Table of Contents

Chapter 1 • 0500 Hours • Offutt Air Force Base, Omaha, Nebraska

Chapter 2 • 0730 Hours • O Street, Washington, D.C.

Chapter 3 • 1000 Hours • Hay-Adams Hotel

Chapter 4 • 1144 Hours • The White House

Chapter 5 • 1145 Hours • The Westchester School, Bedford, New York

Chapter 6 • 1147 Hours • The White House

Chapter 7 • 1148 Hours • The Westchester School

Chapter 8 • 1148 Hours • National Military Command Center The Pentagon

Chapter 9 • 1148 Hours • National Archives

Chapter 10 • 1148 Hours • Andrews AFB, Maryland

Chapter 11 • 1148 Hours • The White House

Chapter 12 • 1149 Hours • Metro Station, The Pentagon

Chapter 13 • 1149 Hours • Northern Command, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

Chapter 14 • 1149 Hours • Strategic Command, Omaha, Nebraska

Chapter 15 • 1149 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 16 • 1155 Hours • The Westchester School

Chapter 17 • 1200 Hours

Chapter 18 • 1210 Hours • Black Hawk One

Chapter 19 • 1225 Hours • Nightwatch

Chapter 20 • 1230 Hours • Black Hawk One

Chapter 21 • 1315 Hours • Nightwatch

Chapter 22 • 1315 Hours • Nightwatch

Chapter 23 • 1317 Hours • Bedford Hills

Chapter 24 • 1318 Hours • Nightwatch

Chapter 25 • 1319 Hours

Chapter 26 • 1426 Hours • Bedford Hills

Chapter 27 • 1431 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 28 • 1435 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 29 • 1436 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 30 • 1437 Hours • Bedford Hills

Chapter 31 • 1444 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 32 • 1445 Hours • Northern Command

Chapter 33 • 1450 Hours • Bedford Trails

Chapter 34 • 1501 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 35 • 1501 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 36 • 1502 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 37 • 1503 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 38 • 1504 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 39 • 1508 Hours

Chapter 40 • 1510 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 41 • 1520 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 42 • 1520 Hours • Air Force One

Chapter 43 • 1520 Hours • Bedford Country Club

Chapter 44 • 1521 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 45 • 1522 Hours • Ethel’s Truck Stop

Chapter 46 • 1522 Hours • Northern Command

Chapter 47 • 1525 Hours • Bedford Country Club

Chapter 48 • 1525 Hours • Ethel’s Truck Stop

Chapter 49 • 1548 Hours • Looking Glass

Chapter 50 • 1625 Hours • Ethel’s Truck Stop Café

Chapter 51 • 1600 Hours • Bailey Family Farm, Launch Control Center

Chapter 52 • 1625 Hours • Bedford Country Club

Chapter 53 • 1625 Hours • Ethel’s Truck Stop

Chapter 54 • 1635 Hours • Pembina Trail

Chapter 55 • 1640 Hours • Safeguard Complex

Chapter 56 • 1645 Hours • Safeguard Complex

Chapter 57 • 1649 Hours • The Pacific / Northern Command

Chapter 58 • 1650 Hours • Bedford Country Club

Chapter 59 • 0631 Hours • The Day After The Safeguard Complex

Chapter 60 • 0900 Hours • Three Weeks Later Looking Glass

COMING SOON

PRAISE FOR THOMAS GREANIAS

THE PROMISED WAR

THE ATLANTIS REVELATION

THE ATLANTIS PROPHECY

RAISING ATLANTIS

The sale of this eBook outside of official distribution channels is unauthorized.

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The War Cloud

by Thomas Greanias

A Division of @lantis Corp.

468 North Camden Drive

Beverly Hills, CA 90210

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Depictions of certain U.S. defense systems, protocols and weapons have been intentionally altered in the interests of national security.

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Greanias

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this eBook or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address @lantis Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 468 North Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, CA 90210.

First @lantis Books eBook edition November 2010

@lantis is a registered trademark of @lantis Corp.

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ALSO BY THOMAS GREANIAS

The Promised War

The Atlantis Revelation

The Atlantis Legacy

The Atlantis Prophecy

Raising Atlantis

www.ThomasGreanias.com

For such a time as now…

1

0500 Hours
Offutt Air Force Base
Omaha, Nebraska

Every minute of every day since February 3, 1961, a Strategic Command “Looking Glass” plane carrying an Air Force general has been circling the Midwest, ready to seize control of America’s nuclear arsenal should a surprise attack destroy command posts on the ground. The program officially ended with the Cold War, but actually carries on under various guises and aircraft. Only once, in the skies of September 11, 2001, has a Looking Glass plane ever been spotted by the general public. Even then the Pentagon denied its existence.

This morning it was General Brad Marshall’s turn to play God.

Marshall gazed at the converted military Boeing 747-200 “Doomsday” jumbo jet waiting for him in the pre-dawn darkness as his black Chevy Suburban, wipers working furiously, braked to a halt and he stepped out.

