn't locked.

She turned the flashlight off again, opened the door just an inch.

Now there was light. Dim, distant, but enough for her to be able to tell
she was in a large corridor that had been damaged, probably by something
explosive.

About ten feet away, in front of and to the side of double doors which
had been blown off their hinges, was a large security counter, faced in
blast-damaged oak veneer. Margaret recognized the counter as one that
would have been staffed by two security guards. There would be at least
one computer terminal behind it, and at least one phone. It didn't
matter if the phone worked or not. All she needed was to find the
sticker that would be on it, identifying its location in the Building in
the event of emergency.

Margaret picked up some rubble to prop open the door to the
storage-battery room, to keep it from closing behind her. Then she moved
toward the security counter.

But she didn't need to find the phone. On the wall, to the side of the
counter, were enough large, undamaged letters to tell her she was
outside the Air Force Operations Center. As she looked in through the
empty door frames she could smell smoke from fire and explosives. Water
sprinklers hissed in the distance.

She knew it was a long shot, but she switched on her radio. "Midnight
Special to Grand Central, do you copy?"

But she heard only the flat, featureless hiss of digital static. The EM
shielding around the Air Force ops center was going to make it even more
difficult to get a message outside. She decided to return to the water
abatement chamber. She had to make contact again. She had to tell Delta
Force that whoever was in the Pentagon had managed to bring in major
explosives. She had to warn them to be prepared for booby traps and She
heard footsteps. Down the corridor. Coming closer.

Instantly, Margaret crouched down behind the counter. All distracting
sensations from her scraped arms and legs, her sprained wrist, her
bruised shoulder, passed from her consciousness. She shoved the radio
into her pocket.

A splintered crack in the counter's veneer gave her a slight view of the
corridor. Barely.

A figure was moving toward her. Slowly.

Margaret strained to pick out details in the dark lighting of the hall.

Was it one of the terrorists in midshipman white? One of the second wave
in commando black?

Without thought, she moved her right hand down to her calf and silently
slipped her K-bar knife from its sheath.

She listened to the footsteps coming closer, estimating distance,
watching as the figure came nearer to the counter, until its shadow fell
across the splintered crack.

Her attack was fluid, precise, and until the last possible instant,
silent.

She stretched up and swung around the counter to find the enemy's back
directly in front of her, and she swung her left arm over the enemy's
neck and shoulders as she brought her right arm up with the blade turned
to slice across the carotids and trachea so there would not even be a
scream and then she thoughti know that smell--and did the unthinkable.
She hesitated--and in that same moment felt a terrible stab of pain in
her left hand and in her confusion felt herself pulled up and into the
air, over those broad shoulders she knew so well to land flat on her
back on the rubble-strewn floor to look straight up into the eyes of'
What the hell are you doing here!?" Tom Chase yelled.

He had seen the flash of the knife, felt the strength of the arm around
his neck, known for one awful moment of clarity that his throat would be
slashed ... and then for an instant nothing happened.

Until, without even knowing he was doing it, he'd done the only thing he
could. He'd grabbed his attacker's hand and squeezed it as hard as he
could between thumb and forefinger, and then flipped-Margaret.

"You're the one carrying a submachine gun!" his ex-wife snapped at him.
"You don't carry guns. I thought you were a terrorist, all right? Now
let go!"

Tom released Margaret's hand, not sure which shock was stronger-being
attacked by a terrorist, or encountering his ex-wife in the basement of
the Pentagon. He stared dumbly at her other hand. She still held her
huge, stupid knife.

"You were going to kill me," he said.

"Only during the divorce." Margaret pushed herself to her feet, shaking
her left hand. "I don't believe this. The old Vulcan death grip?"

"There is no Vulcan death grip. Where's Tyler?"

"He's at the ball game with his father."

Tom didn't want to go down that path. "C'mon, Margaret. There're a lot
of people getting killed in here and there's no way both of us should be
in the same place."

"As I recall, I told you to find somewhere safe and keep your head-LOOK
OUT!"

Margaret snapped out her arm to grab Tom's shirt and swing him around
behind her as she got ready to throw her knife at' DROP IT!" Bethune
shouted. She had her own submachine gun up to her shoulder, aimed
directly at Margaret.

And at me behind her, Tom thought. I'm surrounded by them.

He waved his hands so that Bethune could see he wasn't hurt.

"Midshipman Nuke Bethune, I'd like you to meet Major Margaret
Sinclair-Chase."

Margaret lowered her knife. "It's just Sinclair. Are you Amy Bethune?"

Bethune lowered her submachine gun. "Yes, ma'am."

The major tossed her knife into her left hand and moved forward to shake
hands with the midshipman.

"Look," Tom said, "we have to get to a phone so I can send out ..."

He stopped as he looked down at the floor and saw a small MSE digital
radio where Margaret had been. He picked it up. "Is this yours?"

Margaret answered him by snatching it from his hand. She brushed dust
and fine debris from it.

"Does that even work down here?"

Margaret pointed to a utility door that was held open by a chunk of
shattered drywall. "It does in there. Let's go."

Margaret led the way into a storage-battery switching room. Tom realized
it was one of the facilities that kept the Pentagon powered during
interruptions in the electrical system. The fact that all the charging
indicators were green meant that, somewhere, backup power generators
were working.

Margaret marched straight to the back of the room. Bethune followed her,
telling her everything they had learned about the disposition of the
hostages. Tom paused at the door, looked to the side, hit the light
switch. A bank of overhead fluorescents blazed to life, making Margaret
wheel around in surprise.

"Just trying to make life easier," Tom said. But then, some of the
sharpness that Margaret invariably brought out in him these days began
to fade. Under the bright lights, she looked terrible. As if she'd been
through a war herself.

There was black scum soaking half her T-shirt and her Army pants. The
fronts of her pant legs, including both knees, were in shreds, and her
arms were caked in blood. "No offense, but you look like you crawled in
through a sewer."

"Ten points," Margaret said. She handed Bethune a small flashlight, then
ducked through some kind of maintenance opening in the wall.

Bethune followed Margaret. Tom heard water splash.

By the time he stuck his head through the opening, he could see Margaret
and Bethune standing a few feet away in what almost seemed to be a storm
sewer. Tom was amazed that the Pentagon had allowed any kind of pipe
large enough for someone to crawl through to be connected to the
Building. Then he saw what Margaret was standing in front of. A pipe
opening he doubted Tyler could fit through. But SOP for my ex-wife, he
thought.

Margaret was calling in on her radio. "Midnight Special to Grand
Central." Tom sighed. The military loved their code names. "Hostages
have been placed to take fire. There are hostages in the River Side
offices. Do you copy?"

Tom heard (he wild rise and fall of old-fashioned static. There was no
connection. He wondered why they were using an analog radio.

Margaret tried again, speaking more urgently. Tom saw her hold her watch
under the flashlight Bethune held. "Trouble," Margaret said.

"Is there a timetable we don't know about?" he asked.

"I'd say so," Margaret answered. "Right above us we've got three hundred
Delta commandos ready to swarm all over those hostages, and in
sixty-five minutes, we've got a Bl-B that's going to plant a nuke right
smack in the Courtyard."

Tom exploded through the access opening and splashed across the
water-covered floor, startling both Margaret and Bethune. He jabbed a
finger at the conduit opening the wall. "Is that how you got in here?!

Because if it is, I want you to get back in there and get the hell out
of here! Tyler's not losing both of his parents!"

"We've got sixty-five minutes! Midnight Special to Grand Central, do you
copy?"

"Sixty-five minutes?! It's a nuke, for God's sake!"

"Will you calm down? It's a low-yield penetrator! It goes off
underground!"

"Margaret! We're underground!"

"Midnight Special to Grand Central, do you copy?"

Tom fought the urge to grab that radio and throw it as far into the pipe
as he could so she'd have to go after it. "How dare you," he said to
her, absolutely consumed with anger. "I got caught in here by accident.
But you deliberately left Tyler--"

The radio squealed with static again, rising and falling, and Margaret
turned away from him to listen.

Tom was through talking. Words often failed him where his ex-wife was
concerned. He grabbed her hand without warning and popped the radio from
her grip. "Is this MSE?" he said. "Mobile Subscriber Equipment?"

"Yes!" Margaret lunged for him, but Tom pulled back just in time. He
knew enough not to give her room for some of her fancier moves.

"Digital network?"

"Give it back or so help me--" Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw
Bethune wondering whether to jump him as well. He suddenly felt as if he
were caught between two raptors.

"That wasn't digital static!" Tom shouted to break through to Margaret
somehow. "It should be a hiss, that's all. We should be hearing a
single-tone clear signal that comes from the circuits, and not the
reception. Okay?"

At that, Margaret finally stood back, listening to him. Maybe
remembering just who it was in the family who'd repaired the VCR when
Tyler had tried to play a peanut-butter sandwich in it.

He held the radio in Bethune's flashlight beam, saw what he was looking
for on the radio's bottom. "Look! Here!" He showed Bethune the small
Change Mode switch. "It's a dual-use radio, Margaret. You've got it set
for analog."

Tom drove his thumbnail into the switch recess and felt it snap from
Analog to Digital. Then he shoved the radio back into Margaret's hands.

Margaret glared at him. "It probably got knocked when it hit the
floor--when you flipped me." She flicked the transmit switch.

"Midnight Special to Grand Central, do you copy?"

The response came at once. "Hey, Midnight Special--get your butt off the
helicopter, we're landing in sixty. Over."

Tom saw the alarm in Margaret's eyes as she called back. "No! No!

There are hostages at every window and every door in the River Entrance!
If you go in, they will take the fire! Repeat: The hostages will take
the fire! You must abort the landing! Do you copy?"

The next few seconds were, for Tom, the longest of the day so far.

And all he could think was, With Margaret here, the day's not over yet...

TEN

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER, FBI HEADQUARTERS

"Abort!" the President ordered. "General Brower, you will abort the
attack!"

On the wall-sized video display, General Brower turned to the side and
spoke into a small, green radio. "This is Round House--all units stand
down. All units stand down and hold position."

A terse voice answered, "Stand down and hold position. Copy that."

Hector finally let himself breathe again. How close had they come to
killing most of the hostages? Fifteen seconds? Ten?

The President seemed equally shaken by the close call. But Brower was
poised for action and still ready to go. "Mr. President, let us assume
the major is correct."

"Are you doubting your own person?" the President asked. He glanced
around the table in the FBI's SIOC conference room, silently polling for
opinions. But by now, Hector knew, the President was unchallenged.

Admiral Paulsen, General Tanukatys, Archibald Fortis, Milton Meyer, even
Douglas Casson, they all were firmly on his side. The President's
dismissal of FBI Director James Gibb had almost been a morale booster.

Hector hadn't heard a voice raised in anger since.

"I don't doubt she's reporting what Chase and Bethune told her," Brower
said. "But we've had infrared viewers scanning the River Entrance
windows for the past hour, specifically to see if any of those rooms
were occupied. And, sir, we have seen no evidence that they are."

Hector understood the dilemma facing the President. On a sidewall
display screen was an outline map of the country. A small red dot,
blinking on and off, was a third of the way along a shallow curve that
stretched from Ellsworth Air Force Base outside Rapid City, South
Dakota, to Washington, D.C.

That little dot was code-named Red Panther Two. It was the destruction
of the Pentagon and the deaths of more than two hundred hostages,
including the President's wife. It was the end of a sixty-year
moratorium on the use of nuclear weapons in conflict. It was a little
red dot that would forever change the United States, and quite possibly
the world. And the President had to balance all that against a forwarded
message from one soldier who had been behind enemy lines for five
minutes.

"Sir, you've given an order to release a weapon that will kill all the
hostages. If you let me proceed, targeting only one quarter of the
windows we had originally selected, we might lose some hostages, but by
God we will be able to rescue others. If we can't save them all, let me
at least try to save some."

The President rubbed at his temples, absolutely exhausted. "General, if
this were simply a matter of mathematics, you'd be absolutely right.

Getting some of them out is better than getting none of them. But those
words you used, ' might lose some hostages," that's not math.

That's coffins. That's mothers and fathers and sons and daughters, all
losing someone. It's people with names and faces who will live or die
depending on the decision I make. Not you." "Sir, with respect," Brower
said, "you do have to make a decision. We can't just wait it out."

"But what if Major Sinclair succeeds in reaching Site J and shutting it
down?"

"Do you honestly think that's likely, sir?"

The President looked surprised by the question. "If you don't think she
has a chance, then why did you allow her to go?"

Brower looked uncomfortable. "Because ... she does have a chance.

Maybe one in a thousand, one in a million, who knows? At the very least
... and sir, I am sorry to put it this way, in the ... in the math that
I do in situations like this, I had to allow for the highly likely
possibility that she would fail in her mission, that she would be
captured, and that she would win us a few minutes of confusion and delay
for the enemy."

Hector felt sick. Both because in General Brower's eyes, Margaret
Sinclair's life seemed to be nothing more than a weapon to be used, and
perhaps lost, in battle, and because Hector knew why it was the general
had to think that way. He glanced out through the glass wall to see
Tyler and Special Agent Newman at the desk outside. Newman had brought
up some magazines and comics from the day-care center downstairs. Tyler
was busy showing her something in a comic.

Meanwhile, his mother and his father were sixty minutes from death.

Brower was not ready to give up. "Director Casson," he said. "I know
this is unusual, but what isn't today? The thing is, when it comes to
policy, we CINCs are usually able to air our differences with the
SECDEF, without troubling the President. And as far as I can see, you're
about the closest thing to the SECDEF left in one piece. So I appeal to
you, if there's something more I should know about the President's
reluctance, or if there is some way you might prevail upon him to see
this matter from a military standpoint, I would be deeply grateful."
Brower reached out for an offscreen control. "I'm going to sign off for
a few minutes. But I'll be here, standing by."

The screen went blank.

Casson went to work. "Mr. President, from a purely military, and
practical, point of view, I believe the general is correct. I believe
the best we can hope for is a partial rescue. The more time the general
has, the more successful that rescue will be." "Point of view," the
President sighed. "Perspective."

Hector felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle as the President
said those words. He knew what was going to happen next.

It did.

"What do you say, Hec? What's your perspective?" / don't belong here,
Hector thought. / never have. But he wouldn't abandon the Man now. He
couldn't. But how to answer? I believe you should trust Major Sinclair
because I'm on the verge of asking her out?

I believe you should do what the general says and maybe risk losing
Sinclair because she is just a soldier, after all, and a soldier's lot
is to do or die? I believe that, with so many lives at stake, you can't
be diverted by thoughts of one life, like your wife's, or Tyler's, or
... No, that isn't it, Hector thought. I'm the President's contrarian.
How do I turn this conversation upside down? How do I change the rules?

And then he had it. He leaned forward.

"Sir, we're talking about the wrong thing here," he said. "We're talking
as if we've already lost. But we should be asking ourselves how we can
win. We've got the world's best soldiers from the world's best army out
there. We're fighting on our home ground."

"It's Captain Kronig's home ground, too," Casson reminded everyone.

The NRO director had taken off his round-framed spectacles and was
busily polishing them. "Kronig was posted at the Pentagon. He's already
shown that he knows his way around. He's managed to outmaneuver us at
every stage."

"He hasn't outmaneuvered us," Hector protested. He's only anticipated
what the military response would be. Like General Brower said, there was
only one way to get into the Pentagon quickly and that was through the
River Entrance windows. So, Kronig, or whoever's in charge, that's what
they figured out, too, and that's where they blocked us. So we need
another strategy, another approach that he won't be expecting."

Casson put his glasses back on and gave Hector a sharp look for arguing
with his elders and his betters. "Mr. Macgregor, that is why the armed
forces devote tens of thousands of hours of training and hundreds of
millions of dollars of their budgets on war-gaming, scenario-testing,
coming up with and trying out new modes of thinking about strategy and
tactics. If we had a few years, I'd say you were right." The director
looked over at the time display under the map of the progress of Red
Panther Two. The large red numbers cycled over to 00:59:59 as the room
watched. "But we have sixty minutes. Mr. President, we have to go in."

"But not through the windows," Hector said.

Everyone looked at him.

"General Brower says there's no way through that huge blast door. If
that's what he thinks, then Kronig thinks it, too. So there're no
hostages behind it. So, all you have to do is go in through that door."
Hector sat back. "That's my perspective, sir."

"Um, it sounds pretty," Fortis said, "but ... how do you go through a
door you, uh, can't go through?"

Hector reflected for a moment, then stared up at the conference room
ceiling. It was made of perfect rows of acoustic tiles, studded with pot
lights that had partial spherical shields over them to redirect the
light. Their rounded shape made him think of bullets in a gun, bombs in
a bomber. "Too bad you can't get that bomber to drop the penetrator
through the blast door without blowing up."

Hector glanced down from the ceiling to see that everyone at the table
was now staring at General Janukatys. The Air Force Chief of Staff held
up his hand. "Sorry, even if we don't arm the warhead, the penetrator's
a gravity bomb. Its CEP--Circular Error Probable--is ten meters. That
means we could miss the door by thirty-three feet on all sides, and that
means we'd probably hit the roof or the wall or even the parking lot,
first. And if it didn't work, we wouldn't have anything left to take out
Site J. The Air Force can't help you."

Hector wasn't really surprised. It had been too much to hope for, to
think that he might come up with an idea the top military minds in the
country had missed.

Then Admiral Paulsen said, "But the Navy can."

The expectation that suddenly filled the room felt like a static charge
was building, as if lightning were about to strike.

Paulsen got to his feet. "Mr. President, you give me the word, and I'll
get you through that door in fifteen minutes." Then he turned to Hector
and added, "God bless you, Macgregor."

Hector knew he'd finally done something useful today.

He just didn't know what.

BASEMENT LEVEL, RING F Amy still had no explanation for why Major
Margaret Sinclair had married someone like Tom Chase. But she knew why
Chase had married the major. Though she was covered with slime, bruised,
and scraped, Chase's wife--ex-wife--was gorgeous.

She also knew how to take command. As soon as Sinclair had received
confirmation that the Delta Force assault had been aborted, she had
radioed back that she was proceeding to the Club Car. Then she had
plunged through the access opening into the battery room, naturally
assuming that Amy and Chase would follow her. And they had.

When they were back in the ruined corridor outside the Air Force ops
center, Sinclair had asked Amy, "Can you handle that H&K?"

"Yes, sir--ma'am."

Sinclair had smiled at the slip. Three years at the Academy and Amy
still got it wrong. The

"Yes, sir!" response was so reflexive, it was hard to change it for
those ten percent of officers who were female.

"Any other weapons?"

Amy gave her the Beretta and Sinclair expertly checked the clip and
thumbed the safety. "Clips?"

Amy passed them over.

"Good work," the major said. "You're my squad." "And ... ?" Chase had
asked.

"You can't stay here," Sinclair told him.

"I have no intention of staying here."

"Good. Stick with us. We'll find a safe place to stow you."

"And I don't have any intention of being stowed."

"Tom, you have no idea how much it pains me to say this, but you're
right. We both can't be here if that nuke hits."

At that, Amy saw Chase wave his hands at the major, as if signaling for
a time-out. "That's it. Stop it right there. Why are they nuking the
Pentagon?" "If you keep up with us," Sinclair said, "you'll find out."

Then the three of them moved out, down the corridor, and the story the
major told was incredible.

Amy knew Chase had suspected a special, classified shelter deep under
the Pentagon. But she could tell that even he was surprised by
Sinclair's revelation that it was a complete, alternate military command
center. And by the operations details of the new weapons system-code
name QUICKSILVER--that the major and General Vanovich had worked on that
wasn't supposed to have been a weapons system. The major's description
of that was mind-boggling. Not to mention what she told them about what
really happened to the Shilo.

Amy remembered gathering with her fellow mids in the company room back
at Bancroft Hall during the Dark Ages, that long, terrible stretch of
winter days between Christmas and spring vacations. That's when the
Shilo hearings had been held in D.C. She had taken part in the heated
debates that had raged about who was to blame. Now, she knew, all that
expert testimony, all those charts, computer records, and even satellite
photographs--they'd all been altered. The official deception was
unsettling. Amy found it hard to understand how decisions like that
could originate in an organization for which duty, honor, and absolute
honesty were mandatory.

Some of the senior Naval officers who had testified had even been
Academy graduates. How does that happen? Amy asked herself. How do you
graduate from the Academy and become an officer who can he? She knew it
did happen. She just hoped she never found out how.

Chase, with his engineer's mind, was even more astounded by QUICKSILVER
than Amy was. She took it as a matter of course that there would
constantly be new and more powerful weapons added to the armory of the
United States. It was one of the necessities for maintaining freedom.

But Chase kept pestering the major with so many technical questions that
she finally ordered him to just shut up.

Surprisingly, he did.

Amy couldn't believe these two had ever been married. Chase didn't seem
to realize that Sinclair was a complete person on her own, who could
function perfectly well without him. And Sinclair didn't seem to realize
that Chase was someone who had to question everything. Even Amy knew
that was how Chase dealt with uncertainty. He still hadn't found a place
in the world in which he felt as secure as Sinclair was in the Army. At
least, that was how Amy saw it. She was aware that that was part of what
had drawn her to the Navy, just as her father had been to the Air Force.

For her, there was, of course, the challenge of a demanding job only a
handful of people could do, as well as the chance to serve her country.

But with those responsibilities came the absolute security offered by an
organization that always looked after its own. Amy knew her place in the
Navy would always be as clear as the stripes on her sleeves and the
ribbons on her chest. No questions. No doubts.

Chase was just looking for that kind of grounding in his own life.

Obviously he was trying to provide it for their son. Amy didn't think it
would be all that difficult for the right partner to calm him down.

Might even be interesting to try, she thought.

The major led them through a series of interconnected hallways as if she
had laid out the Pentagon herself. When they came to a corner where the
scent of expended explosives became strong again, Sinclair moved out in
front to check ahead, then waved them on.

The short hallway they were in now had once been blocked by a blast
door. Amy saw no card reader on the wall, so she knew it had been a
perimeter door, one of the ones which even Chase's proxcard couldn't
open.

But someone had. By setting off a huge explosion.

The warped blast door had been shoved to the side of the rubble filled
hallway. "This is how they brought the hostages up," Sinclair said.

She looked around at the extensive damage. Waterlines in the ceiling
dripped water. Multicolored blossoms of fine wires fanned out of other
broken pipes beside them. "But how the hell did they get so much
firepower in here?"

Chase pointed to a jumbled pile of cardboard cartons that had been blown
down the hallway by the blast. Amy could see Campbell's Soup logos on
their sides. The cartons were surrounded by some sheets of what appeared
to be heavy metal foil. "Like that," he said.