The ice on the tarmac crunched under his brisk, powerful strides. The snow was coming down harder now. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and bore through the curtain of white to Looking Glass, its gigantic GE 80-series engines winding up to takeoff power. Originally, the plane was an EC-135C, then an E-6 Mercury. The new model, a modified E4-B conscripted from Operation Nightwatch, had triple the floor space and was practically a dead ringer for the president’s Air Force One. Only the small white dome on top betrayed its enhanced military capabilities.

So this is what Siberia feels like, Marshall thought, both of the bitter cold and his new obscure-if-critical posting. A “promotion to general” hatched by an insecure president to keep a war hero as far away as possible from TV crews.

At the base of the tall stairs leading up to the six-story-high plane stood an intelligence officer Marshall had never seen before, although he recognized him from a file somewhere.

The officer saluted as he approached. “General Marshall, sir.”

Marshall frowned. “What happened to Colonel Reynolds?”

“Flu, sir,” the intelligence officer explained eagerly. “I’m Colonel Quinn. I’ll be your second.”

Marshall looked Quinn over. He had handpicked the Looking Glass crew himself. This kid was strictly second-string, and although the switch wasn’t entirely unexpected, that General Carver at Strategic Command hadn’t bothered to give him an official heads-up about such a critical assignment bothered Marshall. It only confirmed just how routine and insignificant these flights had become to the Department of Defense.

“Try to keep up with me, Quinn,” Marshall said as he started up the steps.

Marshall worked his way through the main deck’s various compartments—a command work area, conference room, briefing room, an operations team work area, and a secondary communications compartment — and acknowledged the salutes and greetings of the admiring crew with a confident smile.

Inside the communications center, Major Tommie Banks lit up when Marshall entered, Quinn right behind.

“General Marshall, sir,” the curvy redhead said.

“Major Tom,” Marshall acknowledged. “Threat alert status?”

She handed him a report. “Orange, sir.”

Marshall looked over the report, trying not to notice how nicely Major Tom filled her jumpsuit. “Flight forecast?”

She looked him in the eye. “Clear skies, sir.”

Marshall nodded, aware of Quinn’s frown. Marshall followed Quinn’s eyes to the window. It was dark and snowy.

“The President,” Marshall continued. “Give me his twenty.”

Major Tom said, “Back in Washington with everybody else for tonight’s State of the Union.

“Not everybody,” Marshall said, handing back the report.

She nodded and said softly, “You deserve better, sir.”

“Don’t we all?” Marshall said and marched off.

Two armed Looking Glass officers were already waiting in the battle staff compartment when Marshall entered and sat down in his general’s swivel chair.

“Harney, Wilson.” Marshall nodded to the men. “Welcome to Air Armageddon. Please present your boarding passes.”

The young officers dutifully surrendered the nuclear authenticator codes they were carrying.

Marshall removed the key he wore around his neck and inserted it into one of two locks in the red steel box next to his seat. “Colonel Quinn?”

“Sir.” Quinn, who was hurrying in behind Marshall, produced his own key and inserted it into the second lock.

Marshall opened the double-padlocked safe.

“As you gentlemen know, a Looking Glass plane like ours is always in the air.” Marshall paused to look each officer in the eye. “In the event of surprise nuclear attack, we can command American forces from the air and launch our ICBMs by remote control. Colonel Quinn, as my second officer, you are watching me place the nuclear authenticator codes in here for safekeeping.”

Marshall placed the code cards that Harney and Wilson had given him inside the safe, next to the two launch keys that together could unleash the Apocalypse. He locked the double padlocks with the safe keys. He hung the long chain of his key to the safe around his neck again. He then pocketed Quinn’s second key.

“God forbid we’ll ever need these.”

Marshall turned his attention to a pre-flight checklist. Wilson and Harney stood like statues on either side of him, emotionless. But he could feel Quinn’s stare.

Quinn cleared his throat. “Sir.”

“Yes,” Marshall said without looking up. But he could hear the uncertainty in Quinn’s voice.

“The other key, sir.”

Marshall played it cool. “What about it, Quinn?”

“Regulations state that both keys are not to be in the possession of a single officer,” Quinn said, sounding forced.

Marshall knew that this kind of situation could throw even the most seasoned officer, and Quinn was hardly that. “I know the regulations,” Marshall replied evenly. “I think we have too many regulations these days, don’t you?”

At that moment Major Tom appeared. “General Marshall,” she said, “the tower has cleared us for take-off.”

Marshall handed her his checklist and locked eyes with Quinn. “Who’s our pilot today, Quinn?”

Quinn did his best not to look at his clipboard. It took a few seconds, but he got it right. “That would be Captain Delany, sir. And Rogers is co-pilot.”

Marshall nodded. “Trained them myself. Just like the rest of the crew. Everybody but you, Quinn. We don’t just look out for each other. We’ve made a pact. You know the kind of loyalty I’m talking out, Quinn?”

Quinn said nothing. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed tightly.

“I didn’t think so.” Marshall turned to his crew and smiled. “To your stations, officers.”

Wilson and Harney did as they were told. As did Major Tom.

Marshall heard Quinn unlock his sidearm holster, and when he looked up again he saw the barrel of Quinn’s.38 mm pistol pointed at him.

Quinn said, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you for that key.”

Marshall smiled. His voice turned softer. “You’re new to Looking Glass, aren’t you?”