Chase jogged over to the boxes, and cautiously picked up one of the
scattered sheets of foil. He held them out for Amy and Sinclair to
inspect. Close up, the foil screen was perforated with thousands of what
seemed to be random pinpricks and slashes, incredibly fine. The
irregular mesh shimmered like a moire pattern.

"This explains how they smuggled the explosives into the Pentagon,"
Chase said. "Probably a lot more, too. Guns, radios, ammunition. The CIA
uses these."

"What is it?" the major asked.

"An X-ray hologram." Chase handed the foil to Sinclair. "They make a 3-D
X-ray of a carton of Campbell's Soup cans, scanning the carton from
every angle. Then they encode that 3-D data on a 2-D sheet of lead foil,
with a cutting laser. Same way they put 3-D images on a 2-D sheet of
film, using visible-light lasers. Just like Tyler's dinosaur holograms.

"My guess is that the Pentagon kitchen probably brought in a couple of
hundred more cartons than usual for that luncheon today. The terrorists
must have packed soup cartons full of explosives and then put one of
these lead-foil sheets inside each box. When security ran the cartons
through the X-ray scanners at the Remote Loading dock facility, the
interference pattern cut into the foil would make sure all they'd have
seen would have been cans of soup. The only clue, and no one would have
noticed it in a fast scan, would have been the slight increase in
density of plastic explosives over soup."

As the major examined the foil, Amy couldn't help but ask Chase, "How
come the chemical sniffers didn't pick up the explosives?"

But Sinclair answered. "They're not reliable for food products. A few
years ago, there was a lot of trouble at Heathrow Airport when its
detectors couldn't tell the difference between plastic explosives and
Christmas puddings."

Amy noticed Sinclair folding the foil into a wad, then stuffing it into
a pocket on her bedraggled camouflage pants. Amy took that as a good
sign. It meant the major planned to show it to someone. It meant she was
planning on making it back. Then, without another word, Sinclair turned
and sprinted off down the new stretch of hallway that extended past the
blast-door frame.

Once again, Chase and Amy fell into line behind the major, in that
order, constantly checking behind them to be sure they weren't being
followed.

Fifty feet down the corridor, Amy saw a dimly lit intersecting corridor,
brightened only by different-colored pipes. A large green pipe ran along
the floor while orange, red, and blue ones hugged the corridor's back
wall.

"Hold it," Chase said. He stopped abruptly, causing Amy to almost run
into him.

"What now?" Sinclair said impatiently, though she did stop.

"We're coming up to the utility corridor that runs under the Courtyard."

"So?"

"If this is the way to Site J--and if they've put hostages in the River
Entrance to slow down Delta Force--why isn't there anything in here to
slow us down?" Chase must have said something worth listening to,
because the major turned and looked at the corridor ahead. "Maybe they
didn't think anyone would get this far." "C'mon, Margaret, think it
through," Chase said. "There's no way anyone could think of holding the
Pentagon indefinitely. They've got to have some sort of defense in
mind."

"They also need a way out," Sinclair said. "Maybe this is it, and they
needed to keep it clear."

"So they could escape into the arms of Delta Force? I don't think so."

The major checked her watch. "Fifty-five minutes, Tom. We don't have
time to debate this. Best we can do is watch for booby traps."

Sinclair continued along the hallway toward the pipe-lined corridor.

This time, though, she was walking quickly, rather than jogging. And she
was scanning each side of the hallway for signs of wires or triggers or
other traps.

At the intersection, the major headed to her left, leading them to a
double-width metal staircase that rose only four feet, providing a way
to cross over the large green pipe that ran along the floor. At the top
of the stairs, there was a metal platform spanning the pipe that led to
two large gray doors. On one door, the words utility room's were painted
in dark brown. On the other door, a red sign with white letters said,
authorized personnel only.

There was a card reader to the right of the doors. Pulling a proxcard
out on a chain from her T-shirt, Sinclair beat Chase to the reader.

Amy heard the click of a door lock.

Then, before Sinclair could put a hand on the doors, Chase pushed them
open.

Amy blinked as bright light spilled out into the gloom of the utility
corridor.

"Let's move," Sinclair said as she pushed past Chase.

Shaking her head at their juvenile behavior, Amy stepped through the
door. She had seen mids do this to each other at the Academy, and it
never got them anywhere. All it did was distract them from the mission.

They were now in a downward-sloping, curved-ceiling runnel in which
bright light shot up from recessed panels along the tops of the walls.

The walls themselves were paneled in beige-plastic material, and each
wall featured dull-bronze handrails. The ambience was somehow calming
and efficient at the same time.

Looking ahead, Amy could see that the tunnel corridor continued for
about one hundred feet, appearing to end in a smear of light that
suggested they would be stepping outdoors. But when they exited the
sloping corridor, all Amy could think was that they had entered some
kind of mother ship.

She was in a large, circular room, perhaps two hundred feet across, with
a flattened domed ceiling almost twenty feet high at its center.

Directly beneath the center was a circular, pale copper-metal-clad kiosk
that held two sets of large elevator doors. Stacked beside the kiosk
were five bodies, all in Marine uniforms, surrounded by a great deal of
blood. There was little doubt in Amy's mind that the five soldiers were
dead, but Sinclair and Chase checked each one anyway.

Amy studied the room for information about its function. Above the
elevator doors, she saw individual gold letters and smaller gold script
spell out:

PENTAGON BUILDING ALTERNATE NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER
"Jli&e w f1 ace o* Stoth.

To the side of the elevator doors, she noted an oak panel with at least
ten unit patches, everything from the 50th Space Wing of the Air Force
to the Army's Signal Command, as well as the National Reconnaissance
Office and a circular unit patch she had never seen before. It was an
American Eagle, stylized, wings spread, head turned in profile, made up
of what seemed to be a pattern of printed circuits. Its unit title was
the National Infrastructure Agency. Amy had never heard of it.

Beyond the kiosk, she could see room partitions jutting out from the
back wall of the circular room. The partitions were made of panels of
the same beige plastic facing the walls of the tunnel-corridor leading
into the domed room. Various signs pointed to decontamination

SHOWERS, UNIFORMS, MEDICAL CARE, and ISOLATION UNITS.

Amy could tell that, despite his Red Level proxcard, this place was
unfamiliar to Chase, too. But, interestingly enough, not to the major.

Sinclair headed now through the partitioned area without hesitation,
passing one partition wall punctured by a line of bullet holes. "How
long has this been here?" Chase asked the major as he and Amy followed
her toward another set of gray-metal doors.

"Site J? Since the early seventies."

"You sure? We're only about thirty feet underground here," Chase said.

"This wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in the seventies."

"This part was just added in the last five years," Sinclair said. She
stopped by the second set of gray-metal doors and pulled out her
proxcard. "The results of the first Cloudy Office and Cloudburst
training exercises showed the Pentagon needed better ways of dealing
with biological and chemical attacks. They expanded this area for
scenarios in which they couldn't evacuate people to the outside of the
building. Before that, it was just a Site J storage area for noncritical
supplies. Now it's a full decontamination facility."

"Since when do you know so much about the Pentagon?" Chase asked.

"Since I got a higher security clearance than you," Sinclair answered.

And Chase called me a kid, Amy thought. She half-expected the major to
add a Nya nya to that last response.

Beyond the second set of doors was a large platform made from closely
spaced bars of metal. The lighting was dimmer here, the walls concrete,
the space much more constricted. Amy looked down through the grating of
the floor and saw dizzying layers of more metal platforms descending
beneath her, linked by a single metal ladder that shrank to a narrow
dark line much too quickly.

Chase stopped at the railing that surrounded the platform. "I'm no
Schwarzkopf, but wouldn't one guy with a gun covering the last rung be
enough to keep this entry clear?"

"If he knew about it," Sinclair said.

"Excuse me. But the bad guys seem to know about everything else so far.
Site J? QUICKSILVER? X-ray holograms?"

Sinclair stared up at Chase with such exasperation that Amy wondered if
anything had ever been easy for these two. "The emergency stairway runs
beside the elevators, Tom. That's where the gunmen will be. This is a
pressure relief tunnel. When an airburst goes off overhead, a pressure
wave will blast down the elevator shaft and this tunnel. But this tunnel
curves back to the Potomac--through baffles that'll blow easily in one
direction. So the blast wave bleeds off through here, away from Site J.
On the blueprints, this is just an empty rube of concrete."

"So why does it have a ladder and a door at the bottom?" "How about
redundancy," Sinclair said. "Isn't that what you call the military's
favorite word?"

Chase seemed unconvinced, but Amy was fascinated. She knew that she was
hearing about--and seeing--aspects of the military she was certain she
had no right to know about.

"I know who we're dealing with here," Sinclair said firmly. "And I have
a good idea how he got his information about Site J. This ladder and the
escape hatch at the bottom were installed for the construction crews, as
a means of escape in case of emergency. They were supposed to be removed
when construction was completed. So they aren't on the blueprints. Just
like that sewer pipe wasn't."

"What do you mean you know who we're dealing with?"

Amy wanted to know the answer to that question, too. "Are they Russians,
ma'am?" she asked.

Sinclair paused on the ladder with a sigh. "All we know is what they
want. We don't know why or for whom. You might very well have come
across Russians. The one person we have identified is a German special
forces commando. We believe we're dealing with a group of mercenaries."
She reached into her pocket, took out her MSB digital radio, and slapped
it into Chase's hand. "I'm point, you're communications. It doesn't get
ball games." She started down the ladder rungs.

Chase slipped the radio into a pocket. "Wait a minute, how did a German
commando get information about Site J?"

Sinclair halted on the ladder and looked up at him with a tight
expression. "I trained him, all right? He was assigned to the NIA
through NATO. I taught him. I gave him temporary access codes. Go ahead,
say it."

"Say what?" Chase asked.

"This is all my fault. Okay? We're clear? Good." She held out her watch.
"Fifty minutes, and it won't matter anymore. We have to move!"

She began climbing down the ladder at a double-time clip.

"You heard the major. Let's go," Amy said.

"Great. Now I've got two of you." But Chase swung out onto the ladder
and started down, not quite as smoothly as Sinclair, but just as
quickly.

Amy slung her H&K across her back, gave Chase a ten-foot head start,
then started down above him, with only one thought in her mind.

If Chase and Sinclair were a model for teamwork, she'd be much better
off on her own.

ELEVEN

NORTH AMERICAN LIGHTNING DETECTION NETWORK, TUCSON, ARIZONA

Stan Drewniak didn't know whether to be afraid or flattered.

Everyone else who would normally be working this Sunday afternoon in the
dark, air-conditioned cavern that was the GAI monitoring room had been
relieved of their duties. Except for him. In a way, this kind of
treatment was cool. But in another way, the two Men in Black could
dispose of his body without anyone ever knowing what had happened to
him.

"It is not an alien spacecraft," Dr. Shapiro said. Stan's manager was
seated in a wheeled office chair, right beside his workstation.

"I understand," Stan said. "That's what you have to say."

He looked over his shoulder at the unsmiling agents of the Air Force
Intelligence Agency. They were standing five feet behind him. One had
his hands folded behind his back. The other was talking into a Motorola
Slipstream cellular phone that was as large as a credit card, and only
five times as thick.

"For God's sake, Stan, just run the numbers."

Stan nodded and set the time code reply back to 16:40 Mountain Central
Time. Then he looked up at the ten-foot-wide main display screen on the
far wall. He still couldn't believe it. This was the first time Shapiro
had ever let him play on the big screen. Stan Drewniak rules!

At once he could see that lightning patterns across North America hadn't
changed that much since he had left earlier this morning. The
thunderstorm stretching across Louisiana into Florida had lessened
substantially. Portland was still the center of major storm activity.

Like, when isn't it? Stan thought.

The Canadian prairie storm, however, had grown down into Montana and
North Dakota, with dozens of lightning flashes being recorded there
every second. New storm centers had arisen over Lake Michigan and in
Arkansas, and a major system was sweeping south from Philadelphia to
Baltimore. By tomorrow, Stan decided, the whole Northeastern seaboard
should be rained out.

But weather prediction wasn't why he was here. He watched the time code
count up. Ten seconds to go.

Nine ... He kept his eye on Colorado. No lightning flashes at all. Calm
skies.

Five ... He wondered if he should ask why the Air Force wasn't doing
this themselves. They were the ones with the satellites, after all. They
were supposed to be able to see every square inch of the "Holy crap ..."
On the big screen, the time code hit 16:41:50 and the outline of
Colorado disappeared beneath the biggest lightning flash indicator Stan
had ever seen. "That was the Grinch?" he asked.

Shapiro rolled her chair closer to his. "Stan, the reason why the Grinch
sightings were tied into satellite orbits is because it is a satellite.
It's creating an electromagnetic discharge to the ground."

"Discharge?" Stan stared at the giant, shifting blob that still
shimmered on the screen. "Doctor, they don't even have lightning like
that on Jupiter. I'm guessing the detectors closest to the target site
must have been burned out completely."

"Yes, well, as you can see, it maintained the discharge for a long time.
We estimate about twenty-three seconds. What we need you to do " "Is
call the newspapers," Stan said. "It must have hit ground.

Something like that could blow out the power grid, demolish buildings."

Stan felt Shapiro's hand on his shoulder as she turned him in his chair
so she could look him in the eyes.

"What we really need you to do, Stan, is apply the software you
developed for tracking the Grinch over the Pacific. Isolate the main
leader in that discharge over Colorado, and then plot the arc it
followed through the sky."

"You mean you want me to find its orbit."

"Exactly."

"So ... it isn't one of ours?"

Shapiro glanced at the Air Force Intelligence agents, then shrugged, as
if it was finally time to tell him the truth. "It used to be one of
ours. I consulted for the Pentagon when "

"Ma'am!" One of the agents held up a hand. "He's not cleared for any
additional information."

"For heaven's sake, he's already seen what this thing can do. For sure
he's going to have to sign nondisclosure forms and security oaths before
you can let him go, right?"

"What?!"

"Sorry, Stan," Shapiro said. "But ... this is all Top Secret. Above Top
Secret, in fact. You'll either have to swear you'll never talk about it,
or ..."

"Or what? They shoot me?"

One of the agents behind him clarified the situation. "We keep you
locked up, sir. A military base. Solitary confinement. Even your trial
will be closed."

Stan's mouth opened in amazement. He couldn't believe someone had
actually said those words--to him.

"Stan, I'm sorry," Shapiro said, "but you're going to have to do this.

We're the only ones with the equipment to detect this thing. And you're
the only one who's figured out how to locate the coordinates where the
satellite fired before."

"So it is a weapon?"

"I'm afraid so." Shapiro turned Stan's chair around, so he once again
faced his workstation. "You have to find its orbit so the Pentagon can
know where it's going to hit next."

"Right," Stan said. Here he was finally getting the chance to live out
one of the best childhood--and not so childhood--fantasies he'd ever
had. The government was asking him to actually save the world, and they
didn't want him to tell anyone about it.

Stupid Pentagon, he thought to himself. But he started typing anyway.

USS Off ME NORFOLK NAVAL BASE COMPLEX. NORFOLK, VIRGINIA There were many
reasons why orders were not to be questioned.

One of the most important was speed.

From the Strategic Information and Operations Center in FBI Headquarters
in Washington, D. C." four-star Admiral Hugh Paulsen contacted
three-star Admiral Frederick Helmholtz, commander in chief of the United
States Atlantic Command. Their conversation took less than a minute.
Both men were aware of the capabilities of the weapons system they
discussed. Any questions that might have arisen had been dealt with long
ago during uncounted alerts, training scenarios, and advanced warfare
experiments.

Admiral Helmholtz knew the officers under his command well enough to
bypass the normal chain. Time. Speed. The tempo of operations. It was
the very essence of winning.

Less than one minute after talking with Admiral Paulsen, the CINC of USA
COM was speaking directly with Captain Shelby Cover, commander of the
Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine, USS Cheyenne.

The Cheyenne was one of three submarines currently preparing for
war-game maneuvers in the North Atlantic. Helmholtz had chosen her
because she was on station at Norfolk, Virginia. The other two were in
berths farther up the East Coast at Groton, Connecticut. Norfolk was
closer. Time would be saved.

During the course of this second conversation, which lasted two minutes,
thirty seconds, Helmholtz's aide ran into his office to provide the
aiming coordinates for the target: North: 38 52'10"; West: 77 6'32".
Unlike in the past, terrain maps were not needed. The final course
corrections could be given on the fly.

On any other day, the Cheyenne's commander might have paused to ask one
question. Submarine captains were known for their individuality and the
order Helmholtz had just passed on to Captain Cover had never been given
to any Naval commander in the history of the service. But Cover had been
following the news and was aware of the recent events at the Pentagon.
He followed his orders at once, as did his crew. They had been drilling
for just such a procedure for years. Only the target coordinates were
different. And these were loaded simply by having the weapons control
officer type them in on his command-and-control system in the Cheyenne's
control room.

Seven minutes after Captain Cover had said, "Yes, sir," to Admiral
Helmholtz, the tourists who were visiting the Norfolk base, along with
most of the base staff, were shocked into silence by the enormous roar
bumping through the moist, summer sea air as it reverberated across
Willoughby Bay.

They stared with incomprehension as an eighteen-foot-long, twenty
one-inch-wide cylindrical missile rose up in an explosion of billowing
smoke and glowing red fire. The missile had been fired from the
Cheyenne's Vertical Launch System launch tube, midway between her
conning tower and her stern. The submarine was still docked.

For twelve seconds, they heard the scream of the small rocket booster
that carried the missile up, until the long tube began to angle toward
the north as if toppling. Then a different sound took over as a
miniature jet engine ignited and the missile accelerated away, bearing
northwest across the mouth of the James River, over Hampton and Newport
News, to cut inland along the Virginia coast.

With no one to witness the event, small, stubby wings now folded out to
stabilize the missile in level flight. Its forward-terrain-following
radar kept it five hundred feet above ground level, matching each rise
and dip in the contours of the landscape below. And six times a second,
the missile's onboard Global Positioning System guidance computer sought
assurance from three different NAVSTAR satellites that it was on the
right course.

It was. The USS Cheyenne's launch had been successful. At an airspeed of
600 miles an hour, a Tomahawk Land Attack Missile, Block IV, would
strike the target in eleven minutes, twenty-five seconds.

The commandos of Delta Force Assault Squadron E stood ready to launch
their attack, in eleven minutes, thirty seconds.

It was time to fight back.

With an all-out assault on the Pentagon.

TWELVE SITE J
As the photographs of the dead midshipmen flashed across the television
screens, Erich Kronig was thinking of his own youth. Of riding
horseback. Even of the long-ago week in Hawaii with the wife of Tom
Chase. But the oasis of calm that was his center, his armor against the
high-stakes risks he courted as this mission spiraled to its end, that
oasis continued to elude him.

Because the enemy had not yet entered the battlefield.

There'd been nothing and no one to fight.

"Where are they?" he said to Kilo, looking over the commando's shoulder
at the five television screens on the security-and communications
console. It was inconceivable that the Americans had not yet launched a
counterattack.

He and Kilo were on the second-level command floor of the enemy's Site
}. Below them was the action floor where General Vanovich had been
secured to his Red Level workstation and Kronig's specialists had almost
finished assembling the mechanism that would allow some Site J control
functions to be relocated.

Kilo rotated all available channels across his console's five screens,
mercifully keeping the sound turned off as the kaleidoscope of images
flashed by. Many of the television stations were showing portraits of
the midshipmen of Twelfth Company. Because there was no news footage of
the tractor-trailer being discovered with the original Naval Academy bus
inside, Kronig was certain no one yet knew what had happened to the
missing young people. But it was clear that someone had finally
determined how so many "terrorists" had managed to gain entrance to the
Pentagon today, Kronig knew exactly how events should be unfolding right
now. As of more than an hour ago, when he'd used QUICKSILVER to knock
out Schriever Air Force Base, the Americans should have realized that
their key objective would be to get to Site J as quickly as possible.
Since a thirty-ton blast door sealed the Site J RUSH HOUR tunnels that
Kronig's Team One had used, the Americans would be forced to go through
the Pentagon. And the quickest way to Site J through the Pentagon was to
come in by the River Entrance side.

So Kronig had placed the hostages there. Tied up in offices, by doors,
in hallways and stairwells. By now, whatever ordnance General Brower had
decided to use on the blast proof windows should have killed the first
fifty hostages. When the American commandos stormed in through those
breached windows, they would find rivers of blood that they themselves
had caused to flow.

And that would stop them cold, he knew, faster than any machinegun
barrage. Because Americans could not abide failure. Rather than risk
being called before a board of inquiry to explain how they had been
outmaneuvered by an enemy, the Delta Force commanders would halt the
attack.

Many times while planning the mission, he had found himself pitying the
enemy. Though the American soldiers were expected to do their duty and
follow orders, right or wrong, the citizens they served did not honor
that contract with respect or support.

Americans no longer had any real concept of war. And through their
caution and aversion to risk, they were, as well, ensuring that their
armies would soon lose the ability to wage war in any form. Which is why
a monstrosity like QUICKSILVER even came to exist. To the Americans, it
was an impersonal, remote means by which to deliver death and
destruction. But if an enemy were not engaged face to-face, soldiers
would never learn that death had a personal cost, and destruction came
with consequence. And this weapon of mass devastation had developed in a
people who prided themselves on their morality.

Kronig idly toyed with the thick plastic envelope that contained the
Americans' great charters of freedom. Haw these people have fallen, he
mused as he noted the lack of activity on the television screens before
him. They won't even fight for a national symbol like their Pentagon.

He instructed Kilo to keep switching through the channels. The
commercial television signals were available to them down here because
of Site J's multiply redundant, exterior-communications network: a web
of deeply buried fiber-optic links connected to repeater stations
throughout Virginia and Maryland. It was complex, self-correcting, and
virtually untraceable. It had to be. It had been designed to survive
total nuclear war.

Then, as Kilo switched from channel to channel, some aspect of the
Pentagon story still on each of the five screens, there was a momentary
loss of signal.

"That's another fiber-optic link down," Kilo said. "They must have crews
out, digging them up and cutting them."

Kronig wasn't concerned. That had also been anticipated. But he knew it
would take at least twenty crews the better part of a day to complete
the task. He checked the time.

"Sixty-five minutes, my friend." That's all that was required. In one
hour and five minutes, QUICKSILVER would be back in line-of-sight
communication with the Site J repeater stations surrounding the
Pentagon, some at a distance of fifty miles. Kronig took pleasure in
knowing that one of those stations was inconspicuously located on the
White House roof, a classified present from the NSA. In fact, all of the
organizations that worked out of Site J had taken responsibility for
their own communications lines, refusing to share the details with their
partners, in order to more thoroughly compartmentalize the information.
That their lack of cooperation also made them more vulnerable never
appeared to have become a concern to them or their masters. To Kronig,
it sometimes seemed that the American intelligence community had become
so insular and self-absorbed that if the CIA thought it could gain a
victory over the NSA, it would actually make no difference to the CIA if
that interagency conflict led to some defeat for the United States. As
in all things American, winning was everything.