“My first flight, sir. But I’ve flown several times with Colonel Kozlowski aboard the Nightwatch plane.”

“Flying with the chauffeur of the president’s Air Force limo isn’t the same as flying with me, Colonel. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to keep your key.”

“Regulations, sir,” said Quinn as his hand holding the pistol trembled slightly.

“I thought you were a team player, Quinn.”

“I am, sir. But I insist you surrender the key, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

“Go ahead, Quinn. Make my day.”

Quinn looked bewildered. But he took a firmer grasp of his pistol. “On the count of three, sir. Three…”

Marshall stared a hole through him and said nothing.

“Two…”

Quinn’s voice started to shake again. But Marshall had to admit to himself that the kid could stand his ground.

“One…”

Marshall’s face broke into a wide grin.

“Congratulations, Colonel.” Marshall removed the second key from his pocket and dangled it in front of Quinn. “You passed the test.”

Quinn grabbed the key with one hand and with his other holstered the sidearm and wiped his forehead. “For a minute there, sir, I thought…”

“Yeah, I know,” Marshall said. “You thought I was flipping out. Next time pull the trigger.”

“Yes, sir, “ Quinn said. “I will, sir.”

Marshall tapped his armrest comlink and said, “Captain Delaney.”

The pilot’s voice came through on the speaker. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s roll.”

The engines roared to take-off speed as the Looking Glass plane began to barrel down the runway. A minute later they lifted off the ground and soared into dark skies. At last, thought Marshall, the National Airborne Military Command Post was in the clouds where she—and he—belonged.

2

0730 Hours
O Street
Washington, D.C.

The headline in the Washington Post read “No Sachs Education for Kids.” A photo showed a beleaguered U.S. Secretary of Education Deborah Sachs at a meeting of the nation’s governors in Washington. Her deer-in-the-headlights look said it all.

Sachs frowned at the picture of herself. It was above a smaller story about a slain Metro security guard whose body was found in a railyard. She adjusted the phone to her ear as she sipped her morning coffee while the TV blared.

“The President is expected to announce the resignation of his outspoken and controversial Secretary of Education after tonight’s State of the Union address,” Matt Lauer was saying on the Today show, and proceeded to recite her most recent run-ins with the Administration. Then Lauer said, “Moving on to the crisis in the Far East…”

She lowered the volume as her friend Lauren at Commerce took the call and immediately offered her condolences.

“No, he hasn’t given me my resignation yet,” Sachs said, flicking her freshly cut black hair from under her chin, which pinned the phone to her shoulder. She was going to grow it out, she decided, now that she no longer required the Beltway cut of a Cabinet secretary. “I have to give it to him this morning. Then he’ll accept it tomorrow. Tonight is all about him, remember? All I know is that Nadine has been a super assistant.”

Blah, blah, blah. Lauren was such a spin doctor with the excuses.

“Well, could you see what you could do for her just the same? Thanks.”

Sachs hung up and stared out the windows at the falling snow. Her Georgetown rowhouse until now had been her sole refuge from the nonsense of Washington. The hunter green walls, white trim and oils over the fireplace had offered an illusion of security and tradition in her otherwise uncertain life.

But it couldn’t shield her from urban Democrats who made a federal case for public education while their own children attended private schools. Or from suburban Republicans whose children enjoyed quality public schools and who demanded vouchers for private schools. Or from the nagging reality she had no home to go back to again because Richard was gone forever, and without him it just wouldn’t be home. But in the process she was depriving Jennifer.

She was mulling over this last painful thought when her assistant Nadine emerged from the front hallway, immaculate in her latest fashionable suit beyond her pay grade, ready to tackle lobbyists, teachers unions and Congress. Her dark hair was slicked back. She smiled broadly, keeping up a good front.

“Morning, boss.”

“For some Americans,” Sachs replied.

“Told you being a public servant isn’t worth the cost after two years,” Nadine said, and then stopped. “What’s this?” She was pointing to the packed overnite carry-on by the door.

“I’m grabbing the shuttle to see Jennifer,” Sachs said. “You book my ticket like I asked?”

“Uh, no,” Nadine said. “You’re going to see the President and tell him why you should keep your job.”

Nadine walked over to the desk and picked up what looked like a student term paper awash in red corrections. In the upper right hand corner was a big, fat “B.”

“And what’s this, Madame Secretary?”

Sachs said, “My speech for Jennifer school assembly.”

“You graded yourself?”

“I’ll do better on the next draft,” Sachs replied without a trace of embarrassment.

“Next draft?” Nadine looked at her Rolex. Sachs had told her to stop with the bling as they were trying to help inner city schools, but it was no use. “Hey, we canceled that speech. You have a meeting at the White House this morning. Why are we still talking?”

“I rescheduled,” Sachs told her. “I’m not going to disappoint Jennifer again. Besides, the President is going to cancel on me anyway. He always does. This time permanently. Just text him my resignation.”

Sachs grabbed her carry-on and rolled it behind her down the hallway and out the front door into the wintry day and the waiting government limousine, leaving Nadine to lock up after her. The driver popped the trunk and dropped her bag inside, then opened the rear door for her to get inside where it was warm.

Nadine finished a call at the curb, then climbed in and shut the door, incredulous. “Only you, boss,” she said as the limo pulled into the street.

“Meaning what?” Sachs asked her.

“Meaning here you are losing your job on national TV and all you can do is worry about your assistant’s ass and some speech nobody’s going to hear.”

“Jennifer and her friends are going to hear it,” Sachs said. “You have a better suggestion?”

“Lecture circuit,” Nadine replied.

Sachs laughed. “If nobody listened to me when I was Secretary of Education, why would they listen to me afterward? Besides, the whole silver lining is that my New York-Washington commuting days are over. I can spend more time with Jennifer.”

Nadine grimaced. “She’s what, ten? Give her a year and she’ll want you out of her life for good.”

“Thank you, Nadine, that’s comforting,” Sachs said. “She’s thirteen and needs me more than ever. Two years is a long time for a girl to live with her aunt. She hates me. If I’m going to be living in New York again, I’m going to be living with my daughter.”

Nadine said, “We’ll work something out. Now let’s go see the President. Maybe he’s changed his mind.”

Sachs was firm. “Look, did you book me on the shuttle to New York or not?”

Nadine flashed the email confirmation on her BlackBerry. “I’ve got you out of Reagan National in forty minutes.”

“Nadine, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

“You go to New York and we’re both gonna find out,” Nadine warned her. “Because if you don’t make it back tonight for the State of the Union, you’re gonna piss off the president.”

“That’s my job, remember?”

“Was your job,” Nadine huffed.

Sachs smiled. “I’ve got a better one now.”

3

1000 Hours
Hay-Adams Hotel

USAF Colonel Joseph Kozlowski woke up and shifted under the huge down comforter that covered the king-size bed. He reached to feel for Sherry, but she was gone, without so much as leaving a warm spot.

Kozlowski turned onto his back and blinked his eyes open. He could hear the hair dryer in the bathroom. He held up his watch and squinted. Then he slipped out of bed and plodded toward the curtains and pulled them back. The bleak January light seeped in as he looked across H Street at the White House. The snow was still coming down, burying the Rose Garden and Ellipse. He could barely make out the towering spike of the Washington Monument beyond.

He smelled coffee and saw that Sherry had room service bring up breakfast for one. All that was left was some picked-over fruit and a pile of newspapers screaming about yet another crisis in the Far East. He fished out a melon cube with his fingers and poured himself some lukewarm coffee.

He was halfway through his cup when Sherry emerged from the bathroom with her blow-dried blonde hair draped over her terrycloth robe with the Hay-Adams Hotel logo on it, which she left open just enough to remind him why he never turned her down for these hotel hideaways.

Kozlowski said, “Leaving so soon?”

“Got to finish Vanderhall’s reaction to the State of the Union address,” she said, sliding open the closet door to reveal her Armani suit next to his uniform. The same uniform he had been wearing for eight years now, still a colonel.

“So where am I going, Sherry?”

“You’re going nowhere, Koz.”

Kozlowski watched her dress. “You finally figured that out?”

“The snow, silly.” Sherry helped herself to his Purple Heart medal from his uniform.

“What are you doing?”

“The colors go with my jacket,” she said as she pinned it beneath the lapel of her blazer.

“You ever been wounded while serving your country?” Kozlowski asked her. “That’s what it means.”

“I won’t lose it.” She put on her gold earrings and spoke to him from the closet mirror. “It’s not like it’s actually worth anything.”

No, thought Kozlowski, just a couple of lives. But it was no use arguing with Sherry. She was 27 and wouldn’t understand, he concluded as he watched her grab her Gucci soft leather briefcase and walk out the door, off to more important things like personal advancement.

Kozlowski walked over to the open closet and looked at his blue uniform where the missing medal belonged. Sherry was right. It was just clothing, bland at that, with some cheap ribbons and medals.

Cheap like his bosses. Cheap like the promises they made and the company they kept.

Everything he grew up to believe in—the armed forces, the presidency, even the United States—no longer seemed mythic, but quaint and kindergarten. There were no rules anymore. The current occupant of the White House was yet another empty suit, and he wondered if America was even capable of producing a leader worth following into battle anymore.

He unbuckled the holster sitting on the closet shelf and removed his sidearm, a.38 standard-issue automatic pistol. He felt its weight in his hand.

Almost ten years of his life had passed in two overseas wars, he realized. Just like that. What could I have been by now? A general like Brad Marshall? Certainly a father if Mary hadn’t left him. They could have had three or four kids by now. He could be sledding or having snowball fights this morning instead of sitting here, feeling old, used-up, worthless.

He pointed the gun to his head and put his finger on the trigger.

4

1144 Hours
The White House

U.S. President Peter Rhinehart paced beneath George Washington on the wall of the Oval Office. He had fifteen minutes before his final meeting with Deborah Sachs, and he still needed to work on his delivery of his State of the Union address.

“And let us not live in the past,” he recited, stressing the word “past” like it was bad. “But look forward to the future.”

Meaning his own political future, he thought, when the ivory desk phone rang. The LED display flashed: Chairman, JCS. Line Secure. Top Secret. It was General Robert Sherman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, calling from the Pentagon.