The television signals returned as the communications network
reconfigured itself, bypassing whatever link had just been cut. General
Brower had long since disappeared from his tele captivity in the White
House. As Kronig had finally realized, the general was being broadcast
on a tape delay so that he had been able to join his troops well before
the initially mysterious evacuation of the White House. When that had
taken place, Kilo had wondered if it was possible that Kronig had set a
coup in motion. For a short time, Kronig had wondered the same.

But eventually, the mystery had been explained. There had been a bomb
threat at the White House, and the President was now overseeing the
response to the Sons of Liberty's takeover of the Pentagon from FBI
Headquarters.

The fact that the White House press office was still reporting that the
authorities remained in contact with the Sons of Liberty was more proof
to Kronig of the way the American government so easily embraced lies.

After the last of the hostages had been tied up in the River Entrance
Side, Kronig had withdrawn all his men to Site J, closing off the
elevator access and sealing even the emergency stairways that ran beside
them. His commandos who had initially assumed the role of domestic U.S.
terrorists had actually been out of contact with the White House for
more than an hour.

Clearly, the President--or whoever was in charge--was aware of that,
because the aerial surveillance shots of the Pentagon, which the Sons of
Liberty had demanded, had ended along with the broadcast of General
Brower. Despite what they might say to the public, the American
authorities had obviously concluded that they weren't dealing with
domestic terrorists and that the hostages' lives were not the true
stakes of the game.

Fortunately, a female reporter named Trish Mankin was still broadcasting
live from a park across the river from the Pentagon.

Behind her, Kronig had a clear view of both the parade grounds and the
River Entrance. The afternoon shadows were lengthening. He could see
more clouds in the sky. But as yet there were no signs of any enemy
action, no concentrations of troops or equipment.

"Still nothing," Kilo said as he completed his run through the stations
and began again. He looked up at Kronig. "They do have to know about the
satellites, don't they? Is it possible they don't?"

Kronig had wondered about that himself. He tapped Kilo's shoulder.

"I'll go to the source," he said. "Keep watching."

Kronig moved past his commandos who were now grouped in Site J, ready to
defend it or escape from it, depending on the Americans' next action.
Tango was keeping several of them amused with his uncanny impression of
the American President, the one that had so effectively fooled General
Vanovich.

Kronig enjoyed hearing his soldiers' laughter. His losses had been lower
than anticipated and they knew it. Eight commandos had been killed by
snipers in the Courtyard in the first few minutes of the takeover. Four
others had died during the attacks on the operations centers. Fourteen
had been wounded, but only two required a stretcher.

Six of his commandos were still missing. That was a casualty rate of
more than a third, but considering the conditions they had faced and
what they had achieved, Kronig considered it an acceptable level of
loss. Nor was that rate likely to increase. Defending Site J no longer
seemed a likely scenario, considering no attempt was being made to
retake it.

Kronig decided to wait five more minutes. Even if the Americans were to
attack then, there was no possibility they could gain entry to

Site J in less than an hour. Which meant it was almost time to send his
soldiers home.

He acknowledged the warm greetings of his troops as he reached the
red-metal staircase that led down to the action floor. He knew they
could sense that the mission was almost over. That they had won. And
that they would all be going home to their own peoples as heroes. What
more could any soldier ask?

Kronig stepped out onto the action floor. Coming up behind Vanovich's
high-backed chair, he turned it around so that the general would face
him.

"I have an interesting problem for you, General," Kronig said. "No one
appears to be interested in trying to get your QUICKSILVER back. A full
counterattack should be under way now. We know how long it takes to
deploy CONDEFCOM forces. They've had ample opportunity to arrive here
and begin operations. Yet ... nothing. No sign of them."

For a moment, Kronig saw in Vanovich's gaze a hint of victory, as if for
once the general had the upper hand. "Maybe they don't need to attack
the site to stop you," he said.

"Of course, they do. They might be able to cut us off from all
communications within a day. But not within the next hour."

For the first time since he'd been tricked into accessing QUICKSILVER,
Vanovich straightened up in his chair, as if rallying. "Let me tell you
something about Americans. We like to win. And if we can't win, then the
next best thing is to make sure the other guy loses, too. In the bad old
days, our strategists called it Mutual Assured Destruction.

It meant the Soviets could launch all their goddamn missiles at us, but
we'd launch ours right back at them, so nobody would be able to win a
nuclear war.

"The people I know are not going to let someone like you walk out of
here a winner. If you've been stupid enough to set it up so that their
only possible option is to lose, I guarantee you they'll arrange
something so you lose, too."

Kronig heard no useful insight in the general's tiresome ravings, only
the futile bravado of a defeated enemy. "You've forgotten one thing.

General. I've already won. I have control of your weapon."

Vanovich jerked his head at the workstation behind him. "According to
the time on that screen, you don't get QUICKSILVER for another sixty-two
minutes."

"Which is too little time for Delta Force to reach this facility and
stop me."

"You know what it takes to deploy Delta Force on American soil? A Threat
Condition. Threat Cons You know what those are?"

"Of course I know." Kronig turned away. He was learning nothing here. It
was time to order his soldiers to evacuate.

"Yeah? What comes after Threat Con Delta?"

Kronig turned back to Vanovich. The old man was becoming desperate,
knowing he was going to die within an hour, as soon as his creation had
been captured again. He shrugged. "That's classified, SCI, Special
Compartmentalized Information. But you see, I know everything. After
Threat Con Delta comes Threat Con Echo. The Pentagon is in it now.

Blast doors have descended. No doubt there are additional personnel we
missed capturing who are locked in safe rooms. The entire Building has
been fragmented to make it more difficult for us to defend it.

Fortunately, we have no intention of doing so."

Vanovich fixed Kronig with an unblinking stare of challenge. "So what
comes after Threat Con Echo?"

Kronig knew the answer. But it was ridiculous. "General Vanovich, be
serious. This is the Pentagon."

Vanovich didn't let it go. "What comes after Threat Con Echo?"

Threat Con X-ray. It would require the self-destruction of the Pentagon?
But how? The Building does not have that capability."

Vanovich smiled. Threat Con X-ray doesn't say anything about self
destruction. It says there is no hope of recovery and so the terrorist
forces will be denied the location."

Again, Kronig saw something in the general's eyes, but he refused to be
drawn into the old man's revenge fantasy. "We're three hundred and
twenty feet underground. They can do anything they want to the Pentagon.
If they wish to. But we won't be--we simply can't be touched." Vanovich
smiled so broadly that Kronig knew he was being insulted.

"You don't understand, do you, you dumb son of a bitch. They are not
going to let you walk out of here with QUICKSILVER. I know these people.
I'm actually afraid of them myself. They'll set off a fifty megaton
airburst twenty miles up and black out the entire East Coast just so you
can't transmit a signal. If they have to, they'll use the Pentagon for a
bull's-eye and keep lobbing W-80 warheads into it until they've melted
their way down here. They've got penetrator bombs that can punch down
two hundred feet, you fucking moron. When that goes off a hundred feet
overhead, the pressure wave will turn us into jelly and the radiation
will hard-boil us. Don't you get it? They don't have to come down in
here to kick your ass. You're fucked!"

The back of Kronig's hand slammed against Vanovich's stupidly grinning
face before Kronig was even aware he had reacted.

The general slumped back in his chair, a hand to his mouth. Blood
trickled from his split lip.

Kronig was shocked by his own unconscious action. He drew himself to
attention. "As an officer of the German army, I apologize for my--"

"Is that who sent you here? The Germans?" Vanovich was staring at him in
amazement as if even the idea were ludicrous.

Kronig flushed. He had no more time to waste on this man, this prisoner
and his feeble efforts to distract him. Yet, could it be possible that
he and the planners had not anticipated everything? Would the Americans
actually contemplate using nuclear weapons within two miles of their
White House? The radiation alone would Then it hit him.

A penetrator bomb. Such a weapon plunging two hundred feet below ground
level would, in effect, seal itself off from the atmosphere.

With no immediate radiation threat, there would be nothing to prevent a
panicky leader from employing it. And the White House had been evacuated
... Kronig spun around and shouted, "We are withdrawing!"

A cheer went up from his soldiers.

Kilo leaned over the red-metal railing, looking down at Kronig in
surprise. "Not you," Kronig called up to him. "You and I are staying
with the technicians. The rest--you're going home!"

More cheers, the sound of thunder as the metal staircase rattled beneath
the stampede of descending feet.

"They'll be waiting for you," Vanovich said. "Just like you were waiting
for them."

Kronig looked down at his captive. Now the contempt was his. "And just
where do you think they'll be waiting, old man?"

"The RUSH HOUR tunnels. As soon as you open the main blast door."

"Your entire army can wait in the tunnels for eternity if they wish.

Maybe they'll enjoy the penetrator bomb along with you. But that's not
how we're getting out."

Kronig stalked away from the general, toward the side of the action
floor where an open staircase descended to Level Four of Site J. On the
stairs, the orderly, single file of departing commandos moved to the
side to allow him to pass. He stepped off the stairs onto the floor of
Level Four and walked quickly along the line of commandos proceeding
into the storage and engineering facilities.

Site J's lowest level was darker, more constricted than the three above.
Its floor was a metal grid, selected to protect against any flooding
that might occur. It was also noisier, suggesting the hold of some vast
ship. The hum of air circulators, generators, water pumps, and cooling
and heating equipment bounced off all the hard, metal surfaces.

But Kronig could no longer be distracted. He headed toward the outermost
wall of the facility. There, at the far reaches of a utility room, Tango
was already opening the pressure hatch for the first group of Kronig's
commandos. Despite what Vanovich had fantasized, Kronig knew there could
be no enemy forces on the other side of the hatch.

This part of Site J had been the first to be checked once Kronig's
troops had taken over. The escape route had already been scouted today.
It was intact and ready for use. And what made it so useful, and so
foolproof, was that it wasn't on any blueprint. The circular hatch had
been temporarily installed only for the use of the construction crews
that had built Site J. It was supposed to have been removed, the opening
welded over after the facility was completed. But in every reference to
similar, unclassified structures that Kronig's researchers had
unearthed, mention had been made of the cost savings and increased
safety factor realized by leaving the emergency exit in place. Though no
one on his teams had ever seen an actual schematic of Site J, this door
was in the precise location that Kronig's researchers had predicted it
would be.

Kronig watched as Tango slowly pushed the three-foot-thick metal door
open. A gust of cold, damp air swept into the generator room. Light from
Level Four spilled past Kronig into the darkness beyond the hatch,
revealing a narrow metal ramp sloping downward. The ramp led toward a
twenty-foot-in-diameter, concrete-lined air channel, whose opening was
only fifteen feet away. Fifty feet farther on in the channel, a glowing
green light stick marked the beginning of the escape route.

Kronig's scouts had laid out a series of the light sticks all through
the concrete-lined airway that ran from Ground Zero to a pressure door
at the shore of the Potomac, just under a mile away. The inlet it opened
into was called Roaches Run, a few hundred feet north of Ronald Reagan
Airport and directly below the George Washington Parkway.

Tango stopped at the entrance way and saluted his commander. "It has
been an honor, sir."

Kronig returned the salute, then clapped his lieutenant on the
shoulders. "And for me. Reisen mil Gott, mein Freund." He looked at the
waiting line of expectant faces, some of the wounded resting with their
arms around the shoulders of their comrades-in-arms. Kronig had never
felt such pride. "Alle van She." He looked back at Tango. "I will join
you in ninety minutes. But if I don't, you will proceed at 2100 hours as
planned."

Once the sun set, the commandos would be able to go through the pressure
door as if it were an airlock, and swim up ten feet to the surface of
the Potomac. Throughout the night, beginning at 2115 hours, a series of
vans would pick up the soldiers in small groups from a road on Gravelly
Point, where they could not be observed from the parkway. Kronig had
told the mission planners that he would not consider undertaking the
operation unless he knew his soldiers would have a reasonable chance to
withdraw undetected. The undocumented exit to the air channel had been
the perfect solution.

For the final stage of their withdrawal, the commandos' plane
reservations had been made weeks ago. Singly and in pairs, they would
all return to their homes over the next three days, from airports across
North America. Within seventy-two hours, no one who had been involved in
the mission would remain on American soil. Victory would be complete.

Tango nodded. "We will see you in ninety minutes." Then he started down
the ramp, its metal surface clanging beneath his boots, sending echoes
all through the vast concrete cavern that surrounded Site J.

Then he was across the ramp, at the air channel, and the splashing of
boots heralded for Kronig the beginning of his troops' trek to safety.

It took less than two minutes for all fifty-two commandos to exit Ground
Zero, including the two on stretchers. Site J's infirmary had
conveniently provided the stretchers.

Tango paused at the entrance to the channel, his figure outlined against
the green glow of the light stick As the last soldier passed him, he
turned to face Kronig, raised his hand in farewell.

As Kronig raised his hand in turn, Tango swung his submachine gun up,
aiming it at a point just above Kronig's position.

"DON'T MOVE!" Tango shouted.

At last! The calm of a warrior came back to Kronig as he stepped out
onto the sloping metal ramp, shielding his eyes from the light through
the hatch. He looked up to locate Tango's target and saw a metal ladder
running down the curve of the facility's exterior wall. A ladder that
also had not been on any of the blueprints.

Then his eyes adjusted further to the darkness and he saw what Tango had
seen. Ten feet above the hatch opening, a figure clung to the ladder. He
saw the silhouette of a gun on the figure's back.

The Americans had launched their counterattack. But stealthily. Who
could have guessed they would show such restraint?

"Don't shoot unless you have to," Kronig warned Tango. Then he shouted,
"You! On the ladder! Drop your weapons and climb down slowly!"

The figure responded by cautiously sliding the gun off one shoulder,
then holding the weapon to the side by its strap.

"Drop it!" Kronig commanded.

He felt the breeze of the gun's falling as it dropped to the bottom of
the cavern, and heard its splash as it struck the dark, unseen
groundwater, twenty feet below the ramp.

"Now down! Slowly!"

The figure descended slowly, rung by rung. Tango ran forward to stand at
Kronig's side, H&K held ready for any treachery.

Two feet above the doorway, Kronig was surprised to see the figure wore
sneakers and jeans. Two more rungs down, and he saw ... a gray
sweatshirt?

He reached out from the ramp and grabbed the figure's arm, hauling
him--no, her!--onto the ramp beside him.

And then, as he twisted his captive into the light from the hatchway
behind him, all his questions were answered.

He knew that face.

"Midshipman Bethune," Kronig said, almost as if he were scolding her.

"You missed your bus."

THIRTEEN

NORTH AMERICAN LIGHTNING DETECTION NETWORK, TUCSON. ARIZONA

The first time Stan Drewniak had gone on a Grinch hunt, he had had too
little information.

This time, he had too much.

Virtually all the lightning detectors in the western United States had
been overwhelmed by the EM pulse generated by the rogue satellite. If
Stan were to believe their readings, he'd have to conclude the pulse had
struck with equal intensity over an area of 250,000 square miles, which
was more than twice the size of Colorado. And that was ridiculous.

But Dr. Shapiro had given him the exact geographical coordinates of the
strike, a location ten miles east of Colorado Springs, 6,267 feet above
sea level. With that site as the point of contact, Stan had begun to
work backward to trace the pulse's path through the atmosphere, so he
could determine its point of origin. Keeping in mind, of course, that
that point of origin had been moving at 18,000 miles an hour.

Dr. Shapiro was also able to tell him that the rogue satellite would be
in some type of polar orbit. But Stan would have to determine if the
satellite had been traveling north to south, or south to north.

Fortunately that part of his assignment had been a snap. All he had had
to do was compare the timing of the signals received from the Canadian
detectors to those that had been received from the detectors in Mexico.
He had his answer in less than a minute. The rogue satellite was
traveling north to south.

Now, Stan was ready to refine his analysis. And once again, he was the
right man for the job. When he'd been looking--on his own time for the
Grinch in the Pacific, he'd developed data-sorting equations for
detectors looking westward. With the Grinch now over the west half of
the country, he couldn't use the detectors directly beneath it. So he
eliminated all their data. Instead, he focused on the data from the
detectors in the eastern part of the country, that would have to look
west to find the Grinch. This sweet move saved him hours of
calculations. And he knew he had saved Dr. Shapiro days.

Within ten minutes, Stan was happily plotting an orbit for the Grinch
that fell within a five hundred-mile range, centered almost directly
over the Colorado-Kansas border. At that point, Dr. Shapiro helpfully
suggested some statistical transformations that he could apply to the
data. Two minutes after that, Stan was able to re plot the orbit,
reducing its error to plus or minus fifty miles.

But Dr. Shapiro wanted an even higher threshold of accuracy--plus or
minus ten miles. The key to that was measuring the Doppler shift of a
moving radio source toward and away from the detectors. So Stan compared
the readings from the detectors in Mexico that lay almost directly ahead
of the satellite to those from the Canadian detectors that were directly
behind it.

Then he used the differences in those readings to work out the position
and heading of the Grinch for each of the twenty-three seconds it had
generated the EM pulse. At 18,000 miles per hour, that gave him a track
of 115 miles. And that was just enough information for the computer to
then extrapolate the Grinch's entire orbit with enough certainty even to
satisfy his boss.

Stan sat back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his head,
thoroughly enjoying the sight of his brilliant achievement now being
plotted on the world map of GAI's main event screen. Even if there was
no one else to impress but Dr. Shapiro and the two Men in Black.

The yellow sine-wave trace of the rogue satellite's orbit moved off the
right-hand side of the wall map, to the east. Then, at the left-hand
side of the map, the yellow line reappeared in the west, curving down
and rising up again. The path of the second orbit was offset eastward by
fifteen hundred miles, bringing the Pentagon's satellite back across the
United States on a line beginning halfway between Toronto and Montreal
in Canada, then it moved on to pass almost directly over the middle of
Jamaica in the Caribbean.

"There you go," Stan said smugly, spinning his chair around to smile at
his manager. His calculation had taken just under twenty minutes.

Personally, he thought, it was a work of genius, and surely genius
should get some kind of reward. "So, do I get a raise or--?"

"Washington." After uttering just this one word, Shapiro pushed
QUICKSILVth mi herself out of her chair so quickly she sent it rolling
into Stan's. Then she grabbed a cell phone from the Men in Black.

Stan was confused. It wasn't as if the Grinch was going to crash into
the capital city. According to the orbit on the wall screen, all it was
going to do was pass directly over D. C." plus or minus ten miles.

Dr. Shapiro was actually shouting this conclusion over the phone as if
he'd predicted the end of the world.

Some people really need to get a life, Stan thought.

Now that all the excitement was over, he wondered if there was anything
worth eating in the GAI staff lunchroom.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER, FBI HEADQUARTERS It's like
watching a video game, Hector thought.

The center panel of the five-by-fifteen-foot video display in the SIOC
conference room showed a wide-angle, black-and-white image of rushing
terrain transmitted by the video camera in the nose of the Tomahawk
cruise missile that was speeding toward D.C. At the bottom of the image,
there was only a smear of twisting light and shadow, the ground a mere
five hundred feet below. At the top, he could see the horizon, changing
slowly enough that actual details were visible: roads, houses, trees,
fields.

To the side were streams of numbers swiftly altered as the missile swept
along the contours of the ground it flew over. The airspeed indicator
was holding fairly steady, close to 520 knots. But the time to target
was counting down in a blur by hundredths of seconds. The GPS longitude
and latitude readings were changing almost as quickly, and so were the
figures for altitude.

Hector glanced down at his watch to compare its reading with that on the
screen. The Tomahawk was only five minutes away. Admiral Paulsen had
predicted that if they went up to the roof of the FBI building, they'd
be able to hear it pass by. No one had wanted to test out that
prediction.

Seated in an armchair between the conference table and the wall screen,
the President was looking pensive. He turned to Paulsen, in a chair to
his right. "How could you do this so quickly? When I was in the Senate,
I remember we had briefings on using these things against Korean missile
sites. The Navy told us it took days to plot the course for each
missile--to load the terrain maps into their memory, run tests."

The admiral responded like a parent anxious to describe a prodigy's
accomplishments. His earlier animosity toward the President was no
longer in evidence. In partnership with General Janukatys, the three men
were now working in easy concert. The message they were conveying was
that they were all professionals doing their jobs, along with Casson,
Fortis, and Meyer.

"These are the new Block Fours, sir. It's not necessary to do step
by-step programming of their target routes anymore. We type in the
longitude and latitude, and the cruise missile's onboard computers
program themselves based on contact with the Global Positioning System
and their terrain-following radar. Of course, we also have the advantage
that no one in Virginia is going to try to shoot us down, and all the
air traffic controllers are clearing the airspace." "Okay," the
President said, "I understand you can hit the Pentagon like that. But
how can you be so certain you'll hit the blast doors?"

"See the crosshairs at the center of the screen?" Paulsen said proudly.
"When the missile swings around on its final, straight-in approach, it
will be about three miles from the River Entrance. The onboard camera
will go to telephoto, and back on the Cheyenne some young weapons
control officer with a steady hand will use a joystick to hold those
crosshairs on the blast door. In fact," the admiral added, "if for any
reason he feels he can't make the target, he can use that joystick to
fly the missile up and bring it around for another pass."

It is a video game, Hector thought. He turned in his chair to look back
through the glass wall behind him, at Tyler and Special Agent Newman.
The two were playing cards now, and Tyler had a noticeably larger pile
of Lifesaver candies before him than Newman.

"And the hostages on the second and third floors, you're sure they won't
be affected by the blast?" The President's question wasn't needed to
remind any of them that the First Lady's fate was still unknown. The Man
was suffering, but he was still doing his job.

Paulsen hastened to repeat his assurances. "Again, sir, the Tomahawk's
carrying one of the dummy warheads it was going to use in the maneuvers.
In this case, it's five hundred pounds of sand. I swear to you that
blast door is going to be hit by one and a half tons of machinery
traveling at six hundred miles an hour, with all its force concentrated
on an impact area slightly under two square feet. There will be a minor
explosion from the missile's unused fuel, but the majority of the energy
coupled into the door will be mechanical. The hostages will definitely
feel the bang, sir, but they won't be hurt."

"From your lips, Admiral," the President said. He looked over at Air
Force General Janukatys on the other side of Paulsen. "How much longer
till you start flying your fighter planes this way?"

"Give us the funding, sir, and we'll do it in two years."

An awkward pause followed the exchange. For a moment, the two men had
spoken as if they both expected their relationship to be business as
usual tomorrow morning. But Hector knew that couldn't be possible. No
matter how today turned out, tomorrow was going to be anything but
usual.