Annoyed, Rhinehart picked up. “What is it, Bob?”

“Mr. President, we have a situation.”

Rhinehart’s morning intelligence briefing had spelled out a number of situations, so he could only guess.

“The SS-20?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m about to address the American people, dammit, and our friend General Marshall is breathing down my neck in the polls,” the President huffed. “I don’t have time for any false—”

“Mr. President, NEST teams have confirmed there is a stolen Soviet SS-20 nuclear warhead somewhere in Washington. Now the Russians say they have evidence that the Chinese planted it, and that it is set to detonate in five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” Rhinehart frowned. “What do the Chinese have to say?”

“The Chinese say that if anybody’s planted a nuke in Washington, it’s the Russians.”

“Goddammit,” groaned Rhinehart. “Every major elected official in America has got to be in Washington. How imminent is the threat?”

As if on cue, a military aide burst through the door carrying a black briefcase — the “football” containing nuclear authorization codes. Rhinehart stared at the attaché, speechless.

“I’ll brief you after you’re secure in the bunker,” Sherman pleaded with him on the phone. “Mr. President, we have no time.”

Rhinehart hung up and walked out of the Oval Office, the football and military aide close behind. He brushed past the White House military operator at the switchboard on the way out.

“The vice president just arrived,” the operator reported.

“Tell him he’s leaving,” Rhinehart replied. “Get my chopper to airlift himndrews.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Call Jack and Stan and have them meet me downstairs,” the President continued. “Alert conference.”

“Situation Room?”

“No. The bunker.”

The military operator hit a button on his communications console, sounding an alarm.

5

1145 Hours
The Westchester School
Bedford, New York

The Westchester School in Bedford, New York, was a public charter school, one of America’s finest. Sachs sent Jennifer here because she didn’t want to compromise herself as a champion of public education by enrolling her daughter in a private school. But she couldn’t find an acceptable public school in Washington. So Aunt Dina and the Westchester Middle School seemed to be the answer, even if Jennifer called all public schools, local or charter, “government schools.” Only now, Sachs wondered if she had sacrificed her relationship with her daughter on the altar of her idealism.

The verdict was waiting for inside. A sullen Jennifer, arms folded across her chest, sat in the office of Principal Mel Boyle. The school clock said 11:44, a few minutes faster than her own watch, so Sachs was running eight minutes late. Eight minutes of hell from the look on Jennifer’s face.

“So why aren’t you in Washington, putting other children first?” Jennifer asked without looking up.

“Shhh,” Sachs replied with a smile. “Mom’s playing hooky.”

Principal Melanie Boyle, a Barbie blonde in slacks and heels, walked in. “Nice to see you again, Madame Secretary.”

“Principal Boyle,” Sachs said, greeting her.

“Doctor Boyle,” the principal corrected her. “Everybody’s gathering in the gymnasium. We so appreciate your visit, although I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Sachs didn’t know if Boyle meant her impending job execution or if she was referring to Jennifer. “Is there a problem?”

Boyle slid a file across her desk. Sachs could see the big fat “F” circled in red. “This is Jennifer’s U.S. Constitution final,” Boyle explained. “Not only could she not name all of the current members of the president’s Cabinet, she couldn’t even name one. Not even the Secretary of Education.”

Boyle raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow.

Sachs studied the exam for a minute and then put it down.

“Well, I’d probably miss that one, too, if the answer wasn’t me,” she said. “But you know all the rest, Jennifer. What’s going on?”

“Globalization,” Jennifer said with all seriousness. “The U.S. Constitution is obsolete. To quote Socrates, I’m not a New Yorker or an American, but a citizen of the world.”

If Principal Boyle wasn’t just as serious as Jennifer, Sachs would have burst out laughing. But she kept a straight face and addressed her daughter. “Maybe, darling. But most of the world’s democracies have constitutions based on oursunless you want to live in a police state, and condemn the rest of humanity to the same fate, you’d better learn which way is up.”

“What planet are you from, Mom?” Jennifer made a dramatic, sweeping gesture with her hand, the back of which still bore an admission stamp from some event. “Look around you. Have you seen this government school? This IS a police state. My Bill of Rights didn’t keep the government from sucking in your tax dollars, nor Ms. Boyle from opening my private locker and going through my diary, or kicking me out of the school dance last Friday.”

“School dance?” Sachs repeated, looking at Jennifer. “You never told me about a dance. Did you go with—”

“She was wearing thong underwear,” Boyle declared, cutting her off. “Highly visible underwear, I might add.”

Sachs stared at her 13-year-old daughter, trying to process this ambush of zingers from Boyle. “You were wearing a thong?”

“Well, duh.” Jennifer was non-apologetic. “Everybody at the dance could see my thong after Ms. Vice Squad here lifted up my skirt.”

Sachs stared at Boyle. “You looked under my daughter’s skirt?”

“Whatever,” said Jennifer. “Can we get going already?”

“We should move along,” Boyle helpfully agreed, clearly looking to delay the inevitable, ugly parent-teacher conference with Sachs. “Everybody’s in the gymnasium.”