The President turned back to the video screen. "General Brower, are you
watching this?"

The CONDEFCOM CINC was in a smaller video window to the side of the
Tomahawk transmission. "Yes, sir. We're standing by to go in ... four
minutes."

Then, as if sharing the same thought at the same time, Hector and
everyone else in the room looked over at the stylized map showing the
progress of the Lancer bomber, Red Panther Two. The penetrator nuclear
bomb was forty minutes away.

The President laid down his rules of engagement. "You will have twenty
minutes, General Brower. Twenty minutes after entering the Pentagon, I
want all your men, and however many hostages you've found, on
helicopters and on your way out. Is that understood?"

Brower wasn't pleased by the restriction, Hector could tell, but he
acknowledged the order.

"Is Colonel Tobin on the circuit?" the President asked.

Tobin's voice crackled from the speakers above the video screen. "I'm
here, sir. I'm with the UPN team in the park."

"What's your time delay?"

"They're running fifteen minutes behind now, sir," Tobin said. "From
where we are, we can see Delta Force assembled against the embankment
walls by the overpass. That started about two minutes ago. But there's
no sign of them on the feed that's going out from fifteen minutes ago.
If terrorists in the Pentagon are watching this, they won't suspect a
thing until they hear that missile hit."

"You've got a good crew there, Colonel," the President said.

"Don't I know it, sir."

"But as soon as that Tomahawk hits in ... three minutes now, they're
going to know we're coming in, so that's when you end the broadcast and
start withdrawing everyone from the security perimeter. You'll have
thirty-five minutes to get the civilians out of there. Is that
understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"So that's it. Now ... we wait." Silence followed the President's deep
sigh.

But at two minutes, fifty seconds from target, Drew Simons burst noisily
into the room. "Mr. President, the lightning-detection people, they were
able to calculate an orbit from the QUICKSILVER attack on Schriever."

"Without another strike? That's wonderful. Can knowing where it is help
us out?" "Not really, sir," Simons said. "I'm afraid this is bad news,
not good news. Apparently QUICKSILVER will be passing almost directly
over Washington fifty minutes from now. Based on what we've seen at
Schriever ... sir, if they fire that thing at the White House, it could
take out everything in a five-mile radius, including this building."

Paulsen and Janukatys got to their feet at once. Hector prepared himself
to do the same. He'd run out of painkillers for his foot and had been
debating whether or not to take any more. Now he wished he'd asked for
more.

Paulsen said it first. "Mr. President, there have been news reports
stating that you're here in FBI Headquarters. This could be a target.

You'll have to leave."

On the video screen, the Tomahawk time to target counter rolled over to
two minutes. Now Hector could see the silhouettes of buildings on the
horizon, including, on the left of the screen, the distinctive column of
the Washington Monument. He could feel the countdown beginning to have
the effect of paralyzing all rational thought in him and hoped the
decision makers were not having the same problem.

But then the Man made the decision for everyone and Hector forgot about
trying to stand.

"Well," the President said, "I'm not going anywhere. QUICKSILVER won't
get here for fifty minutes, and the bomber's here in forty. General
Janukatys, will that bomb do what you say it will?"

"Yes, sir."

The President looked at each of them in turn, his gaze steady, unafraid.
"My thanks to each of you. For doing your best. Forty minutes,
gentlemen. Then, one way or another, this will be over."

As Washington rushed ever closer in the Tomahawk's video display, Hector
visualized Major Sinclair at the center of the target.

Though this was no game, there would be winners and losers.

And the final outcome was still a tossup.

SITE J Margaret recognized the voice that spoke a mere five feet above
her and Tom.

First someone said, "It has been an honor, sir."

And then she heard Erich, his smooth voice as assured as she remembered
as charmingly clipped, with only the slightest trace of an accent.

"And for me," she heard him say, then add, in German, "Go with God, my
friend. All of you."

She remembered that voice from the long days and nights when its owner
had helped restore her belief in herself and her future. Now, for the
sake of her country's beliefs and its future, she was ready for the
first chance to silence it.

Until a few moments ago, it had seemed as if that chance might come
immediately.

Thirty seconds ago, she and Tom had been on the metal ramp above.

They'd been waiting for Midshipman Bethune to descend the ladder like
wide Us of metal that were welded to the outer wall of the Site J
facility.

But then the pressure wheel on the circular hatchway began to move. She
and Tom had been startled, but not surprised. The chemical light stick
in the air channel had marked it as the enemy's probable escape route.

The wheel on the door had already begun to spin faster as Tom had leapt
to the left, intending to escape detection by going back up the wall
ladder. But Bethune had already moved too far down. So he had quickly
climbed down beneath the ramp to the ledge five feet below.

Margaret had swung over the ramp side rail to the right, released her
grip, and dropped to the ledge. She'd almost lost her footing and fallen
the next ten feet to the water below, but Tom had reached out to steady
her. His hand was still on her back as a brace as she held on to the
studs or rivets it was too dark to say which that protruded from the
metal-clad wall of Site J. Now, with Tom pressed close against her on
the one-foot ledge, Margaret listened as a group of soldiers more than
fifty marched across the ramp and to the tunnel. Tom obviously wanted to
tell her something. She could feel his breath near her ear, but Margaret
shook her head to keep him silent.

Now it seemed only Erich was above on the ramp.

Margaret prepared herself to take him. She knew she could. It would be
her way of redeeming herself.

But then, disaster.

She and Tom heard someone in the tunnel call out to Erich. Bethune had
been spotted on the wall ladder to the side of the ramp.

But, instead of instantly shooting Bethune as Margaret fully expected,
Erich was greeting the midshipman, as if he knew her. Then he and the
commando from the runnel reentered Site J with Bethune.

The solid clang of the pressure door as it was pulled shut was followed
by the whisper of the spinning pressure wheel.

Tom took his hand from her back as he reached out for one of the metal
ladder rungs.

"Stop!" Margaret hissed, as Tom's movement rocked her sideways. A single
misstep could topple them both into the water. If that happened, she did
not know of a way they could regain the ramp.

"We have to follow them! That guy took Milo," he hissed back. "I
recognized his voice."

Margaret fought to keep her balance, as she pressed closer to the cold,
rough surface of Site J's outer metal-clad wall. Whatever heat came from
being down 320 feet was being bled off by the cavern's water and the
facility's heat exchangers.

"If they've got the general in there, he's up on Level Three," she
whispered as loudly as she dared. "That's where the Red Level station
is. We need to give them time to get up there so they don't hear us come
in."

"We don't have time," Tom said, voice still low. But he was back in
position, and his hand was on her back again.

Margaret held out her right arm and Tom, without being told what to do,
found the backlight button on her watch and pressed it so she could read
the time.

Fifteen fifty hours. Forty minutes until the bomber arrived. If worst
came to worst, they could follow the enemy troops out through the air
channel.

The light on Margaret's watch face winked out before Tom could read the
time for himself. As he reached for her wrist, Margaret pulled it back.
"Stop it! Forty minutes!"

Then they made the transition from the ledge to the ladder rungs, and
swung over the ramp's guardrail. Margaret was just about to tell Tom not
to rattle the ramp when she realized that he was moving almost as
quietly as she.

Back on the ramp again, outside the closed hatchway, Margaret tested the
pressure wheel. "How did Erich Kronig know Bethune?" she whispered to
Tom. The wheel responded to her touch, moving slowly, but easily.

"Who's Kronig?"

Margaret began to open the hatch door very slowly, keeping the rate as
steady as she could. "The commando who spoke German? The one who took
Bethune and the general." Sometimes talking to Tom was like talking to a
box full of hammers.

"The name he gave Milo was Ranger. How do you know his real name?"

"He was a NATO-exchange officer. He spent six months in my department.
He's the German commando I trained, okay? Now why did he know Bethune?"

"Nuke is definitely not one of them," Tom said in a low voice. "So just
get that out of your mind. What did you train him to do?"

"Nuke?"

"It's the kid's nickname. She wants to be a sub commander."

"You seem to know a lot about the kid." Margaret couldn't believe she
had just said that. If she was lucky, Tom wouldn't notice. It had just
slipped out without thought or intention. She concentrated on slowing
the turning of the wheel. She didn't want to pop the door open.

But Tom rarely missed anything that might work out to his advantage.

"You're jealous," he said. She just knew he had that infuriating grin on
his face, even if she couldn't see it.

Margaret moved one hand smoothly over the other, turning the wheel
infinitely slowly, in case a guard with a gun was on the other side.

Even if the movement were noticed, there was a chance Erich might think
one of his own soldiers was returning from the air channel.

"Why would I be jealous of you?" she asked, knowing she shouldn't.

"You're always asking how I am, who I'm seeing, whether or not we should
have dinner."

Margaret's hands froze on the wheel. "I am not," she said indignantly.

"C'mon, you even wanted to go to the ball game today."

"Not with you, you idiot. With Tyler." All resistance in the wheel
vanished. "Now stand back. There could be a guard inside."

The sudden alarm on Tom's face perversely pleased Margaret as she
wrenched open the hatch door and thrust her Beretta through the opening.

Nothing.

Just the hum of machinery, the damp smell of air-conditioning, and the
tang of electronics. There was no sign of Erich or his commando or
Midshipman Bethune.

Margaret waved Tom through, then stepped in behind him, and slowly
pulled the door closed. Thinking ahead, just in case, she closed the
pressure wheel only by a half turn. Then she looked around to locate the
path to the main generators.

She kept her whisper as soft as possible. "Anyway, I've never asked
about who you're dating. You're the one who's always asking about me."

The light in the Site J facility was at low levels here, only a few
fixtures on at key intersections an dover the doors to mechanical rooms.
But it was enough for her to see that the look of shock was now on Tom's
face. "Who said that?" "Tyler," Margaret told him. "Are you going to
call your own son a liar?" "Tyler's the one who says you're always
asking about me."

Margaret stopped in midstep. Tyler had been playing them both.

"Someone's been getting too much playtime with Uncle Milo."

Tom nodded, understanding her perfectly. "I'll have a talk with him when
I get back."

"We both will," Margaret said, looking at him curiously. There had been
an undertone in Tom's statement.

He was looking at her reproachfully. "Why didn't you tell me about Milo?
And I don't mean his project."

This one was simple. "Because he made me promise not to," Margaret said.
"Sorry, Tom. He thought the chemo was working."

She moved ahead then to lead the way down a small turn in a narrow
hallway. A sign on a plastic-wood-finished door read: generator room It
was locked, but that didn't concern her. "You've got your tool kit,
right?" Her ex-husband always had his tool kit.

Tom did that thing with his fingers and made his Swiss Army knife
materialize in midair.

Margaret sighed. "Are you ever going to grow up?"

Tom crouched down by the keyhole in the doorknob. "You first," he said.
Then he began doing what he'd always done best, while Margaret stood
watch with her gun.

Three hundred and twenty feet above, the bomber was thirty-six minutes
away.

But the Tomahawk had already begun its final approach.

FOURTEEN

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA / WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was flying with manual guidance now.

In the control room of the USS Cheyenne, still berthed in Norfolk,
Weapons Control Officer Lieutenant Miken Marano kept her right hand on
her joystick, her left hand on her arm, abort, and home controls, and
all of her attention on the two video windows before her on the tactical
display of her weapons console.

One screen showed the forward view from the TLAM's Visual Targeting
Camera. The other showed the missile's position, GPS-accurate to six
inches, as a small yellow triangle in the middle of a constantly
scrolling map.

At twenty-five miles downrange from the target site, Lieutenant Marano
began to nudge the cruise missile's altitude from 500 to 200 feet.

Feedback actuators in the joystick let her feel the buffeting of the
headwinds and the thermals the missile encountered. But this close to
the ground at 600 miles per hour, they were only minor disturbances.

She recognized the Anacostia River up ahead, and the Washington Navy
Yard on its north shore. That was her landmark. "Coming up on the
dogleg," she announced to Captain Cover. But she did not take her eyes
from the displays.

St. Elizabeth's Hospital flashed by to the right as Lieutenant Marano
located the Capitol Dome and expertly locked the crosshairs onto it.

One hundred and forty miles north, the Tomahawk cruise missile responded
at once, adjusting its wings and deflecting its jet exhaust by fractions
of an inch to make the course correction.

Thirty seconds from impact, Marano was unaware of everything except the
images on the screens. She was the missile, homing in on her target,
slowly dropping her airspeed.

The Tomahawk flashed over the Navy Yard, crossed Virginia Avenue, sped
north-northwest, parallel to New Jersey Avenue.

"Going wide," Marano said, and eased the crosshairs to the side of the
Capitol Dome. Behind her, the control room was absolutely silent. She
sensed two officers behind her were holding their breath.

Above the streets of D. C." the cruise missile gleamed in the June
sunlight, glowed against the dark clouds gathering to the north, then
responded to the joystick's sudden movement by banking in a graceful
turn around the Capitol Building, disappearing for an instant behind the
dome, then streaking off due east for the Mall.

It dropped down to 150 feet, now, its exhaust shaking the leaves of the
trees with its passing. A mile and a quarter ahead was the Washington
monument.

The crosshairs were locked on to it. The cruise missile blurred through
the air, no longer in the sky, skimming the earth.

"Going wide ..." Marano said, no longer conscious of how her hands and
fingers responded to each feedback nudge of the joystick.

The Tomahawk twisted in the sunlight, arcing around the white marble
spire, rolling from side to side as it looped back over the Tidal Basin
until its ultimate target finally appeared in its sights.

The Pentagon.

Straight ahead.

Lieutenant Marano used the walkways at either side of the parade grounds
as her runway approach lines.

The surface of the Potomac rippled as the Tomahawk screamed past, only
fifty feet above the water.

The crosshairs locked on the River Entrance.

First Floor.

Dead Center.

Until the cruise missile was only a streak of white climbing the green
slope of the parade grounds at 100 miles an hour directly--on target.

The central concrete pillars exploded outward in perfect symmetry as the
Tomahawk's unused fuel formed a fireball that flared out behind them,
then was sucked into the instant passageway punched into the blast door.

The burning fuel billowed into the Pentagon.

The River Entrance foyer became an instant inferno.

The force of the impact converted its glass doors into powder that
swirled down the wood-paneled hallways of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

And the wadded-up mass of the cruise missile and blast door ended its
life in the far wall of the foyer, embedded three feet in the concrete,
just above the last steps of the staircase.

Within seconds, the missile's fuel exhausted itself.

Flames licked across the exposed wires and wood of the ceiling, Wood
paneling burned in the foyer and hallways.

Then the Pentagon's water sprinklers turned on.

In Norfolk, Virginia, Lieutenant Marano was still staring at the blank
screens on her tactical display, oblivious to the applause and cheers
rocking the control room. She had just blown a gaping hole into the
headquarters of her own Department of Defense. The task had not been on
her to-do list when she'd reported to her duty station this morning.

It would take some getting used to.

And in Arlington, Virginia, on the echo of the Tomahawk's thunderous
collision with the River Entrance blast door, 225 black-clad commandos
of Delta Force, Assault Squadron E, burst up and across the parade
grounds, beginning their 200-foot charge from the Jefferson Davis
Highway.

The siege of the Building was over.

The Pentagon had become the battleground.

m i "This is the answer," Kronig shouted triumphantly as he escorted
Midshipman Amy Bethune up the stairs to the action floor. To Kilo.

The Team One leader was waiting, weapon in hand, startled by the sight
of a new prisoner. "How did we miss her?" Kronig understood that Kilo
saw Bethune's presence as a personal failing. Team One had secured Site
J and had accounted for every member of its staff.

Across the floor, at the Red Level console, India had turned in her
chair to see what Kronig had discovered. The two technicians at the
electronics test-bed table had done the same. Quite correctly, all the
specialists had stayed at their posts.

General Vanovich's padded chair was unable to turn. It was locked in
position.

"You didn't," Kronig said. "She's been an inadvertent spy for Delta
Force. On the inside. That's why they haven't attacked yet. "

Kilo inspected Bethune more closely. "The midshipman on television."
"The one who missed her bus," Kronig said. "It's obvious what happened.
She saw where we put the hostages, and somehow she told them." He looked
at the girl, little more than a child, really. "Isn't that right?"

Bethune's answer was to spit at him, but she only hit his shoulder.

Kronig wiped the spittle from his coveralls. He nodded at Tango and
Kilo. "Search her."

Kilo abruptly locked his arms through Bethune's, from behind, and swung
her into the air. Snarling like an animal, the girl kicked her feet out,
making Tango jump back, wary, searching for a new approach. Kilo swiftly
retaliated, butting the front of his own forehead into the back of her
skull.

Kronig heard the crunch of the girl's teeth as her jaws slammed
together. Heard the whimper as her head lolled to the side. Then Tango
quickly patted her down and relieved her of two H&K clips, a folding
tool from her belt, and seven Pentagon passes on chains.

Kronig's admiration for her spirit became something else as he examined
those passes. One was hers. The others, some of them sticky with blood,
belonged to his six missing soldiers.

He roughly pushed her head up, saw her flinch with pain. Blood trickled
from the side of her mouth.

"You're no Academy student," he said. "Who are you?"

Her words were slurred as if she were drunk. "Bethune. Amy Le anne.

Midshipman, United States Navy."

Kronig rapped his fist against her jaw and she reacted as if he had
shocked her with a cattle prod. She stiffened in Kilo's grip, hot tears
streaking her face. This ... child hadn't killed six of his commandos.
And found her way down here.

Unless ... Kronig leaned in close so that he would be all that she could
see.

"Who's with you?"

He could see by her wide eyes that she was terrified of him. He raised
his fist and she shrank back. Kronig sighed. It would be like torturing
an infant.

"She didn't kill anyone," he said. "She's with someone. Tango, go down,
check the door again. Kilo, you're with him."

But Tango held back. He gave Kronig the folding tool he had taken from
the girl.

Curious, Kronig turned the tool over in his hands. It had opened to form
a parr of needle-nose pliers. The point its jaws made was caked with
dried blood. Six soldiers with a pair of pliers?! He reached out and
grasped the girl's shoulder, bunching her gray sweatshirt in his fist.
He pulled her from Kilo's grip, twisting her body around as he checked
her for wounds.

She had none. So the blood wasn't hers. But the blood was smeared
everywhere, as if she had been in hand-to-hand combat with a knife. How
... Her furious cry hit his ears as her elbow drove into his throat and
her foot swung back to strike Kilo's stomach as she grabbed for her
folding tool. Her attack was aborted only by the butt of Tango's
submachine gun smashing into the side of her head, effectively dropping
her to the floor.

Even then the girl kept trying to push herself up, though she no longer
had the strength or the motor control to do so.

Kronig massaged his bruised throat. "I don't know what she is," he
croaked. "But check to make sure she was alone."

"Should I tie her up?" Kilo asked.

Kronig shook his head, still collecting his voice. He unsnapped the flap
on his holster. Kilo nodded. He and Tango went to the stairs, started
down.

The girl stared up at Kronig, defiant. Now a long string of blood and
saliva hung from her mouth. Her brown hair was stained dark red where
Tango's weapon had hit her. Kronig kept his distance. He drew his
pistol. "For what it's worth, soldier, I salute you."

The girl's hands and arms trembled terribly as she pushed herself up to
a sitting position, never taking her clear blue eyes off him.

"Ranger!"

The shout came from India, still at her console.

"They've attacked! The television coverage is ... I don't know, half of
it's ended ... but there's a news helicopter showing smoke at the River
Side ... I can see soldiers on the parade grounds ... helicopters coming
in ..."

Kronig nodded his head, unconcerned. "They're just killing hostages by
coming in the windows."

"No--they're going into the ground entrance. They got through the blast
door. You can see them run in!"

"Impossible," Kronig said, looking down at the girl. But he knew he'd
have to see it for himself.

She was still staring up at him. But not with fear. She couldn't be
American. Perhaps a British exchange student, or ahe pulled back on the
slide of his gun, raised it to fire ... The lights went out.

SECOND FLOOR. E RING. RIVER ENTRANCE SIDE Like ghosts the Delta Force
commandos swept through the Pentagon, through the mist of spraying water
and the smoke of destruction. Swift, silent, cloaked in black, in the
shadows, their faces masked by thermal visors that gave them the power
to see in absolute darkness.

Office by office, stairwell by stairwell, they moved forward with
clockwork precision, the only sound the rustle of their equipment, the
solid pad of their boots.

Floor after floor, a door was knocked down, a three-man team rushed in,
weapons up, moving back and forth, seeking targets.

But all they found were hostages, two, three, sometimes four to an
office. In one ground-floor conference room, they found five hostages
unbound who claimed to have been rescued by the midshipman who had left
the message on the window.

They also found hostages placed to draw fire. Some had even been tied to
doors that Delta would normally have blasted open. But forewarned by the
Army major who had personally penetrated the enemy's line, the commandos
had already adjusted their tactics to match the situation.

The enemy had constructed a classic high-stress, high-risk situation.

With each door opened, the commandos' nerves were stretched tauter;
triggers formed grooves in tense fingers that would not, could not,
relax.

But the hallmark of Delta Force training was not learning how to fire a
weapon at a terrorist. It was learning how not to fire at a hostage.

Wherever they found NATO officers and civilians, the commandos now cut
their ropes and plastic ties. Then teams of commandos rapidly escorted
freed hostages to helicopters waiting on the roof or in the small V. I.P
parking lot beside the River Entrance. From either location, the rescued
were flown ten miles south to Fort Belvoir, for treatment of their
injuries and, more important, discreet confirmation of their identities.

They did not find the one hostage they had been alerted to watch for. A
woman whom each of them would recognize without difficulty. The
President's wife was still missing.

Yet the rest of the mission proceeded without incident.

The Pentagon's hallways and corridors were swarming with soldiers
carrying thousands of rounds of ammunition. But not one round was
expended.

The River Side had only been a feint to slow them down.

The real battle still remained to be fought.

At Ground Zero.

FIFTEEN

SITE J, UTILITIES DECK

Since Site J was considered impregnable, the main generators had never
been designed to defeat sabotage. To Tom, the master control board was
laughably unsophisticated. If he'd wanted to, he could simply push on
three large rocker switches and cut all the power to the
above-Top-Secret installation, as easily as turning off a light.

"Can you shut it down?" Margaret asked. She was still whispering, even
though the hum of the generators in this control room made it very
unlikely they could be heard.

The entire bottom level of Site J reminded Tom of a cramped and crowded
and noisy old factory. Not enough lights. Narrow metal doors. Open,
metal-grid floors everywhere. Though not in this electrical generator
room, where thick, black-rubber mats covered the floor.

"Just turning off the power won't work," Tom explained. He loved seeing
the look of annoyance that crossed Margaret's face. It only happened
when she was afraid he was going to be right about something.

He touched one of the main power switches. "If we shut that off,
batteries will kick in right away, and the backup generators will start
up." He pointed to the power system status board above the circuit
switches. Its small red, green, and amber dome lights revealed to Tom
the basic power distribution plan for the entire facility. "It's very
clear," he added, mostly because he knew Margaret wouldn't have a clue
how the board actually worked.

From the tone of her voice, she knew he was baiting her. "Okay. So what
do we do?"

"I'll cause a surge. That should blow out some equipment, trip some
circuit breakers. The batteries and backup generators will still come
on, but there might not be a lot for them to do."

"So why don't we take out the batteries and backups, too?"

Tom shook his head and tapped the status board. "According to this,
they're all up on the top floor."

"We can get to them."

Right, Tom thought. Past who knows how many killers with guns? "Let's
see what we can get away with down here, first," he said. "Then we can
figure out how to get Nuke."

"Shutting down communications comes first, Tom. No point in saving your
girlfriend if we can't call off the bomber."

Tom took a deep breath. After everything he had been through today, this
was one discussion he absolutely didn't need to have. "She's not my
girlfriend." Tom had finally gotten the chance to tell Margaret all
about Bethune's lost classmates and how that explained why the
terrorists knew her. How she'd missed the bus.

Margaret poked him in the ribs. The poke hurt. "You mean: She's not my
girlfriend, yet."

"Margaret, she's a soldier. You know what they're like."

"Just your type."

"Don't start." He began looking around the generator room.

"What d'you need?"

Tom reached past Margaret to get it from the top of a generator control
cabinet, held it up. "Duct tape. Just the thing."

He knelt down and used his knife to pop the cover from the main
circuit-breaker panel. There were three main power buses, good old
fashioned 1970s vintage. Best of all, there was no indication of
computer control circuits installed to monitor the power buses'
performance, or stop him from doing what he was about to attempt.

"Perfect," he said.

He tore off strips of duct tape, then reached in to tightly wrap them
around the circuit-breaker switches that protected each bus, until each
switch was jammed in the On position, with no way of shutting off.

"What are you doing?" Margaret asked.

"Putting pennies in the fuse box," Tom told her. "Next, I overload the
circuits. These switches will try to open to protect the equipment down
the line, but because I've jammed them ... meltdown."

"Less talk, more work." "You asked me. I told you." Tom looked around
the room again, trying to find something nonconductive. He saw a small,
three-stair wooden stepladder folded at the side of the room. "Give me
your stupid knife." Margaret pulled her K-bar from the scabbard on her
leg and handed it over.

Tom put the stepladder on the floor, stepped on two of the legs and
rocked them apart. Then he picked up one of the step rungs that had
fallen free, a piece of wood about fourteen inches long by five inches
wide and one inch thick.

"What are you going to do with that?" Margaret asked.

This time Tom ignored her. My girlfriend. Just what I need in my life.
Another ex-wife.

He placed Margaret's knife sideways on the end of the wooden step, then
taped it into position with the duct tape, fashioning a crude scythe.

When he was finished, he had a highly conductive piece of metal with a
long wooden handle.

"Are you going to ruin my knife?" Margaret asked, her eyes daring him to
even try.

"Only if I'm lucky," Tom told her. "Stand back over there and close your
eyes."

Margaret moved away, but Tom knew she couldn't help but watch.

He, on the other hand, had no choice. He knelt by the open circuit
breaker box, lined up the knife with three thick strands of copper wire
above the breakers, then plunged the blade in, while holding on to the
wooden step.

The instant the metal blade touched the wires, fountains of sparks
sprang from the knife and from the circuit breakers Tom had taped shut.

He heard the generators growl as they stepped up their output to meet
the unexpected high demand, and then give a satisfying phhht.

Except for the sparks, the lights went out.

The end of the wooden step was on fire now, and Tom dropped it to the
floor and quickly stamped it out, taking care not to slice his sneakers
on the blade.

Margaret switched on a small flashlight she pulled from her pocket.

"Don't you ever teach Tyler how to do that," she said.

"You're right. It's so much better that he learns from his mother how to
kill." Tom studied the status board. The small dome lights were
flickering back to life on battery power. "Okay, we're halfway there.

The main generators are out. I think half the batteries are offline.

But the backup generators will come on soon. Ninety seconds, two
minutes."

Margaret played her flashlight over the status board. "Is there any way
to tell if the communications lines are down?"

"Not from that. And if they're so important, they probably have separate
circuit breakers wired into them."

"Then we have to go upstairs and take out the other generators."

Margaret went to rescue her knife. The duct tape had melted, holding the
blackened blade to the charred wood. "Nice going. You screwed up my
knife."

"You know, Tyler's starting to sound like--"

BANG."

The door to the generator room flew open, smashing against the side wall
to reveal two men in black commando gear, both with guns and flashlights
pointed directly at Tom and Margaret.

The man in front was smaller, with close-cropped red hair and beard.

"Move away from the generators," he ordered.

Tom felt paralyzed. As soon as there was nothing critical behind them,
it was entirely possible these men might kill them.

But the hopeless situation wasn't stopping Margaret. "What if we don't?"
she challenged them belligerently. "Afraid you might blow something up?"

The red-haired commando lowered his weapon. "Then we shoot your feet,
and we drag you out ourselves."

Tom glared at Margaret. If she'd just kept quiet, maybe they'd only have
been taken prisoner. But, no, she always has to go and The wooden step
and knife flipped through the air as Margaret shoved him to the side.

The red-haired man fired his submachine gun straight ahead but by then
Margaret's charred knife was in his throat, and Tom was rolling to the
side, on the floor where Margaret had pushed him, and his ex wife was
lunging for the blazing gun.

The battle Tom watched in amazement was lit only by the beam of
Margaret's dropped flashlight and the flashlights attached to the guns
of the two terrorists.

Margaret was already ripping the submachine gun out of the hands of the
red-haired man as he fell to his knees with a gargling cry, bright-red
blood spurting from his neck. The second gunman had brought his gun up,
but had waited for just an instant to avoid shooting his partner.

That briefest of hesitations had given Margaret all the time she needed
to swing the captured gun up into his face, violently knocking him to
the side.

Then they were both outside the door and in the narrow hallway where Tom
couldn't see them.

He scrambled to his feet and ran forward, skidding around the body of
the red-haired man who lay twitching horribly on the black rubber floor.

And then Tom stopped dead because of what he saw in the hallway.

The tall gunman was lashing viciously out at Margaret with his hand, and
though she was a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, she reached
up and caught that hand, and twisted it back at the wrist until Tom
heard a crack and the man grunted with pain.

She got him, Tom thought in awe.

But Margaret wasn't finished.

Suddenly she was pushing up close to the man as he slipped back against
the wall, her hands, her fists, her rigid fingers, striking his face
with blow after blow.

The man tried to cover his face. He forced her back as he brought his
knee up into her stomach, and took his chance to draw his own knife.

Tom shot forward but Margaret's hand had already deflected the knife;
her other, flat and open, drove straight into the man's eye. Tom stepped
back.

The man's eye burst like a lightbulb popping.

The screaming ended only when Margaret's other hand smashed the man's
larynx. He choked and doubled over, hands going for his face, forgetting
his knife was now in the open.

And then in a move so fast Tom didn't see it begin till it ended,
Margaret had the man's knife, grabbed the hair on his crown, jerked his
head back, and drew the knife across his throat so swiftly and so deeply
that his death made no sound.

His body crumpled to the floor.

The battle, all twenty seconds of it, was over.

Margaret stood over her vanquished foe, chest heaving deeply, mouth
open, nostrils flared. In the soft light of the fallen flashlights, she
seemed something other than human to Tom.

But today, Tom had seen this before. With Bethune.

He said nothing to the woman who had once been his lover, his wife, and
still was the mother of his son. Instead, he turned and reentered the
generator room, and returned a moment later with her knife.

He wiped it clean on his jeans, then handed it to her, handle first.

More than anything else he might have done, he hoped the gesture would
say what he could not yet say aloud.

This time he understood. And he was grateful.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER. FBI HEADQUARTERS General
Janukaty's was wearing an almost nonexistent headset: an earphone with a
slender microphone that reached no more than two inches along his
clean-shaven jaw. But it was enough, Hector knew, for him to keep track
of all the radio traffic among the rescue helicopters. The operation had
been under way for ten minutes.

"We have forty-six hostages in the air," Janukatys reported. "Only one
injury so far, still no sign of resistance."

"They've withdrawn into Site ]," Casson said. But the NRO director's
conclusion wasn't news. That was what everyone in the conference room
had expected. Everything else that had happened had clearly been
designed to slow CONDEFCOM's response. And that part of the terrorists'
plan had worked perfectly.

Now it remained to be seen if the rest of it would, as well.

"Fifty-six hostages," Janukatys said. "They're starting to pick them up
from the roof now. No contact with the enemy."

The President sat quietly in his chair, idly picking at the bandages on
his hands, watching the multiple video screens showing helicopter
coverage of the Pentagon. This time, though, the observation helos were
all military. The last of the news helos had been restricted from the
area.

Hector knew why the President remained silent.

There had been no more messages from Tom Chase.

Not one of the radio messages had been from Major Sinclair.

And not one of the hostages had been the First Lady.

Hector looked out at Tyler, still playing cards with Special Agent
Newman on the other side of the glass wall. Tyler saw him looking,
smiled and waved. Hector waved back. It wasn't time yet for him to talk
to Tyler. There wasn't anything new he could say about his parents.

They had another thirty minutes.

Until the bomber arrived.

And the Pentagon ran out of time.

SIT! J. ACTION LEVa Pain was no longer an issue for Amy Bethune. Hatred
had erased all other sensation.

Before her, without question, was the monster who had somehow killed her
classmates. All that mattered now was that she should kill him.

It was the only thought in her mind as she had spit on him, as she had
been searched, as she had attacked him and been attacked in return. And
it was the only thought in her now as she sat on the floor and looked up
at him as he brought his gun down to end her life.

Then the lights went out.

Instinctively, she rolled away from her position, feeling the floor buck
with the impact of the bullet the monster had fired.

He'll see me in the muzzle flash, Amy knew. Her effort to escape was
ultimately useless. The bullet would find her anyway.

Except it didn't come.

Instead, a wall of electronic equipment blew out in a gout of sparks and
blue flames.

A female in midshipman white ran from her console to the fire, along
with two other fake sailors who had been working at a diagnostic table.

Even the monster with the gun was distracted. So, somehow, Amy pushed
herself to her feet, and stumbled to cover. She squeezed herself into a
narrow opening behind a tall cabinet of electronic equipment on the far
side of the floor, away from the red-metal staircase.

She hunched there for a moment, catching her breath, shivering as the
pain tried to reclaim her and couldn't. But pain is good, she reminded
herself. It lets you know you're still alive. And as long as she was
alive, she had a chance to kill the monster. She put a hand to her jaw
and pushed, just to sharpen her instincts.

Despite the waves of fire in her jaw, or maybe because of it, she now
heard a muffled burst of automatic gunfire, and knew it had to come from
the levels below. She thought of Chase and Sinclair. It had been a short
burst. Surely no one could get two people that easily. At least, not the
major.

Of course not, she told herself. The firing was more likely the only
response possible in a surprise attack. Major Sinclair had probably
ambushed one of the enemy. She had a machine gun now. She would run up
to this floor and spray the room ... but even in this fantasy, Amy
wanted the major to miss killing the monster. She needed to kill him
herself. She heard the whoosh of fire extinguishers as the reflections
of the flashing of sparks slowly faded from the wall and overhang near
her. Machinery rumbled above her, then a few lights flickered on. But
the lights were much weaker than before, pale amber, like candle flames.

"Is it working?" she heard the monster shout.

A woman answered, "Yes, we're still online."

When the monster spoke again, his voice was calmer. Amy recognized the
tone. She had felt that way herself.

"Good," she heard the monster say. "You two, take your guns, find that
girl, and kill her."

Amy looked to both sides, but there was no other cover, nowhere else she
could hide. She inched up the back wall, to her feet, getting ready to
leap out at the first gunman she saw.

She wouldn't be captured again, and she had no intention of
surrendering.

Footsteps were coming closer. Her hiding place was obvious. Amy returned
to her fantasy. Not much longer, she thought. If you're going to come to
my rescue, Major, this would be a good time, The gunfire began.

Margaret decided to take out the two men with the submachine guns first.

As soon as she had stuck her head up from the stairwell, she'd seen
Erich Kronig in black at a Red Level console with a woman in white. But
there was no sign of Bethune.

She quickly scanned the rest of the action floor and saw two other men
in white, carrying H&Ks ready to fire as they moved toward the far side
of the room.

She's slipped away from them, Margaret thought. Probably when the power
went out.

She checked her line of sight, made certain she wouldn't be shooting
into any possible hiding place beyond the two gunmen, then dropped them
both in two quick bursts. The first with a perfect cluster between his
shoulder blades. The second before he'd even completed turning to return
fire.

Then she swung her weapon toward Erich, and was surprised to see he was
not attempting to run. Instead, he stood behind a high backed chair at
one end of the console, looking in her direction, but pointing a Beretta
at the occupant of the chair, someone Margaret couldn't see.

But she could guess, even before Erich turned the chair around.

General Vanovich. With Erich's gun against his neck.

"Come into the open, Midshipman," Erich called out. "This is an Air
Force general. The Navy would be displeased if you let him die for you."

He thinks I'm Bethune, Margaret realized. That meant the midshipman was
loose in the facility. If I can provide a diversion ... She rose from
the stairwell, stepped onto the metal floor.

Erich stared at her in the dim light. They were twenty feet apart.

"You're not ... Margaret?"

"Erich." Margaret stepped to the side, the H&K she had taken from the
red-haired man at her hip, keeping her eyes on Erich Kronig but watching
the woman at the left of the console as well. "General."

"Kill him, Major," Vanovich said fiercely. He didn't flinch as the
Beretta pushed deeper into his neck. "That's an order!"

Erich remained behind Vanovich's chair so the only way Margaret could
get him was by firing through the general. There had to be another way.
But in the meantime, she raised her weapon, sighted on the few square
inches of Erich's face she could see behind Vanovich.

"Think, Margaret!" Erich said quickly. "Do you know about QUICKSILVER?
Do you know what it can do?"

Margaret held her fire, seeking her opportunity. "Put down your weapon
and step away from the general," she said. She heard the hum of an
elevator beginning to move. Erich's eyes shifted to the side. He looked
surprised. Good, Margaret thought. The more he's kept off balance, the
better.

"You don't want to kill me," Erich warned.

"Wrong."

"Not until the general gives me access to QUICKSILVER again."

"Never!" Vanovich growled.

Erich ignored him. He focused on Margaret. "Here's the offer

Margaret missed the rest of what her former lover said as she suddenly
whipped her gun barrel around, toward the woman in white, and fired.

The woman was knocked back over the console, her pistol spinning from
her hand, her sneak attack stopped before it could begin.

Margaret had her sights back on Erich before the body hit the ground.

"I'm not even going to count to three," she said. She heard the elevator
stop on the level above.

Erich looked up to that level and frowned. He spoke more rapidly, urgent
in his desire that she understand him. "I have programmed QUICKSILVER
with an automatic firing sequence."

Vanovich struggled against his chair restraints. "He told me he put it
in a safe mode."

"On an internal countdown!" Erich said. "If it doesn't receive my signal
when it passes over again, it will fire. Directly into Washington."

Margaret didn't waver in her aim. But she had seen what had happened to
the Shilo. "Can he do that, General?"

"It's ... possible. He fired it once."

"It's more than possible," Erich said. "Think, Margaret. I had to have a
backup scenario if I was forced to leave Site J before the completion of
my mission. Isn't that what you taught me? Have a backup scenario?"

"How do we shut it down, General?"

Erich answered Margaret before Vanovich could. "You can't. Only I know
what code to send. Give me access to QUICKSILVER, I'll cancel the firing
sequence, then you let me leave with my men."

"Wrong again," Margaret said.

"Then Washington burns, and either way, my mission is complete."

"What mission?"

"To restore balance to the world."

"Whose balance, Erich? Moscow's? Beijing's?"

Erich leaned forward to Vanovich. "Don't feel too badly, General. You
see, she doesn't know, either." Erich checked his watch. "Thirty
minutes, Margaret. Either you give me QUICKSILVER by then, or I'll make
you responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands. Perhaps even
millions."

And with that mention of time, Margaret realized that it didn't matter
what might happen in thirty minutes unless she could stop what would
happen in twenty.

"TOM!" she shouted. "TOMMMM!"

"Your husband, too?" Kronig said, his eyebrows lifting. "I saw him, you
know. I recognized his photo from the picture you had with your son."

Margaret fired a burst into the ceiling of the next floor up.

"CHASE!

GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE NOW!"

"He's an engineer, isn't he? So he blew out the main generators, and now
he's about to do the same to the backups, upstairs. But then you'll
never be able to contact QUICKSILVER. So what happens to Washington
really will be your fault."

Margaret knew why Tom wasn't answering. She'd told him not to move if
she was captured, being used as bait to draw him out of cover.

"Tom! If you're up there, listen to me! I'm all right! But you have to
stop the bomber! Erich's set QUICKSILVER to fire on D.C. If we don't
have Site ], we can't stop it!"

She endured one long moment before Tom finally answered. "What do I do?"

"Get up to the Building, get upstairs, use my radio, you'll get right to
General Brower. Tell him to abort the bombing. He has the authority to
recall."

"What about the generators?"

God, he can be so thick sometimes! "Don't touch them. We need to be able
to contact the platform from here. Now move! We've only got twenty
minutes."

"Eighteen, now," Erich said, amused. Then he shouted, "Better hurry,
Tom!"

Margaret heard running footsteps. Tom was on his way upstairs.

She took close aim again. Eighteen minutes. Tom could make it.

Brower was standing by for her call. They'd be okay. "It's over, Erich."

"Not for another seventeen minutes and fifty seconds," he said. "Maybe
we should just wait."

But Margaret wasn't in the mood for games. "General, if you don't make
it, how do I stop QUICKSILVER?"

"Use your access code to--ahhhh!"

Erich had slammed his gun into the side of the general's head.

"Next word he says, I shoot," Erich threatened. "By now, all I need are
his retinas."

"And his access code. You know it changes each time he uses it."

Margaret saw Erich's lips thin, his careful facade of control crumbling.

"You need him," she said to goad him. "I don't."

"I know Americans, Margaret. And I know you. The general is godfather to
your son."

"I have my orders."

"So have I."

And as simply as that, Erich Kronig shot the general.

SIXTEEN

SITE J, PRIMARY ACCESS SHAFT

Tom couldn't question what he had to do.

Margaret was on the level below him. He'd seen her holding a submachine
gun, aiming it at the man who held a gun to Vanovich's head.

He hadn't seen Bethune.

Tom knew he couldn't even think about what might have happened to
Bethune. Nor about what might happen to Margaret or to Vanovich if those
weapons were to fire. If he did, he could never leave Site J.

And that would mean he could never stop the bomber.

He had his orders and his mission.

Now the sound of his racing footsteps echoed against the curved
stainless-steel walls of the Level Two entrance chamber. The elevator
car he had taken up from Level Four was still there, its doors open.

Tom rushed inside, swinging around to press the close control. Then he
pulled his proxcard from his front jeans pocket, touched it to the
security reader, and pressed the backlit plastic rectangle marked
ENTRANCE LEVEL.

The elevator doors slid shut. Tom checked his watch. His best guess was
eighteen minutes left. He could make it in time.

Except the elevator wasn't moving.

Tom pressed the entrance level control again. But nothing changed.

Then he realized what had happened. Threat Con Echo. Site J had been
sealed behind its own secure perimeter--the one barrier in the Pentagon
that his card couldn't bypass.

He punched the open control, the doors parted, and Tom got out.

Somewhere, he knew, Ranger or Kronig or whoever the hell was behind
this attack had to have kept at least one passageway open to the
surface. He remembered the blast door into C Ring that the two
terrorists had propped open. The two terrorists that Bethune had killed
in the AE service road.

Outside again in the elevator-entrance chamber, Tom touched his card to
the call elevator panel on the wall and the doors of the second elevator
opened. He ran in. But ten seconds later, he learned it was locked down,
too. Like the first elevator, it would only run from Level Four to Level
Two, no higher.

It had to be the stairs.

This time, he touched his proxcard to the emergency-exit door to the
right of the two elevators. The door clicked and Tom pushed it open, and
headed through to the metal-grid landing. Then he looked up at the
converging lines of the elevator scaffolding and rising metal stairs.

Three hundred and twenty feet. Thirty-two stories. Sixteen minutes.

He couldn't stop to think. He couldn't stop to question. He had his
mission.

Tom began to run.

RED PANTHER TWO Pittsburgh was on the horizon, sliding past to the
north, as the Rockwell B1-B Lancer began its descent from 35,000 feet.

For now, its variable wings were in their fully-swept-back position,
giving the 157-foot aircraft a wingspan of only 78 feet. But to make its
final approach from the northwest, the plane would come in on a low and
slow vector. The usual, near-Mach-speed approach rehearsed so often by
the crew was not required now since enemy fire would not be an issue.
Instead, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force had personally instructed
them that, for this mission, their CEP must be zero.

For that approach, the Lancer's wings would swing out to their full
137-foot span, as a system of internal pumps redistributed the
aircraft's fuel supply to keep it in trim.

In the cabin, the four crewmen had remained silent, except for the
formal procedure when they had received nuclear authorization from the
National Command Authority. The copilot and Offensive Systems Operator
had recited the seven-letter authenticator code which appeared on their
NCA display, so that the pilot could confirm that the command was
genuine. During this recitation, not one of the crew's three men and one
woman had been certain who actually was the current head of the NCA.

As they were scrambled from their base, the news reports were confusing.
Some stations were reporting the President had resigned.

That Speaker of the House Marlens had become the new President. Other
reports claimed that General Brower was Acting President.

But the command had been confirmed as authentic, and the prearming
sequence on the B61-11 nuclear weapon in Red Panther Two's bomb bay had
powered up. Despite their unspoken but shared misgivings that they might
be taking this unprecedented and unimaginable action on the authority of
House Speaker Marlens, the crew would do their duty as a component of
the country's defense.

It was with great relief that they later accepted a direct
communications from General Janukatys. The Air Force Chief of Staff
informed them that the President was still the President, and that the
mission they were embarked upon would save the country from incalculable
harm.

While that knowledge had no bearing on how well they would perform their
duty, the four knew it might help them through the long nights that
would follow. As Pittsburgh passed from view, the copilot radioed on a
frequency that would take the transmission directly to General
Janukatys.

"This is Red Panther Two to Cannonball. We are coming up on fifteen
minutes from target. Do we have confirmation of mission status?