Sachs looked at both of them, not sure whom she was more furious at. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s not keep them waiting. I’ll deal with you later, ladies. Both of you.”

6

1147 Hours
The White House

President Rhinehart and his military attaché hurried down a long sub-basement corridor beneath the East Wing. At the end of the corridor stood a Marine guarding a steel door. Rhinehart slid a security card through an electronic key slot next to the door. The red light turned off. A green light flashed on. There was a beep and a loud click. The vault opened.

Inside the bunker, the White House Chief of Staff, National Security Adviser and assorted military aides were arguing around the conference table. They rose in unison when the president entered and looked around.

Rhinehart said, “Where’s Bald Eagle?”

“The Central Locator said all eighteen designated presidential successors were due in town for the speech,” said Stan Black, his Chief of Staff. “So I sent the Secretary of Defense to a base inspection in California.”

As he spoke, the Marine stepped inside and closed the vault door behind him with a definitive thud, sealing them all inside.

“Lucky for him,” Rhinehart mumbled.

Jack Natori, his National Security Adviser, said, “We’ve got the Pentagon on speaker, Mr. President.”

Rhinehart said, “What the hell is going on, Bob?”

General Sherman’s voice boomed on speaker. “NEST teams picked up trace uranium in the Metro railyards where a security guard was found de this morning by D.C. police,” Sherman said. “It matches the SS-20 core profile. We think the SS-20 or, more likely, its warhead, came into Baltimore on a freighter and then was offloaded to the train to D.C.”

“Where is it now?”

“God knows. Probably in some van cruising the streets as we try to get a lock on its location.”

Rhinehart took a breath. This was real. “What else are we doing about it, Bob?”

“Everything, including preparing for a detonation,” Sherman said. “Army and Air Force choppers at the Pentagon heliport are airlifting 44 selected personnel. The civilians will go to Mount Weather to establish a new government. The military officers are heading to Raven Rock to conduct the war.”

“That’ll take thirty minutes,” Rhinehart said. “I thought we only had five.”

Natori checked his watch. “Four minutes now.”

Rhinehart said, “The vice president is taking my chopper to Andrews right now.”

Natori shook his head. “He’ll barely get off the ground before we disappear in a mushroom cloud.”

The military attaché then placed the football on the table, dialed the combination and removed a binder–Federal Emergency Plan D.

Rhinehart stared at it for a long, hard moment. He forgot what the D actually stood for, but it always made him think of “Doomsday.” He had reached this point in emergency drills only twice before as president. As seriously as he had taken the drills, neither experience had prepared him for what he was feeling now.

The State of the Union is shit, he thought. It wasn’t him anymore, nor his administration, nor the coming election, nor even his wife and children. It was about America and her survival—her military, government and economy. Her future was in peril right now, and if this was his last act as president, he would do anything necessary to secure the fate of the free world.

“Guess we should call FEMA and go through the presidential succession bullshit,” he finally said. “Which button am I supposed to push?”

A fresh-faced Army colonel showed him on a console. “This one, Mr. President.”

7

1148 Hours
The Westchester School

Sachs could hear the noise of the gymnasium from a distance as she walked with Jennifer down the long, dim hallway. It did feel like a prison, dammit. Jennifer quickened her pace so that Sachs had to catch up with her. Boyle fell a few, safe steps behind.

“So you gonna kick Doctor Boyle’s ass?” Jennifer asked her.

“Later,” Sachs said. “But it’s your ass that started all this.”

Jennifer seemed even more sullen. “So that’s why you came?”

“Of course not,” Sachs said. “You think I’d miss a chance to—”

“Give a speech?”

“See my daughter.” said nothing. Their footsteps echoed loudly down the empty corridor. Judge Jennifer had found her mother guilty and would condemn her for her sins for the rest of her life.

Sachs tried again. “So how’s Aunt Dina treating you?”

“She took off for the Bahamas with her French racing boyfriend,” Jennifer said. “I’m alone at the house with old Carla her housekeeper.”

“What?” Sachs said, feeling she was arriving just in time to save her daughter.

“Dad was much cooler,” Jennifer said. “You sure she’s his sister?”

Sachs said, “Well, you won’t have to stay with her much longer.”

“I heard. You’re getting canned. Hope that doesn’t mean I have to put up with The Wuss.”

The Wuss was Raleigh Westcott, a man Sachs briefly dated after her husband and Jennifer’s father Richard had died in the 9/11 attacks. All Sachs could say was, “You know they don’t make them like your Daddy.”

“Well, I’m not waiting for Superman anymore,” Jennifer said. “Why can’t you hook up with someone like Brad Marshall?”

Brad Marshall? thought Sachs. Where did that come from? Sachs knew Marshall, like most Americans did, from TV. The general’s six-foot-four-inch frame, short blond hair, blue eyes and telegenic face generated trust and fan mail. His cool, reassuring voice instilled confidence. He was the legend who personally destroyed four of Saddam Hussein’s palaces in a renegade attempt to assassinate the Iraqi leader. He was the only man on earth the President of the United States feared to face in the coming elections.

Sachs said, “You mean the Great American Pretender?”

“Defender, Mom. The Great American Defender.”