Over."

The general's response was immediate. "Roger that, Red Panther Two.

Your mission is go. Repeat, your mission is go. Over."

"Copy that, Cannonball. Our mission is go. Uh, General, we would like to
request additional confirmation at five minutes. Over."

"Understood, Red Panther Two. I'll expect your call. Cannonball out."

The pilot heard one of the crew sigh. The question had to be asked.

"Still enjoying the ride?"

The Defensive Systems Operator answered. There were no DSO functions on
this flight, and given the nature of the mission, the young captain had
been given the option of not taking part. "You're my crew," the DSO had
replied. "We're doing this together."

The pilot wished they weren't doing it at all. But they would. To the
utmost of their abilities.

"Fourteen minutes to target," the copilot announced.

"Weapons systems," the pilot said. "Prepare for delivery."

The bomber flew on toward the Pentagon, 170 miles away.

SITE J Vanovich cried out as the bullet shattered his kneecap. But that
was exactly the response Erich had wanted.

And he had been right.

Margaret, trusting Margaret, had not returned fire, even when she
believed that the only thing keeping her from killing him had just been
destroyed.

"You see!" Erich called over Vanovich's gasps of pain. "You can't shoot!
You're a mother! You're an American! This is not your battle!" For the
first time he took his gun off Vanovich and pointed it directly at
Margaret. "Drop your weapon and you can escape with me, through the air
channel, then go home to your son. I owe you that much."

"You owe me nothing!"

"But Margaret, your computer codes opened the NIA to my troops. You made
it possible for us to learn all your plans."

"Drop your weapon!" Margaret shouted.

Erich felt regret. Their affair hadn't been all work. But Margaret was,
like him, a soldier. He knew she'd understand. He took aim.

But the impact of Midshipman Bethune spoiled his shot.

She screamed right into his ear as she landed on his back in a great
leap from behind the Red Level console.

Erich staggered and fell headfirst into the back of Vanovich's chair,
rebounded backward, then fell again, catching the side of his jaw on the
arm of the chair.

Bethune's ineffective punches pummeled his back and his sides. Even as
he struck the floor, Erich realized that meant she had no weapons. And
he knew she was too weak to do much damage.

He kicked his foot against the base of the console to straighten out,
then twist beneath her. But Bethune hung on grimly, grabbing his gun
hand, digging her ragged nails into his flesh as she banged his hand
down. Again and again, until his gun fired again toward the ceiling and
the recoil tore it from his hand.

Then she reared up astride him and began punching him again, her
unfocused attack fueled by anger or by rage, but not by whatever
training had enabled her to defeat six of his soldiers.

Though the girl's proximity was all that kept Margaret from shooting
him, Erich knew it was time to put an end to her disruption.

He reached into his pocket, found her folding tool, felt for its blade
and thumbed it open. Then as Bethune raised both hands to swing doubled
fists down against him, he stabbed her with her own weapon.

Bethune gasped, then doubled over when he gave the weapon a death twist,
leaving her to clutch her abdomen as he ripped the tool from her.

But the gout of blood he expected did not spurt across him.

Erich looked at the tool in his hand.

He had unfolded a blunt metal file.

His moment of discovery cost him his edge. The midshipman slapped the
tool from his hand, then as she drew back to renew her attack with her
weapon, she suddenly stopped.

In an instant she was off him and running away.

Erich rolled to his side and then to his feet. He looked to see what
Bethune had seen.

Margaret was down, her body curled in a ball- A slowly expanding disk of
red liquid beneath her.

SITE J. PRIMARY ACCESS SHAFT There was no way of measuring how far he
had come, except by the change in his body.

Tom's legs were lead, heavy, autonomous appendages aware of nothing
except their own impending collapse. Each wheezing breath he took seared
and strained his overwhelmed lungs. Black stars sparkled at the edges of
his vision.

It took two hands on the metal railing now to pull him upward, step by
step.

Keep the pace steady, he kept telling himself. Can't collapse on the
second-to-last landing. But each time he broke his rhythm to check his
watch, he knew he had to keep climbing as fast as he could. There was no
time for pacing. He'd been climbing for eight minutes. He was certain he
was almost at the top. But he wasn't there yet.

And then he fell.

Tom's aching knee did not rise high enough and his foot caught a step.

He pitched forward, striking his shins, his forearms, his chin. For a
moment he knew all it would take would be to close his eyes for only a
second and he would be asleep or unconscious and the pain would go away.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Tyler's dad owed his son a ball game.

Tom started crawling up the stairs until he could run again. And nine
minutes after he began his climb, he reached the decontamination
facility beneath the center of the Pentagon's Courtyard.

He burst through the doors that led from the central elevator kiosk and
ran for the sloping tunnel that led up to the utility corridor.

Tom thundered down the metal stairs bridging the large green pipe, then
tore along the corridor, bouncing off the beige cinder-block walls until
he found an opening to a radial corridor.

There he halted, gasping, wheezing. The opening to the corridor seemed
somehow wrong. He was certain there should be a blast door covering
there because it led into the River Entrance side.

But there was no time to think anything through. He had less than ten
minutes.

Tom charged down the corridor until he came to a utility stairwell, then
sprinted up a floor, ran out into the Courtyard, pulled out Margaret's
radio, switched it on, and started transmitting with six minutes to go.

"This is Tom Chase to anyone. Abort the bombing! Abort the bombing!

We need Site J to contact QUICKSILVER! Contact General Brower! Is anyone
there?!"

He took his thumb off the transmit button.

Digital static. No one was broadcasting.

No ... it can't be ... Then Tom understood.

The surrounding walls of the Pentagon. They'd been deliberately laced
with copper shielding and foils. Specifically to prevent the broadcast
and reception of unauthorized radio transmissions.

He looked up five stories, to the roof. They would hear him there.

He had five and a half minutes.

Tom began to run again.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER. FBI HEADQUARTERS The
President was on his feet and Hector had never seen anyone so bereft, or
so alone.

The flashing red light that was Red Panther Two was directly over D.C.

on the map. Janukatys had just told them the bomber would be circling to
the southeast now, avoiding the storm front that had almost reached the
city. The aircraft would come in at the Pentagon on almost the same
vector as the Tomahawk cruise missile had.

The countdown said the Lancer was just over five minutes from its
target.

The President went to stand by Janukatys.

"They'll be calling in for their five-minute confirmation," the
President said.

The Air Force general nodded.

The Man held out his hand for Janukatys's headphone. "It'll be my
order," he said.

RED PANTHER TWO "Coming up on five minutes from target," the copilot
said.

The pilot opened the circuit. "This is Red Panther Two to Cannonball.

Do you copy?"

The voice that replied was as unexpected as it was recognizable.

"Colonel Boone, this is the President."

"Yes, sir."

"I want to tell you personally that the authorization, my authorization,
stands. And though ... though it might not seem that way, you are
performing an act that will save uncounted lives and prevent untold
sorrow."

"Yes, sir."

"And I want you all to know, it's important that you know, that what you
are about to do is an order directly from your commander in chief.

There can be no question, no doubt, that you are doing your duty. The
responsibility is completely my own. Is that clear, Colonel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it clear to your entire crew?"

Colonel Boone opened the circuit so that the President could hear the
crew's reply.

Then the pilot spoke again. "Thank you, sir. We are commencing our final
run. We have target lock, and the package is hot."

"God be with you."

"And you, sir. This is Red Panther Two. Out." "Three minutes from
target," the copilot said.

No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.

B RING, ROOF Tom Chase exploded from the roof-access doorway, tripped,
and sprawled across the flat, gravel roof.

But the radio didn't slip from his hand.

He was already shouting into the radio as he rolled over and on to his
knees, then got up and ran toward the A Ring roof. It was slate covered,
peaked, a few feet higher. The extra height would give him better range.
"This is Tom Chase to General Brower! Abort the bomb!

This is a message from Major Sinclair! Abort the bomb! Abort the bomb!"

He took his thumb off the radio as he scrambled up the side of the roof.

"This is Round House Control to unidentified traffic," a voice on the
radio replied. "Where is Major Sinclair?"

Tom stopped on the topmost section of the roof, one foot on either side
of the slope, the Courtyard directly below him to the left, the River
Entrance and parade grounds four rings over to his right.

"Major Sinclair is in Site J! She's with Vanovich. QUICKSILVER is on an
autofire sequence to strike D.C. They need Site J to stay intact so they
can contact the satellite and reprogram it! Abort the damn bomb!"

"Identify yourself, please."

Tom yelled full force into the radio. "Stop following fucking procedure
you moron and abort the bomb! I'm Tom Chase! Major Sinclair's my wife!
You got my pager message through our son Tyler!

Stop the fucking bomb!"

"Stand by, unidentified traffic."

Tom looked at his watch. Two minutes. "Don't go through channels!

Please, God, call that aircraft! Tell them to swing around or pull up
but don't go through the whole goddamn chain of command!"

No answer.

Tom stood on the roof and looked up at the sky. Heavy gray clouds
reached down to the city. He saw the smear of rain beginning beneath
them. He turned his body in a circle, slowly, feeling dizzy, searching
for any, for some glimmer of metal in the sky.

But he saw nothing. The sky was empty.

As if a warning had been issued.

Tom held up Margaret's radio again. "This is Tom Chase to anyone who can
hear me! Don't bomb the Pentagon! This is a message from Major Sinclair!
Don't drop your bomb!"

And then he saw it. From the northeast.

A single, silver glint against dark clouds.

Ten, maybe twenty miles away.

The only plane in the sky.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER. FBI HEADQUARTERS With a
sudden start, the President pulled his headset free and looked at it for
a moment. He handed it to Janukatys. "General, someone wants us to
abort?"

Even Hector jumped to his feet as Janukatys lunged for the headset. He
jammed it into his ear.

"This is Janukatys!"

"What? Tom Chase? Yes, we know he's in there! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"
Hector stopped breathing as Janukatys turned to the President. "Major
Sinclair is inside Site J!"

Hector braced himself against the conference table.

"She says we need Site J intact to reach QUICKSILVER!"

The President looked confused. "But what about the terrorists?"

"Sir!" Janukatys shouted. "There's no time! We have to abort the bomb!"

"Do it!" the President commanded.

Janukatys slapped his hands over the console controls. "Red Panther Two,
this is General Janukatys. Abort your run! Command authorization Alpha
Alpha Zulu Tango Niner Niner X-ray! Do you copy, Red Panther Two! Do you
copy!"

Janukatys twisted a control. A blare of static. Then the answer came
back from Colonel Boone.

"It's too late, General. The bomb's away."

SEVENTEEN RED PANTHER TWO
The B61-11 was released at 5,000 feet, directly over Washington's Mount
Olivet Cemetery. The bomb was 16 feet long and weighed 5,200 pounds.

One-third of its weight was its hardened steel casing enabling the
warhead to penetrate 45 feet of concrete, or 200 feet of soil, before
detonation.

The B61-11 was a gravity bomb, whose airframe was designed to provide it
with a five-to-one glide ratio. The bomb flew solely by the pull of
gravity and the momentum imparted by the bomber that released it. A
simple GPS guidance system, combined with inertial and barometric
sensors, acted to adjust its tailfins and control surfaces to bring it
in exactly on target, with a theoretical precision of plus or minus six
inches.

Without a propulsion system of its own, the B61-11's course was set at
the moment of release. Unlike a cruise missile, its target coordinates
could not be changed in flight.

The bomb was released at 16:31:45.

It would reach its target in seventy-two seconds.

And nothing could stop it.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER. FBI HEADQUARTERS "I refuse
to accept that!" the President shouted. "Turn it around!"

"We can't!" Janukatys said. "Set it off in the air!"

"We'd flatten the city!" "We have to do something!" Hector said.

Then Janukatys shouted to whatever microphone would hear him. "Disarm
the fuze! Red Panther Two, disarm the fuze!"

RED PANTHER TWO Colonel Boone twisted in the pilot's seat as the Lancer
shuddered through a high-G-accelerating turn to leave the impact site.

"Disarm the fuze!" the colonel shouted to the Offensive Systems
Operator.

The OSO flipped open the cover on the abort switch, twisted the safety
latch off, pressed the red-and-white-striped button down. The light
above it glowed red. The B61-11 was not responding to the signal.

"Malfunction!" the OSO cried out. "We're out of range!" "Not for long!"
Boone said.

A RING. ROOF No one responded to Tom's urgent pleas.

And then he saw it was already too late.

There were two objects in the sky now. One a patch of bright gray
against the storm clouds, rapidly curving up. There was no question it
was a plane, gaining altitude, changing course. Escaping.

The other object was a single dot of black, almost invisible, continuing
on course.

And Tom knew what that was and where its course would take it.

His arm fell to his side, the radio useless in his hand.

The entire day had been for nothing. Everything would be lost.

Because they'd dropped the bomb.

The storm-driven wind picked up, pushing at him, as if urging him to
find shelter. But that made no sense. Not in the handful of seconds that
were left to him.

He looked out over the city of Washington, wondering where in it Tyler
was. Praying he was safe. Hoping his boy would someday forgive his
parents for what they had and hadn't done today.

Tom's momentary smile was rueful. When he had been talking so quickly on
the radio, he'd called Margaret his wife. It was probably the first time
in five years he hadn't said "ex-wife" a second later.

He looked back to the sky. The black dot didn't appear to be moving.

But he recognized that as an optical illusion. Because it was moving
toward him.

The bright gray spot that he guessed was the bomber also seemed to be
motionless, frozen in the sky, as if it, too, was coming in on a direct
line to the Pentagon.

But that couldn't be true. Bomber pilots were trained to pull away after
releasing their payloads.

The gray dot was getting larger. So was the black dot. Illusions, Tom
thought. Misdirection. What was the Building if not the greatest piece
of misdirection in the world? It was much more than just a bureaucratic
madhouse, a puzzle palace, the biggest office building in the world. It
was exactly what everyone had always wanted to believe it was: a
fortress full of secrets and conspiracies and Top-Secret command posts.

And now it was going to pay the price for its deceptions.

Tom wondered what would kill him first, the radiation blast, or the
shock wave. He decided the shock wave would. The soil would absorb a lot
of the gamma rays. That's probably why someone had thought this would be
a good idea.

God, he hated the Pentagon.

RED PANTHER TWO Its wings swept in like those of a hawk dropping from
the sky to steal its prey.

The B61-11 had a good thirty seconds' head start before Colonel Boone
brought the Lancer out of its turn and vectored it toward the target
coordinates.

The colonel pushed the throttle forward--this was no time to ease
anything--and was jolted back against the ejection seat as the aircraft
lurched forward, propelled by 120,000 pounds of thrust coming from her
four GE-102 turbofan engines.

The Lancer shuddered as its wings locked into place. The airspeed
climbed. The ground-collision alert alarm began chiming and a calm
recorded voice announced impact in twenty seconds.

"What's the color?" the colonel shouted.

"Red!" the OSO answered. "We're still out of range!"

The Lancer accelerated, as it raced its own bomb to Ground Zero.

A RING, ROOF As Tom watched, the penetrator bomb grew visibly larger
with each heartbeat. But that he understood.

The bomb was over the Capitol Dome now, a thousand feet up he guessed,
the size of a car, and it was closing fast.

What he didn't understand was that the bomber was on the same path.

Tom's legs were shaking. From the wind, from exhaustion, or fear, he'd
never know. But he refused to sit down. He'd face death on his feet.

He saw the bomb's shadow flash across the Jefferson Memorial.

Only seconds now.

He was sorry he wasn't with Margaret.

Then the bomber expanded so quickly Tom couldn't track it even as he
wheeled around to see it flash by--no more than one hundred feet above
the roof of the Pentagon. The air exploded with a sonic boom of such
intensity that every blast proof window in the Courtyard blew out at
once as those five flat walls acted to concentrate the sound.

And even as the pressure wave of the bomber swept over Tom on the roof,
he saw a black streak shoot like a laser beam straight into the
Courtyard. Right into its center. Slicing through the top of the roof of
the hotdog stand. Throwing a nearby tree up into the air. Then plunge
down into the grass, and Tom struggled to keep his footing on the
pitched slate roof.

This is it, he thought.

And it was.

SITE J, ACTION FLOOR Amy tried to be like Chase. Sinclair was down. The
major was bleeding. She couldn't panic. She had to focus. She had to
try.

She slowly rolled the major off her side. She saw the wound. A large
tear on the side of the major's left biceps.

Not fatal, Amy thought. She's only been winged. All she had to do was
stop the bleeding.

Sinclair's camouflage pants were in shreds. With shaking fingers, Amy
tore a strip up one leg until she had a yard-long piece of cloth. She
wrapped the cloth around the major's upper arm, used Sinclair's own
knife to complete the tourniquet.

Sinclair was moaning. Amy talked to her, to get her to come around, the
way she'd heard Chase talk to Sergeant Wiley.

Then Sinclair spoke. Amy listened carefully. A single word.

"Kronig."

Amy was flooded by a sudden rush of adrenaline. She twisted around in
confusion. The monster was gone.

But the general wasn't. She saw the blood beneath his chair.

"Oh, God," Amy whispered. Things were happening too fast. She left
Sinclair. She ran over to the general, forced herself to slice into his
blood-soaked, torn trousers to get cloth for a tourniquet above his
shattered kneecap. "Did you see where he went?" she asked.

Vanovich's pallor was alarming, his breathing shallow, labored. He
jerked his head in the direction of the electronics test bed.

Just past it, half-hidden by the table and crouched behind a duty desk,
was Kronig. He was looking down, his hands were busy. He did not seem
aware she still existed.

Amy needed a weapon. She saw her Leatherman on the floor where Kronig
had dropped it, picked it up, folded in the metal file, and closed her
hand around it. She still needed a gun.

She ran back to Sinclair. The major was trying to sit up, staring at her
watch as if she couldn't read it. "What time?" she asked.

Amy checked it. "Three minutes," she said. Either Chase had succeeded,
or he hadn't.

Sinclair grabbed for Amy's arm. "Don't let him escape."

"No, ma'am," Amy promised. Then she picked up Sinclair's H&K, checked
the clip. Half full, not half empty. Her fingers were no longer shaking.
She was ready.

"And if you have the choice," the major said, "don't kill him."

Amy looked at Sinclair in disbelief. She suddenly felt dizzy. She jammed
her tongue against her cracked tooth to force herself back on high
alert. I'm not dead yet, she told herself as the exposed nerve
reawakened.

"We have to know how much he's found out, who he works for, how much ..

. how much they know ..." The major hugged her wounded arm to her side.

Amy turned and ran toward Kronig, shouting, "Hands on your head! Step
away from " But then Kronig raised a Beretta and fired at her. Amy
dropped behind the test bed for cover.

Under the table, she saw his legs. Saw him begin to move away.

She fired along the floor, sending sparks and ricochets off the metal
test-bed legs. Then she rolled as Kronig returned fire.

Amy's heart was pounding hard again. Her alertness factor shot even
higher. She knew he'd be heading for the hatchway exit on Level Four, to
join his soldiers. As if he could outrun a nuclear explosion.

"Give it up!" she shouted.

Now Kronig abandoned the test bed. He ran for the stairs leading down,
firing back at her.

But firing from the hip while running reduced his marksmanship to Amy's
level.

She rolled behind the test bed, firing again, keeping him cornered
behind electronics cabinets, still thirty feet from the stairway.

Then she heard him running again. Out in the open. Exposed.

She leapt up, to pursue him, running through his spray of bullets as she
fired back her own.

They were both untouched. Their guns clicked empty at the same moment.

Kronig was only ten feet from the staircase.

With a shout of utter frustration, Amy swung her submachine gun by its
strap and launched it at Kronig so it caught him square in the back,
sending him flying. Then she charged, legs pumping.

Kronig's gun skidded off to one side. Something else that he'd been
carrying fell away to the other. It was the size of a thick book, with a
large, black antenna on the side.

A radio, Amy decided. To help him escape. But he wasn't going to.

He was getting up when she jumped him, slamming him back to the floor.

He tried to heave her off, but this time she had no distractions.

She pulled out her Leatherman, flicked out the proper tool--the
three-inch blade, sharpened on both sides.

As she swore at him in German, and as his eyes widened in surprise, she
rammed the blade into his abdomen, just under the lip of his armored
flak jacket.

Then the bomb hit and the lights went out, and the first explosion sent
Amy flying with visions of nuclear hell.

RED PANTHER TWO Just as the Lancer reached Mach One, the OSO shouted,
"Green!"

Colonel Boone pulled back on the stick. For all its high-tech
capabilities, the B1-B still flew like a World War II fighter. The
Lancer missed the Navy Annex on its rise of land by mere feet, and
seconds later spiraled into a victory roll.

They had come within range.

A second before impact, the B61-11 had been disarmed.

Now the bomb was only a giant steel bullet.

It would not detonate. But the Pentagon was not yet safe.

A RING. ROOF Tom stared down into the Courtyard to see the splinters and
shattered tiles of the hotdog stand's roof flutter through the air. And
just when he realized that the bomb had somehow been disarmed, the first
explosion ripped through the Pentagon.

The shock wave of the penetrator piercing the ground shattered the pipes
that supplied natural gas to the Building. It also shattered other pipes
that carried water and wires and fiber-optic cables. Their sparks found
the gas. The fireball that ballooned from the interior wall of the
Heliport Side rose up three hundred feet, trailing oily black smoke. But
the debris falling from the sky reassured Tom mightily. It had only been
an ordinary explosion. There was no mushroom cloud.

We're going to make it, he thought with hope.

Then a second explosion destroyed the center of the heliport side. Its
shock wave buffeted Tom. But he heard nothing. The sonic boom of the
Lancer had put him into immediate sound paralysis.

In profound silence, he now saw the flashes of more explosions in the
two opposite sides of the Building. Water sprayed up from the South
Terrace side. Then naming fragments rained down as if a volcano had
erupted.

Bits of burning wood struck the gray slate tiles beside him. Tom jerked
back, waving his arms to keep his balance, losing the radio with the
movement.

Then his feet slipped, and he tumbled down the outer slope of the roof,
finally rolling to a stop on the flat tar and gravel roof stretching
over the River Side section.

And then a third explosion, this time from the interior wall of the
River Side, hit him with the force that finally conquered him.

Sprawled on the roof of B Ring, Tom slipped into unconsciousness.

He did not see the Pentagon consume itself.

STRATEGIC INFORMATION AND OPERATIONS CENTER, FBI HEADQUARTERS "IT DIDN'T
GO OFF!"

Hector didn't know which was more amazing. The fact that the nuke had
been disarmed, or the realization that all the screaming was coming from
Milton Meyer of the NSA.

The President was on his feet, shaking General Janukatys's hand. In the
main window of the video screen, General Brower was shouting orders to
resume the evacuation of hostages. There were more than one hundred and
twenty still unaccounted for, and radio voices were reporting fires
beginning to spread through the Pentagon.

Then Hector heard tapping on the sliding-glass door to the conference
room. It was Special Agent Newman. Tyler was pressing his face into its
surface to make funny faces.

He wants to know what the shouting's about, Hector thought.

He hopped over to the door, stepped through. "Everything's okay," he
said to Tyler. "Your dad's a hero." "I know that," Tyler said. "Is he
coming home now?" "Soon, I think," Hector said. "You only have to stay
here a little while longer."

"How about my mom?"

"As soon as we talk to her, I'll let you know."

Tyler stared up at him. "You shouldn't lie, you know."

"I know," Hector said.

Tyler turned around and walked back to his desk. Agent Newman gave
Hector a questioning look but Hector just shrugged. He had nothing more
to offer her. He returned to the conference room for the next crisis
session.

One catastrophe had been averted, but an even larger one was almost upon
them.

In ten minutes, QUICKSILVER would enter the skies over D.C.

And they still didn't know who controlled it.

EIGHTEEN Site J. ACTION FLOOR
Margaret heard water. She wondered if Tyler had let the tap run again.

Then she was awake. Her left arm felt stiff and swollen. It flared with
pain with every breath she took. But she was awake. Not dead.

Despite the shadows that surrounded her. Their darkness lightened only
by a handful of glowing computer displays.

Then she heard the whir of an elevator. She fumbled for her watch.

Pressed the backlight.

The bomb had gone off just over a minute ago. But it couldn't have, she
told herself. Otherwise ... She pulled her Maglite from her pocket,
twisted it on.

Bethune was by the staircase, standing, holding on to the red-metal
railing. Vanovich was still strapped in his chair, his head slumped
forward on his chest.

Erich was gone.

Margaret struggled to her feet.

The elevator, she thought. But why would he go up? Why not follow his
commandos through the air channel?

She found the answer when she went to Bethune, knowing the midshipman
would need help with the general.

Through the stairwell, Margaret could see in the light cast by her small
flashlight that Site J's lowest level was filling with water.

With the power off, the groundwater pumps had stopped. But groundwater
couldn't fill up the cavern this quickly.

"The explosion must have cracked something," Margaret said.

"All those soldiers we saw go into the tunnel," Bethune replied, "they
must have drowned. Maybe they're drowning now." "Probably," Margaret
said. "If the river baffles failed, it would have flooded the runnel
like a tidal bore."

Bethune nodded. "Good."

Margaret understood. "C'mon. I need your help with the general."

Bethune nodded again. "We have to get him out of here." "No," Margaret
said as she pulled Bethune from the stairway. "He has to contact
QUICKSILVER."

As yet, Margaret had no plan for how they might do that without power.

But she trusted that some planner must have added a backup battery
system to such a critical piece of equipment. The fact that the screen
behind Vanovich still functioned gave her hope.

She and Bethune approached Vanovich's chair. The general hadn't stirred.

"What if he's dead?" Bethune asked.

"We can still use his eyes." It was probably the coldest thing Margaret
had ever said. But it was true.

Vanovich looked up at them. "The hell you will."

Bethune reached out and sliced the general free of his straps.

"Thank you. Now turn my chair around. Let's see what we have to work
..."

Vanovich stared at the Red Level console. Margaret ran her flashlight's
beam over it, trying to see what he saw in the soft glow of the screen.

"What is it?" she asked.

Vanovich put his broad hand over a square opening in the console. To
Margaret, it looked as if something should fold out from the opening.

"He took the master control. The retina scanner." Vanovich twisted
around to grab Margaret's hand. "The encryption chips." "He had a
radio," Bethune said. "When he was trying to run, just before the bomb
went off."

"What kind?" the general asked.

Bethune traced the shape in the air, a box the size of a large book.

"With a stubby black antenna on the side."

Margaret and Vanovich looked at each other. "Satellite phone," they both
said at the same time.

"Could he do it?" Margaret asked Vanovich. "Build a remote control for
it?"

"He's got the chip. He's got the scanner. All he needs is the code.

And if he can get away with what he does have, it won't take more than a
week or two for his people to crack it." "Who are his people?" Bethune
asked.

Vanovich didn't answer that question. "You have to stop him," he told
Margaret.

"The elevators are working. He must have unsealed the site when he
realized he couldn't get through the air channel." Margaret suddenly
regretted not closing the Level Four pressure hatch securely. If she
had, Erich might have been drowned the moment he opened it, instead of
seeing the water swirl in. But then what would have happened to the
encryption chip"!

"Can you walk?" Margaret asked Vanovich.

"I'm sure I could, if I still had a right knee."

Margaret wanted to smile. But she didn't have the strength anymore.

"C'mon, Bethune, we have to get him up to the next level and the
elevator."

Margaret saw Bethune look at her arm.

"I can handle him," the midshipman said. "You hold the elevator."

Bethune came in on the general's right side, put his arm over her
shoulder, lifted him out of the chair and onto his feet.

Margaret watched how his face twisted in pain.

"You be careful," he cautioned Bethune.

"I'll try to be, sir." The midshipman shifted her shoulders to take on
as much of his weight as she could.

They started splashing through the water, toward the flight of stairs
leading up to Level Two. The water was up to their ankles and still
rising. Margaret's combat boots weren't porous, but Bethune's sneakers
were soaked. The general's black oxfords weren't much drier.

"Do more than try," Vanovich said. "I'm ticklish."

Margaret did smile at that. He was such a strange person. In so many
ways, he'd always reminded her of Tom. On Tom's best days.

She held her flashlight on the staircase so Bethune and the general
could see where they were going; then they all began their ascent.

Margaret knew there were no guarantees for what they would find when
they arrived.

QUICKSILVER was only five minutes away.

And Erich Kronig still controlled it.

A RING, ROOF Erich limped onto the roof and into a cloud of smoke. The
wind kept the smoke moving quickly, creating brief moments of clear
viewing.

Those moments were enough to make Erich smile through the sharp
reminders of his knife wound.

The Pentagon was dying.

Across the Courtyard, two sections were ablaze, their concentric roofs
pierced by a dozen different fires. And on this side of the Courtyard,
there was more debris all around him, scattered across the entire River
Entrance roof, some of it burning among the satellite dishes and
microwave relays, the hundreds of small fires adding to the celebration
of his victory.

Because it was a victory.

The nature of this mission was such that he had early on accepted his
return would not be required for success.

Erich hoped that was true for his soldiers as well.

The moment he had seen the swirling reflections in the glow of the
display screens as the water climbed the stairs from Level Four, he had
known his people were lost. Heroes, every one, for all the great deeds
they had accomplished.

The most important being the removal of QUICKSILVER from the enemy's
arsenal. Though the American satellite network was also in disarray.

And as a welcome bonus, the headquarters of the country's military
operations was now in ruins.

The playing field was level again. It would be a world of partners, not
adversaries.

Provided he accomplished one last task. His final backup scenario.

There were so many helicopters flying in the vicinity that Erich knew a
major hostage-rescue mission was under way. The firefighters would come
soon. Even water bombers for the sections of the Building that burned
out of control.

He looked through the smoke to the storm clouds now filling more than
half the D.C. sky. He saw erratic flashes of lightning illuminate them
from within. Perhaps Nature would spare America more suffering and douse
these flames with rain.

But Erich didn't intend to spare America more suffering. The young
country barely knew the meaning of the word.

So in these last few minutes of freedom, he was going to offer America a
lesson that might ensure its survival as a nation in this century. He
would make sure that the country's greatest weapon of terror would
become known to the world, so that every person on the globe could know
the nature of their enemy and America would have no choice but to change
its ways.

QUICKSILVER would be within range within five minutes.

Erich held in his hand the key to unlocking its awesome power.

And knowing that his life would end here, he knew exactly how he would
use that key.

COURTYARD The smoke in the hallways was too thick. Major Sinclair
suggested they move into the Courtyard, rather than try to make it to an
exterior exit. There was still smoke in the central oasis, but the
growing wind kept it moving, even as red and gold smoldering embers
sifted through the green trees and grass.

Sinclair found a folding chair from the President's luncheon lying on
its side, and set it up beside a large pine, letting the tree serve as a
windbreak. She helped Bethune lower Vanovich into the chair.

"He'll be on the roof," the general said, even as he stifled a moan.

"He'll have better range there."

Amy looked up at the surrounding walls. All the window frames were free
of glass. Smoke poured from the shattered windows of two of the sides.
Smoke and flames from another. She felt as if she were in the exercise
yard of a prison just claimed by a riot.

"You want him, too, don't you," Sinclair said.

Amy nodded.

"Enough to go up after him?"

More than anything, that's exactly what Amy wanted--no, needed-to do.

She had made it her mission to kill all those responsible for the deaths
of her friends. With his commandos drowned in the tunnel, Kronig had
become the last one.

"We'll go together," Amy said. But then she saw the sudden concerned
look Sinclair gave to the general, even though the major had been ready
to shoot him down in Site J. Sinclair seemed to read the question in her
eyes. "If we can't get QUICKSILVER back, the general is the best chance
we have to find it, and fight it again. And Kronig knows that.

We can't leave him alone."

Amy knew there was only one thing she could do. "Ma'am, I'll stay with
the general. You get Kronig."

"You don't strike me as someone who likes to give up the fight." But
Sinclair was already checking her watch.

"I don't. But ... you're the better soldier, ma'am." Amy took a deep
breath. "I'd ... I'd just make it personal."

She offered the major her Leatherman. "It's the only weapon I've got
left." "You keep it," Sinclair said. "I've got my knife." She rubbed her
wounded left arm. Amy knew that her tourniquet had worked to stop the
bleeding. Now Sinclair had wrapped the cloth strips around her biceps to
keep the wound covered.

"Good luck, ma'am."

Sinclair nodded, then patted Vanovich on his shoulder. It looked as if
the general were asleep. But he raised his head. "If he does have a
remote, you take it from him."

"I intend to."

"And you destroy it."

"That remote could help tell us who he's working for."

"Not the remote. QUICKSILVER."

Amy could tell the major was in a hurry to get moving. "I wouldn't know
how to do that, General."

"Use your access code. Adjust the firing cycle and the beam depth.

You know what to do." Amy thought it odd that Sinclair didn't
acknowledge the order. "You rest now, General. You've got a lot to tell
Tyler."

Sinclair turned to leave, but didn't take that first step. "Bethune, how
long have you known my husband--ex-husband?"

Amy wasn't sure what she meant by that. "I just met him this morning,
ma'am. We were both trapped in the River Side." Sinclair smiled, as if
thinking something over. "He's a good guy, Bethune."

Amy grinned. "For a civilian."

Sinclair returned the grin before she took off toward the stone stairs
leading back inside the Pentagon.

More than anything else, Amy wanted to be at her side. She hated giving
up the fight so close to the end. She hated not finishing what she had
started.

But she told herself that she was only one small part of this conflict
today. It wasn't important which soldier struck the final blow, only
that, in the end, the right side won. She had done her job. She would
have to be content with that. As for what still remained to be done,
that was up to the rest of the team.

She bent down to check out her new mission, General Vanovich. His soft
brown eyes fluttered open as if he was aware that she was watching him.

"So," he said, "are you seeing anyone?"

B RING, ROOF Tom was in Captain Dorsey's white Chevy Suburban again,
driving up to the Pentagon on a perfect June day. He could feel the
vehicle shake with the winds kicked up by the President's fleet of
helicopters.

Almost as if they were landing right on top of him.

The sudden fear of being crushed woke Tom at once, to look up into the
smoke-wreathed sky in time to see two helicopters rush by overhead.

Then he started to cough, his lungs full of smoke, his nostrils full of
soot. He sat up on the rough gravel surface and looked at the small
fires surrounding him, finally remembering where he was.

Tom checked his pockets for Margaret's radio. He didn't have it. It must
have slipped from his hand when he lost his footing on the slate roof.
But he had to find out what had happened to Vanovich and Margaret and
Bethune. He needed to know about QUICKSILVER.

More helicopters roared past above. One was Army green with a large red
cross on its side. It seemed to have taken off from in front of the
River Entrance Side.

Rescue helos, Tom thought. If I can get to one of those ... He forced
himself to his feet, his stiff and aching legs protesting each movement.
He felt as if every muscle in his body had been pushed to its limit. He
started for a roof entrance shed.

Just a few minutes more, he told himself. I only have to last a few
minutes more.

But the shed wasn't a good idea. Smoke poured from its open door. The
fire below must be spreading.

"E Ring," Tom said aloud. If he went to the E Ring on the River Side and
waved his arms, one of the helicopters would see him as it took off or
landed. Through the clouds of smoke, he saw a narrow catwalk running
along the top of the slate roof over one of the radial corridors. He
headed that way.

And then he saw there was someone already on it.

A commando in black with distinctive blond hair.

Erich Kronig.

Erich moved awkwardly along the catwalk, pressing one hand tightly
against his knife wound. It had been such a small blade. But instead of
a minor cut, he was beginning to think the midshipman had hit something
major.

He used his other hand to help support himself as he moved along. He
needed to get to the D Ring roof. There was a cluster of small, prefab
sheds there, each one a simple aluminum-walled closet to protect antenna
blocks and wiring terminals for the dozens of microwave relays and
antennae and small satellite dishes that sprouted from the River Side
roof like a plot of biomechanical mushrooms.

He'd be able to hide at the center of those sheds, Erich knew. He would
have clear access to the sky, but be blocked from the sight of the
rescue helicopters as they came and went. Plus, when the time came, he
would have a perfect view of QUICKSILVER'S might.

Erich was halfway across the AE service road, moving from the B Ring to
C, when he felt the catwalk rail shake beneath his hand. He looked over
his shoulder. Through a veil of smoke, he saw a figure running after
him.

"No ..." he said aloud. He had not come this far to lose now.

Erich pushed himself to walk faster. Blood seeped from his wound as his
muscles cramped. He could not let anything--anyone--stop him. He still
had a reason to live.

After five fast strides, Tom was already breathing hard, wheezing in the
smoke, realizing how exhausted he was.

There was one reason that would explain why Kronig was on this roof.

He had killed Margaret.

And that would cost him.

Margaret reached the roof and quickly scanned the new terrain. Only two
sections of the Building had large sections of roof that were mostly
untouched: the River Side and the Metro Side.

But she knew Erich. He enjoyed setting the scene. A perfect rosebud in a
flawless crystal vase. Cushions before the fireplace arranged just so,
with an artist's eye for color and shape and feel.

If he had programmed QUICKSILVER to strike Washington, she knew he would
go where the view would be best.

She ran for the catwalk that would take her to the River Side roof.

Distant thunder rumbled from the city. The gathering storm clouds were
almost overhead. Margaret felt the first light sprinkle of rain.

Erich reached the cluster of protective sheds, coughing badly. He had
purposefully walked through the thickest concentrations of smoke, in
order to remain hidden.

The tactic seemed to have worked. Through watering eyes stung by smoke,
he could see a figure on the catwalk, still. But it was far away, as if
whoever it was was no longer after him. There was no one closer.

He backed into a corner formed by two sheds at ninety degrees to each
other. There was a fire burning near one of the sheds. The air was cold
as the thunderstorm moved in. The heat from the fire felt good.

Erich took his hand away from his side. Blood pulsed from the open
wound.

That's all right, he told himself. Not much longer.

He pulled the remote-control satellite transceiver from his shirt. He
switched it on, pointing the thick antenna toward the northwest.

The first small green LED flashed silently on the front of the
transceiver.

QUICKSILVER was coming. And then a hatefully familiar voice said,
"Better hurry, Erich."

Tom had found Kronig. In a small alcove formed by two prefab sheds.

When Tom had realized what Kronig was doing, moving through the thickest
clouds of smoke to remain hidden, Tom had done the same.

Kronig had never realized he was being followed.

"Tom Chase," Kronig said as Tom stepped from the smoke and into the
alcove. The sheltered space formed a square about fifteen feet across,
two sides bounded by the sheds, two sides open.

Now Tom realized that Kronig was the same Naval lieutenant he had seen
so much earlier that day, arriving on a Naval Academy bus with his crew
of impostors. At the time, he'd had the odd feeling that the blond
officer might have recognized him. He'd been right. He just didn't know
why.

"How do you know me?" Tom asked. He recognized the device Kronig held as
a type of satellite radio transceiver. He could guess what Kronig
intended to do with it.

"I saw you in a photograph. You and Tyler--he's wearing a red baseball
cap."

Tom hated even hearing this man say Tyler's name. But he knew the
photograph. Tyler was five in that picture. It was one of Tom's favorite
shots of his son. It was one of Margaret's, too.

"Where did you see that?" Tom stared at Kronig wondering if he had any
weapons. He wondered what it would take to rush him and grab the
transceiver.

"Margaret showed it to me," Kronig answered. He kept taking quick looks
at the transceiver, as if expecting to see something.

Tom could see a line of green LEDs on its face. Two of the lights were
flashing. It was a signal-strength meter. QUICKSILVER must be closing
in.

Then he saw the blood that stained Kronig's dark uniform. "You need
help," he said. "We should get a medic up here." And have you placed in
custody at the same time, Tom thought.

"Not a good idea. It's not safe up here. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Tom took another step forward. Kronig held his ground. However bad his
wound was, it didn't seem to be affecting his readiness to fight.

"Where is my wife?" Tom fought to keep his voice steady.

"Ex-wife," Kronig corrected him.

"Where is she?"

"Dead. With all my men. Drowned in Site J." So it was true. Tom thought
of Margaret, of Margaret and Tyler. He reached into his pocket for his
knife. "You killed her, you ..."

"On the contrary, Tom, I loved your ex-wife ... for a while ... in my
way."

"She wouldn't have anything to do with you."

"Ah, but she did. Such a passionate, willing lover, if you remember."

"You're lying!"

And then Margaret was behind him. "No, Tom, he's not."

"Margaret! You're alive!" Tom said.

"More or less." Margaret felt light-headed from the run and the smoky
air, but she was ready to take that transceiver. Provided Tom didn't get
in the way. "Give me the radio, Erich. We can work out a deal to send
you home."

"Too late." Erich held up the transceiver so Margaret could see the
signal-strength meter. Every green light was flickering. "Almost here."

Margaret drew her blackened K-bar knife. But then Erich reached under
his flak jacket. She tensed. If he had a gun, she would have to throw
the knife at once, only one chance.

But he brought out a transparent package filled with something thick,
like wads of folded yellowed paper. He held the package over the small
fire that the wind had fanned into life beside him.

"Think carefully, Margaret," he said. "You could throw your knife, but
for what? In one hand, a satellite transceiver you can't use. In the
other, just above the fire, your country's so-called Great Charters of
Freedom."

Margaret was stunned. She had known they were missing. But why did Erich
have them? Unless ..."The RUSH HOUR tunnels. That's how you got your
commandos into Site J."

"Such a fine mind. What a shame it will be lost here."

Now all the green lights glowed across the face of the transceiver.

Erich squeezed something on it, and a metal arm swung out from the side,
topped by a black eye cup He held it to his right eye.

"He's accessing QUICKSILVER," Tom warned.

"There's no way he could have broken the codes," Margaret said.

Erich lowered the transceiver. There was a small number pad in one
corner, and he entered in a series of numbers with his thumb, like
dialing a cellular phone.

"I didn't have to break your codes," Erich said. "All my team needed was
your encryption circuits. They installed them in this transceiver. Now I
can invent my own code and use my own eye.

QUICKSILVER has a new master."

A red button suddenly lit up on the transceiver. Erich pressed it with
his thumb.

"There, I've overridden the autofire sequence. Until now, until I
reestablished contact, QUICKSILVER was programmed to fire at the
Pentagon. But I think that might be overkill, today. I've chosen a new
target. FBI Headquarters."

"What, you're afraid they're going to arrest you?" Tom's voice was
derisive.

"Not at all. I expect to die here. But the White House has been
evacuated, and the news channels reported your President has moved to
the FBI's ops center."

"Tom! Tyler's with Hector Macgregor!"

Tom's eyes met Margaret's. "The President's Hector Macgregor?"

Margaret nodded. "Tyler's with the President." '

"Throw the stupid knife!" Tom shouted.

Erich lowered the transparent package containing the Charters closer to
the flames of the wood fire. "I'll destroy them!" he threatened.

"You're saying that to the wrong guy!"

And then Tom charged forward and Erich dropped the Charters into the
fire and Margaret threw her knife, striking Erich in the shoulder, the
impact flinging him back against the thin metal wall of the shed.

As Margaret lunged at Kronig, Tom shut his eyes and plunged his right
hand into the stack of burning wood to pull the smoking package of
parchment from the flames. The melting plastic merged with the skin on
his hand.

But the Charters were safe. Singed around the edges, smoke-infused.

But intact.

Tom cradled the Charters in the crook of his arm. He looked over at
Margaret.

Kronig was gone but Margaret had the transceiver. She was kneeling,
swiftly inputting numbers on its keypad before her. She looked into the
eye cup and pressed the red button, but the button didn't light up.

Tom used his left hand to stuff the Charters under his gray Polo shirt
and ruck its hem into his jeans. Then he knelt down beside Margaret, who
was now swearing blisteringly at the transceiver.

"What's wrong?"

"It won't accept my retina scan. My records are in the computer system,
not the encryption chip!"

Tom dug out his proxcard from his jeans front pocket. "My scan's on the
card's chip."

Margaret thrust the transceiver at him. "Do it!"

Tom touched his card to the induction reader on the transceiver; then he
looked into the eye cup

A moment later, the red button lit up.

"It worked!" Margaret said.

"But I don't know any codes!"

"That's my job!" Margaret grabbed back the transceiver and began
punching in numbers. Tom looked again for Kronig, but he was nowhere to
be seen.

The sky was much darker now. The helicopters had begun flying with
searchlights. And more rain was obviously coming, along with thunder and
lightning. Dark sheets hung in the sky to the east.

Margaret finished her entry and pressed the red button. She rocked back
on her heels, waiting.

The other LED indicators on the device shimmered as the entry was
processed. Then a liquid-crystal display panel in which Tom could see a
set of longitude and latitude measurements suddenly went blank.

Margaret sighed in relief. "I did it." "You're welcome," Tom said.

"Oh, Tom, I'm sorry. We did it. We erased Erich's last command."

She held up her hand to give him a high five, then stopped as she saw
his right palm. Badly burned, it was bright red, pebbled with blisters,
and smeared with blackened strings of melted plastic.

"I ... you saved the Charters." "For a friend," Tom said, thinking of
Dorsey. "So what happens now?"

They both looked up, but there was no chance of seeing a satellite
passing. Clouds filled the sky. Thunder rumbled.

"The general wants me to destroy it."

"Good idea."

"I don't know if I can with this." "Let me see?" Tom asked.