“If that’s what you call lying to Congress about secretly reviving the Star Wars anti-ballistic missile system.”

“At least someone is concerned about my welfare,” Jennifer said.

Sachs said nothing. Marshall’s “America First” views no doubt pressured the White House into firing her. He was a dangerous man politically because he was so personally charming. Sachs wasn’t surprised at her daughter’s blatant hero worship. But she was disappointed. She hoped Jennifer was only trying to get a rise out of her.

Jennifer reached around her neck and removed her school computer flashdrive and handed it to her. “I just finished a class report on him. Check him out. He’s a total stud, and he’s going to be the next president. Ms. Cooper my big lib Constitution teacher can’t handle it, and that’s why she failed me.”

Sachs took the USB drive and sighed. It was shaped like an action figure—”Fembot Fiona”—from Jennifer’s favorite hyper-violent and ultra-realistic videogame, the War Cloud. She knew her daughter played it to be cool with the boys on “group hangouts,” because she didn’t let Jennifer go on dates and because kids don’t go out to the movies anymore. Fembot Fiona’s head came off to reveal the USB plug-in.

Sachs said, “What are you, my eHarmony.com matchmaking service?”

“It doesn’t take a village to raise a daughter. Just a mom and dad.”

“Right,” Sachs said and put it around her neck to show Jennifer she valued anything her daughter had done. “Me and Brad Marshall. I can picture it now. The Second American Civil War.”

They turned the corner, and the noise of the rowdy assembly grew louder. Jennifer halted outside the gymnasium, packed with students. Her peers. Her social life.

“Just don’t embarrass me.”

“I’ll try my best, sweetie.”

Sachs watched Jennifer bravely walk inside first and was about to follow when the government-issued BlackBerry in her purse vibrated with its distinctive “Death March” tone.

Dang, she thought, feeling as if she had been caught by a parole officer. Determined to silence it, she reached into her purse to pull out her phone. It was probably the President, ready to blow a purple vein in his red neck as he screamed at her for standing him up.

Sure enough, the voice on the other end seemed to confirm it. “White House. Please hold.”

Here it comes, Sachs sighed. All that was missing was a cigarette and blindfold. “Yes?”

The cold, impersonal voice on the other end said, “This is the White House signals operator for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. I have an emergency message for Secretary Sachs.”

“Speaking,” said Sachs.

The FEMA operator said, “Please authenticate.”

“Look,” said Sachs, her body temperature heating up, “if the President wants to fire me, he can tell me himself.”

“Authenticate.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Hold on.”

She rummaged through her purse and fished out an authentication card for the correct response.

“I authenticate,” said Sachs, reading the card. “Code-name: GREEN DOVE. Password: JENNIFER.”

“Where are you?” asked the FEMA operator.

“The Westchester Middle School in Bedford, New York,” Sachs replied. As if they didn’t know from her phone’s GPS signal.

“An alert warning has been declared,” the FEMA operator said. “Repeat. An alert warning has been declared. Please acknowledge.”

“Sure, I acknowledge,” said Sachs, hanging up. She turned off the ringer, plopped the BlackBerry into her purse, and walked into the gymnasium of students.

8

1148 Hours
National Military Command Center
The Pentagon

Inside the emergency conference room of the National Military Command Center, battle staff officers seated around a huge T-shaped table concentrated on their built-in consoles linking them to American forces worldwide. Six huge color display screens flashed world maps, charts, satellite overheads and troop concentrations.

Chairman Sherman and the rest of the Joint Chiefs stood on a platform perched above the battle staff. On speaker was the President.

“MrPresident,” the Chairman said, “we can confirm that the uranium traces found near Union Station came from an old Soviet-era SS-20 nuclear missile, the last of which was allegedly eliminated under the INF Treaty at the Kapustin Yar Missile Test Complex on May 12, l991. The Russian president claims the warheads must have been stolen around the same time as those 100 suitcase nukes we’ve been tracking the past 20 years. The difference is this warhead is more powerful, with a yield of 150 KIT.”

“Meaning what?” the president demanded on speaker. “Give me a damage projection so we can prep out-of-area first-responders to mobilize now in case this thing really goes off.”

Sherman hated thinking about the unthinkable, especially since he probably wasn’t going to be around to assess the accuracy of his estimate. But the president was right about mobilizing out-of-area FEMA help, even if this only shaved a minute off their response time.

“Within the first second of detonation, Mr. President, the shock wave will destroy even our most heavily reinforced steel and concrete buildings within a half-mile radius,” Sherman reported from the graphics on screen. “These buildings will include the Pentagon. Nothing inside this ring will be recognizable.”

There was a pause on the president’s end of the line, and then, “Casualites?”

Sherman said, “The thermal pulse will instantly kill those in the direct line of sight of the blast. Those indoors will be shielded from the thermal effect but die as buildings collapse. The real issue will be the fireball that erupts and wind shifts so far as casualties are concerned. Too early to talk hard numbers. But we caught a break with the snow keeping thousands of federal employees at home today. Our best guess is less than 4,000. Not nearly as bad as it might be, but more than 9/11. It’s the symbolism that we’ll ultimately have to deal with. We’re preparing a military response.”