Margaret held the transceiver for him so he could examine its various
controls.

"I can't believe you slept with that guy," Tom said as he checked the
eye scanner.

"We're divorced, remember?"

"Yeah, but, I always thought you had taste. What's that?"

Tom pointed to the liquid-crystal display that had been blank a moment
ago. Now there was a new set of longitude and latitude figures in it.

38 52'10"; 77 6'32".

"Oh, no," Margaret said.

Suddenly, the dark afternoon lit up as if caught in the beam of a
colossal searchlight.

Tom stared past Margaret, over the parade grounds and the Potomac, to
see a giant blade of molten silver stab through the raging thunderstorm
clouds.

Spectacular forks of lightning branched wildly from all sides of the
clouds. Strands streaked erratically along their bottom edges for miles.

Then the air became solid with a sound that was as physical as it was
audible as the roar of the blade reached them.

Tom knew what had happened. He turned to Margaret.

"You erased the new command, but not the old one."

And he knew what he was seeing.

QUICKSILVER.

Coming for the Pentagon.

NINETEEN

GROUND ZERO

Tom and Margaret stood together on the roof of the Pentagon, pelted by
rain, pushed back by the wind, transfixed by the terror and the majesty
of the phenomenon before them.

For miles around, the undersides of the dark storm clouds were lit up as
if a new sun were rising beneath them.

Fountains of steam sprayed out from either side of the reflective blade
as the rain was vaporized in mid fall

The ground shook.

The thunder was absolute.

Then the silver blade touched down at the edge of the Boundary Channel
Lagoon, at the foot of the gently sloping parade grounds.

Helicopters caught by the long whips of lightning turned into madly
spinning, incandescent swirls of sparks.

"ACCESS" Margaret shouted as she shoved the transceiver at Tom.

Tom touched his proxcard to the device, then held his eye to the
scanner. The red light came on.

"WE HAVE TO GET AWAY FROM THE ANTENNAE!" he yelled, pushing Margaret
ahead of him, away from the sheds, from anything metal, conductive.

Even as they scrambled across the shaking roof, Margaret was punching
numbers into the transceiver.

Above them, another helicopter was swept into a fireball. Tom looked up
just as it plunged to the B Ring roof of the Mall section. A moment
later, a writhing web of electricity streaked from the silver blade to
engulf the lightning rod of the Washington Monument.

"CAN YOU SHUT IT OFF?!" Tom shouted.

Strands of Margaret's long blond hair streamed behind her in the rain
and wind. "I HAVE! BUT ITS SELF-SUSTAINING!"

The blade cut closer. Tom saw swirling eddies of debris and rubble from
the earlier conflagration of the television news vans lift into the air
from the parade grounds. In only seconds, the blade would reach the
front of the River Side. When it struck the rooftop antenna array, he
knew the Building itself might not survive the impact.

Tom dragged Margaret with him as he ran along the roof in the direction
of the South Terrace Side.

But that's where Erich Kronig was waiting.

Where he charged at them wielding Margaret's knife.

She sidestepped him easily, but she was a professional. Tom wasn't.

In the strobelike flashes of the now-incessant lightning, Tom was
suddenly in Kronig's grip, an arm across his chest, Margaret's knife at
his throat.

"GIVE ME THE TRANSCEIVER!" Kronig screamed.

Tom nodded once at Margaret. Without a single word spoken, they both
knew what had to happen next.

Margaret stepped forward, holding out the transceiver, almost within
Kronig's reach.

And just when Tom felt the commando's grip on him loosen, he shouted to
mask the pain of his burned flesh and with all his strength squeezed
Kronig's hand between the thumb and forefinger. Then he whirled around
to pull that arm forward and flip him.

But Kronig didn't move.

Tyler's agonizing little trick hadn't fazed him. And now Kronig offset
Tom's attempted flip by half-turning so that Tom's momentum was turned
back against him, and Tom was catapulted onto his back.

But as Kronig reached down to haul Tom back to his feet, Margaret's
combat boot connected with his jaw.

Kronig lost his grip on Tom, fell back, then recovered and came after
Margaret.

She ducked his charge, spun him around, but froze as she saw her own
knife aimed directly at her eyes.

Kronig raised that knife high, silhouetted against the silver blade.

Lightning flashes seared through the hot rain. The wind rose to
hurricane levels.

And then Tom's body rammed right into Kronig and the knife flew free as
Tom grabbed Kronig's belt and kept him running for twenty feet until
they reached a radial catwalk, completely metal, where Tom threw Kronig
forward so that he crashed into the catwalk, momentarily stunned then
turned to pull himself up and QUICKSILVER touched the Pentagon Building.

Instantly every piece of metal on the roof glowed like neon, surrounded
by a nimbus of electrified air.

Antennae exploded. Metal conduits melted. The catwalks writhed as if
attempting to peel themselves off the roofs.

But Kronig slipped off his catwalk in time, to the safety of the roof.

Now he stumbled toward the transceiver, with no weapon but himself.

In that same instant, before Margaret could be threatened again, Tom saw
her knife on the roof, at their feet. Philosophy did not enter into his
next decisive action.

He picked up that knife and threw it.

The point caught in Kronig's flak jacket. Kronig grabbed the knife with
both hands, unharmed. He bared his teeth in triumph as he advanced on
their position, knowing neither Tom nor Margaret could call up the
reserves to resist him.

And then a stream of electricity flowed along the metal catwalk and a
double strand shot out to the roof to snare Kronig and the knife that he
held in his hand. And with a startled scream, Kronig was jerked back
against the catwalk with so much force applied to the knife that its
point was driven through his armor and into his chest.

Lightning discharges wreathed Kronig's body as he was fused to the
catwalk, the knife deep inside him.

Tom and Margaret threw themselves flat on the roof. Tom reached out for
Margaret's hand as they waited for more sheets of QUICKSILVER lightning
to spread across the soaked roof of the Pentagon.

But then, just as the blade should have engulfed the entire structure, a
spinning maelstrom of electrical discharges spiraled down to the center
of the Courtyard, and as if being sucked down some extra dimensional
drain, the gleaming silver QUICKSILVER effect shot into the ground,
absorbed by the water that had flooded all of Site J, even as the
blade's upper reaches evaporated back into the clouds.

And then, the lightning was over. Tom and Margaret were just two people
in a soft summer rain. White smoke rose from a few of the larger fires
in the Pentagon, but the little ones were gone.

There was no thunder. There was no lightning.

The suffocating heat of the day was gone at last.

Tom and Margaret stood up and embraced, but just for a moment. Because
Margaret pulled away and ran across the roof to find the transceiver.

She brought it back to Tom. "Access," she said.

He did, with both his card and his eye.

Margaret began entering more numbers.

Tom didn't ask what she was doing. He knew. She was killing Vanovich's
creation.

Margaret sent her next set of commands to the platform. For herself, she
didn't know if Vanovich's orders were right. She didn't even know if
they had been orders.

But this was what she had to do.

Tom stood beside her as she pressed the red button.

Together, they looked to the south. The skies there were still clear in
patches among the darkening clouds.

Then, among those clouds, a new glow began, as of something vast and
reflective shimmering above them.

QUICKSILVER was firing again, Margaret told Tom. But this time she was
deliberately keeping the laser unfocused. To produce a wide but shallow
pocket of ionized air high enough in the atmosphere that the discharge
would never reach the ground. And this time the effect would be
prolonged. More than two minutes. Time enough for a feedback charge to
travel all the way back to the QUICKSILVER platform.

The feedback charge reached its target.

The heavens themselves became QUICKSILVER.

Then the heavens exploded.

QUICKSILVER was gone.

For a long time, Tom and Margaret stood on the roof and watched the
clouds. Until helicopters filled the air again and they saw the soldiers
of Delta Force coming for them.

But Margaret saw that Tom wasn't watching the soldiers approach. He was
looking at Erich's blackened body on the catwalk.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

"He would have done the same to us," Tom said.

"This doesn't have to change you," she told him. "It's not as if there's
only one way to be. That one side is right and the other is wrong."

"I know," Tom said. "But because there are people like you, there can be
people like me. I don't think it works the other way "round."

"It doesn't matter," Margaret said. She poked him in the ribs. "Tyler
needs us both. Just as we are." Then Tom smiled just like Tyler. He
reached out and hugged her.

They started to walk toward the soldiers. Margaret couldn't resist a
final question.

"So what do you think?" she asked him. "Can lightning strike twice?"

This time he didn't smile. He laughed.

So did she.

They both knew the answer to that one.

TWENTY

AFTERMATH

The President's wife was found exactly where she was supposed to be,
unharmed in a ground-floor safe room, along with her two Secret Service
agents. The gas explosions resulting from the impact of the B61-11
penetrator bomb had shaken them up, but nothing a weekend at Camp David
couldn't set right. The first-string UPN Uplink Live! news team of Danny
Assad, Trish Mankin, and Arthur Tranh were given the exclusive story, as
well as Presidential citations.

Hector Macgregor required four pins in his ankle. His presence as a
member of the Presidential inner circle of senior advisory staff was
never questioned again.

Hector was with the President the day after the incident, when the Man
visited General Vanovich at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Hector and
the general hit it off at once. At the end of the President's visit, the
general asked Hector to stay behind, then asked if he were seeing
anyone.

The final death toll, including the martyred midshipmen of 12th Company,
was 337 at the Pentagon, 895 at Schriever Air Force Base, and 60 at the
National Archives.

The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of
Rights, were back on display for the Fourth of July. The President led
the nation in a ceremony to rededicate the priceless documents to the
memory of the brave souls who had died to defend them. Full restoration
of the charters was expected to take years.

The bodies of seventy-five terrorists were also recovered. Sixty of them
were positively identified, though the findings remained classified.

Russia did riot join NATO that year. There was considerable debate
whether or not NATO should even continue to exist. Once the identities
and allegiance of the terrorists were discovered, most of that debate
took place in classified discussions.

Admiral Paulsen and Air Force General Janukatys retired with full
pensions three months after the incident.

Following the recommendation of an independent damage assessment firm,
the renovation of the Pentagon continued, though with a new completion
date some ten years in the future. Site J was not listed among the
facilities to be renovated. It still was not mentioned in any public
records.

Officially, the extensive damage endured by the Pentagon was a result of
the terrorists' actions, an errant cruise missile launched as part of
the Delta Force counterattack, and a freak electrical storm produced by
an unprecedented confluence of El Nino conditions.

The Tucson-based GAI corporation was awarded a $35-million contract to
study the rare phenomenon on behalf of FEMA. The project was headed by
Dr. Helen Shapiro, and her newly promoted associate, Stanislaus J.

Drewniak.

During the still ongoing renovation of the Pentagon, the cost to the
Federal government to recover the unexploded nuclear bomb 200 feet
beneath the Courtyard tallied more than $200 million.

At the end of the day of the incident, as the President was leaving the
FBI's Strategic Information and Operations Center, he stopped to have a
final, friendly word with Tyler Chase.

The President's Outreach Assistant, Hector Macgregor, was tired and his
foot hurt and so he really didn't pay attention until he realized that
Tyler had asked if the President wanted to "shake." Hector was two
seconds too slow in reacting to what happened next. The Secret Service
never even saw it coming.

Officially, the neck brace the President wore for the next two weeks was
attributed to minor injuries obtained during his escape from the
Pentagon. Unofficially, the President let Tyler keep the watch, and
Hector had the unusual experience of being one of the few people ever to
hear the President use the f-word. Tyler made America's Chief Executive
pay two quarters for the privilege.

TWENTY-ONE

WALTER REED ARMY MEDICAL CENTER, FRIDAY. JUNE 24

Vanovich lay back in his hospital bed, his right leg raised in traction,
playing with a turquoise-and-silver bolo tie. Tom Chase was convinced
his old friend would never die. He had too much on his mind.

"Kronig asked me," the general said, "who did our satellite systems
threaten most? I said Russia, China, Middle Eastern countries ... all
the usual suspects. And he kept telling me I was wrong." "Misdirection,"
Tom said.

"If they had gotten away with it," Margaret added. "They didn't want
anyone knowing who ended up with the satellites. So he would have lied
about any answer you guessed." "But he didn't lie," Vanovich said. "The
CIA was in here yesterday.

They showed me the identification files on thirty of the terrorists so
far. They're all commandos, career soldiers, special forces, and they're
from six different countries." "Mercenaries," Tom said.

"No way, Tommy. We weren't just up against one other country, we were up
against a bloc of them. Who do our satellites threaten the most?

That's what he kept asking me. And the answer is: Everyone. Think about
it. The CIA is putting the finishing touches on a cabal of senior
officers from NATO. France, Germany, Poland, Turkey ... they were all in
on it. And we're going to face it again. The Cold War's over. Now they
want us out of Europe. And they resent like hell anything we do to try
to change NATO's mission." "Kronig wanted us off the planet," Tom said.

Vanovich nodded. "That day's coming, too."

Margaret reached out to touch the bolo tie. "Is this the latest in
patient attire?"

Tom was surprised to see a slight flush of color come to Vanovich's
cheeks.

"Oh, that's a little get-well gift from a friend for whom I have a lot
of explaining to do."

Margaret seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Tom. "What kind
of explaining? Best done over candlelight and wine?"

"In this case, I think, Florida. In the rainy season. Something nice and
dramatic. You know. Thunder and lightning."

Tom and Margaret passed a smile between them.

"How about you two?" the general asked, raising his wildly spiked
eyebrows. "Any plans for--"

"No." They both said it at the same time.

Vanovich smiled and sighed. "Well, can't blame me for trying. You tell
Tyler I said hello. I'll come see him as soon as they let me out next
week."

Tom and Margaret got up. "He's got a new watch in his collection he
wants to show you," Margaret said. "It's a keeper."

They said good-bye as a family. More than ever, Tom thought, that's what
they were.

On the way out of the main building, Margaret asked Tom if he thought
the general really would be released next week.

"That's what the doctors said. He's got some time left. We all do."

They were just going down the wide front steps when a gleaming
chrome-and-black Harley Davidson pulled up in front of them.

"Major Sinclair, Mr. Chase!"

The driver was Bethune. The extremely tall passenger with the heavy cast
on his foot was Hector Macgregor. They shook hands all around, Tom
offering his left hand. His right hand was still bandaged. He found
himself listening to the way Hector spoke to Margaret. He knew Margaret
was listening in the same way when he spoke to Bethune.

"I'm just letting Hec off before I park," Bethune said.

"Going to see the general?" Tom asked, "Oh, yeah," Macgregor said. "He's
quite the guy." They all agreed and said their good-byes, as well.

Tom and Margaret paused at a pedestrian crossing leading to the parking
lots. They looked back at the Harley.

Macgregor was giving Bethune his helmet. Bethune was on her tiptoes
giving Macgregor a kiss that had a good chance of melting his cast.

"Good old Uncle Milo/' Tom said. He smiled at his wife--ex-wife.

"Think we should tell them about how this sort of thing turns out?"

"They'll find out. Besides, not every story ends the same way."

Tom looked up at the sky. It had become a bit of a habit over this past
week. But the sky was clear today, only a few white clouds scattered
about.

"It wasn't enough, was it?" he asked. "Just blowing it up like that."
Margaret shook her head. "It never is. Milo said it. We're going to have
to face it again." "But not today," Tom said.

"Not today."

They gave each other a quick kiss on the cheek, then went off in their
separate directions, both looking up to the same sky, both thinking the
same thoughts of the future.

ARCTIC FLAG SIX DAYS LATER
30th SPACE WING, VANDENBURG AIR FORCE BASE. CALIFORNIA. SATURDAY.

JUNE 25

Four visitors arrived by limousine from Los Angeles, sixty-five miles to
the south. One by private jet from Seattle. Three by an Air Force C-20
Gulfstream III from Washington, D.C. In all, there were seven men, one
woman. Two of them might be recognized by regular viewers of CNN.

The other six were content to keep to the shadows where the true power
rested and decisions were made. Major General Milo Vanovich and Major
Margaret Sinclair were not among them. None of the eight had ever held
elective office.

At 2230 hours on the evening of June 25, six days after the events at
the Pentagon, those eight assembled at a nondescript storage hangar
located at the South Vandenburg launch facility site. More than sixty
aerospace contractors maintained facilities on the base. Yet this hangar
was unmarked. It was closest to the spotlit gantry tower of Space Launch
Complex 4E, the Titan IV SLC from which the country's largest payloads
could be placed into low polar orbits.

The hangar was kept closed. The visitors entered by a personnel door.

Overhead lights switched on, bank after bank, until the hangar interior
was daylight bright.

But the object within, resting on its support cradle, remained as black
as space, as dark as shadows.

It was forty-three feet long, eight feet wide. It massed ten thousand
pounds. And it reflected little light because it was sheathed in faceted
black carbon-fiber panels doped with metal particles to scatter and
absorb radar beams as effectively as the skin of a Stealth fighter.

At one end, the opening of a large jagged bell was sealed by a red
circle of insulating foam stenciled with the warning: remove before
flight The object's winglike solar panels had not yet been installed.

But they were there, folded carefully and wrapped in thermal blankets,
resting in crates along the hangar wall.

There was nothing unusual or sinister about the platform's existence.

It was standard procedure that every spacecraft, whether an
interplanetary probe or the prototype of a new communications satellite,
be built in triplicate. The first was called the engineering model, the
second, the flight model, the third, which this was, the spare. In
practice, all three were identical, no differences between them.

It was simply an exercise in that which the military deemed desirable.

Redundancy.

The engineers who had awaited the eight visitors completed their
briefing in less than ten minutes. New batteries would have to be
installed, Nicks on the composite skin would require the replacement of
eighteen of the platform's 321 carbon tiles. And, of course, new
security codes would have to be programmed into the control chips, the
same ones built according to specifications developed at Hughes
Electronics by Tom Chase.

But all of that was standard operating procedure. The platform in the
hangar was no longer a prototype. It was a proven technology.

There was little debate among the eight visitors.

Certainly there were some legal questions to be examined concerning
placing the platform into orbit, now that its full capabilities were
known. For now, they agreed, it would be best if the elected members of
the Administration were kept out of the loop. The President would have
to be told, but the time to tell him would be carefully chosen.

In the meantime, funds were available for the necessary upgrades to the
spare. Funds were also available for its clean-room, temperature
controlled storage once the upgrades were completed and the platform was
flight certified.

But none of the eight thought the storage charges would need to be paid
for long. A technology as powerful as this could not be placed on a
shelf any more than atomic weapons could have been abandoned after 1945.

Margaret Sinclair had been right. With the coming of QUICKSILVER the
world had changed.

Except in one way.

Whatever happened next, it was still up to the Pentagon.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again we have benefited from the knowledge and
experience of many people who know the reality of the things we write
about, and we trust they will be entertained by the fictional uses to
which we have put their factual input.

Some of those people to whom we are most indebted can be acknowledged in
these pages. In the Pentagon, we must especially thank Philip Strub and
Glenn Flood for sharing their invaluable insights and expertise, and for
being so generous with their time. Tom Fontana, of the Pentagon
Renovation Project, also went beyond the call of duty to show us the
Building not only as it is today, but as it will be after its
"slab-to-ceiling" renovation is complete in 2008.

At the United States Naval Academy, we gratefully thank Lieutenant J.G.

Leslie Hull-Ryde, Lieutenant Jill Clary, Lieutenant David Kayea,
Commander Glenn Fogg, and last, but certainly not least, Midshipman
Jamie Fleischhacker of the Class of the Century, and all the members of
her company who took time from their busiest week to make us feel
welcome on the Yard. Our time with you was both informative and
inspirational, and we look forward to returning for new projects.

In Los Angeles, the enthusiastic staff of the Naval Office of
Information, West, has again provided encouragement and guidance. In
particular, we thank Petty Officer 1st Class Bill Danzig, Lieutenant
Darren Morton (USNA Class of '90), and Lieutenant Mel Scheurrmann.

Our agent, Martin Shapiro, and all at Shapiro-Lichtman-Stein provide
more encouragement than they can know.

Our publishing team, as always, deserves the highest praise: our editor,
John Ordover, who thought there should be something more than just
satellites at Ground Zero; Scott Shannon, whose good-natured patience we
regularly strained; Tony Greco, who created such a compelling cover; the
managing editorial and production staff: Donna Ruvituso, Erin Galligan,
Donna O'Neill, Lisa Feuer, Twisne Fan, Linda Dingier, and Carole
Schwindeller; publishers Gina Centrello and Jack Romanes; and Anthony
Fredrickson for his exemplary maps. We also are especially grateful to
Denise and Michael Okuda of the Banzai Institute, who saw to it that New
Year's arrived on schedule, and to Harlan Ellison for the insightful
aphorism that defaced Hector's computer. And special thanks must be made
to Jon Povill who, without knowing it, first inspired us to write this
book.

We also must thank all the members of the U.S. military who contacted us
about our previous book, Icefire, and kindly offered diplomatic comments
and necessary corrections regarding military matters. We hope you will
see your much-appreciated guidance reflected in these pages, along with
our respect for your accomplishments and our gratitude for your mission.

For the record, TSS-1, the first tethered satellite experiment intended
to generate electrical power by moving through the Earth's magnetic
field, flew on the space shuttle Atlantis, flight STS-46, in 1992. On
that mission, the tether jammed after only 250 meters had been deployed
and no data relating to power generation was obtained. However, the
experiment was considered by NASA to be so important that, even in a
time of severe budgetary restraint, additional funds were allocated to
allow the experiment to fly again, as TSS-1R {Tethered Satellite System
Reflight) on STS-75, in 1996. That flight provided the unexpected
results referred to by Major Sinclair.

Despite the fact that NASA reported the experiment's results require
"rewriting the laws of physics," at the time of this writing, when NASA
has the next 43 shuttle flights planned up to STS-136 in 2004, not one
is publicly acknowledged to conduct additional tethered satellite
experiments, almost as if the scientific community has lost interest in
so fundamental a challenge to their understanding of the Earth's
electromagnetic field.

However, ongoing orbital experiments with tethered satellite systems are
still being conducted, not by the civilian agency, NASA, but by the
Naval Research Laboratory and the National Reconnaissance Office, both
operating within the Department of Defense. In their public
announcements, these agencies emphasize that the tethered satellites
they have launched are connected by "non-conductive" tethers, indicating
that there is no attempt being made to explore the phenomenon which so
startled scientists in 1996.

Even without the prodding of people who know better, we find the
apparent abandonment of such an intriguing field of study to be an
improbable scenario.

Finally, should you ever find yourself in an emergency situation at the
Pentagon, the emergency number used in this book has been fictionalized
in order to avoid having ordinary citizens "try it out." In the event of
Threat Con Echo, please check your local directory.

J&G Reeves-Stevens Los Angeles, April 1999 arcticflag@aol. com