“Response to whom?” Rhinehart demanded. “The Russians? The Chinese? We don’t even know whom we’re fighting. If we’re fighting.”

Sherman said, “Whoever it is gave us no time to negotiate.”

“Agreed,” said Rhinehart. “So why warn us at all?”

“Good question, sir.” Sherman looked up at a clock—one of three—on a nearby wall. “A five-minute warning means the nuke would go off at 11:49 a.m.,” he said, thinking out loud for his staffers. “Why not noon exactly?”

“The blue line, General!” An aide ran up waving a Metro schedule. “The Metro stops at the Pentagon subway platform at 11:49. The nuke is coming in on the train.”

Sherman grabbed the card and stared at it. There it was. 11:49 a.m. The Pentagon. Sherman checked the clock on the wall. 11:48. His stomach sank. Christ Almighty, it just felt right.

“The bastards are using D.C.’s own transportation system to deliver their destruction—just like the jets on 9/11 and the anthrax mail on Capitol Hill,” Sherman said, and started barking new orders. “Tell Metro to stop all trains, and get a strike team down there now!”

Sherman turned back to the secure speaker phone to the White House bunker. “Mr. President, we may have made a grave error. The nuke may not have been off-loaded from a Metro train; it may have been on-loaded. We believe that the Pentagon is the primary target, and it will be an underground detonation. That will se us wind shift factoring, but the Metro tunnels will direct the fallout to all nearby stops, including the U.S. Capitol.”

He hung up as a quiet sort of pandemonium filled the emergency briefing chamber during the next minute. No shouting. No shoving. Just an urgent, desperate scramble at the consoles. Nobody was heading for the exits.

“General!” His aide tried to pull him away. “You should get to the bunker!”

“If there’s a nuke on that train,” said Sherman, “those bunker walls might as well be wax paper.”

“What else can we do, sir?”

Sherman held up one finger and picked up the phone. “Get me the National Archives.”

9

1148 Hours
National Archives

More than 200 students from the Presidential Classroom for Young Americans crowded beneath the rotunda around the gold display showcasing the U.S. Constitution. Their teacher read from the archives literature.

“Every night at closing time the documents are lowered into a fifty-ton vault designed to protect them from fire, shock, heat, water and nuclear explosion,” Mrs. Chan recited. “The vault was dedicated in 1952 by President Harry Truman, who called it ‘as safe from destruction as anything that the wit of modern man can devise.’”

Suddenly, from down the corridor came a shout.

“Away from the glass!”

Sergeant Wanda Randolph, head of the Capitol Police’s special reconn and tactics or RATS squad that patrolled the underground tunnels the U.S. Capitol Complex, sprinted across the rotunda’s marble floor, waving her 50 caliber sniper rifle at the screaming, fleeing kids.

She tried to radio her man at the Pentagon as she ran, “Omar!”

“We’re on it, boss,” Omar’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Get yourself some cover!”

“I got a hole to crawl into,” she said. “Just one more thing.”

Using whatever speed was left from her days as a track star at Howard University, Randolph ran the race of her life toward the display, knocking over two kids.

“Hey!” Mrs. Chan yelled.

Randolph hurdled three kids crouched in front of the display in one jump. She unlocked a switch and breathlessly watched the display case sink into the floor and drop hundreds of feet down its shaft.

10

1148 Hours
Andrews AFB, Maryland

Colonel Kozlowski and Captain Linda Li jogged across the tarmac to the awaiting Advanced Airborne Command Post. Unlike the tamer, civilian Air Force One, the militarized E-4B jumbo jet, code-named Nightwatch, was built to soar over mushroom clouds.

“I was worried we were going to have to take off without you, sir,” Li said.

“You saved my lifeKozlowski told his diminutive communications officer. “Again.”

Li smiled. “Any time, sir.”

Kozlowski had been staring into the barrel of his gun back at the hotel when the call from Li came in. Out of habit he picked up and heard her clear, chipper voice letting him know there had been a roster change. It seemed that General Marshall was logging a shift aboard Looking Glass that morning, and would the colonel mind reporting to base as a Suburban was waiting for him at the hotel entrance. “Unless you have something better to do, sir,” she added.

Kozlowski had looked down at his gun again. He suspected that Brad Marshall was not why she really called. She was always looking out for him, even though he knew she didn’t approve of his off-duty life. Hell, how did she even know he was at the Hay-Adams? He swore she was psychic. She called it the spiritual gift of discernment. But she had aroused his curiosity. Brad Marshall was never one to languish in obscurity, even for eight hours. So Kozlowski had switched on his gun’s safety and told her he’d be right down.

Now he found that he had arrived in the middle of a full-blown Alert One nuclear situation.

“Where’s the President?”

“No time, sir,” Li said.

Of course not, thought Kozlowski. He himself would never have made it. God bless Captain Li.

The whine of the engines was deafening now as they approached the towering, 231-foot-long plane.

Li shouted, “We have orders to pick up the Secretary of Defense at Edwards AFB.”

Kozlowski nodded as they ran up the hydraulic steps into the belly of the fuselage. They made their way through a long communications section manned by six Air Force officers and then entered the battle staff compartment. Fifteen more officers, conducting their pre-flight checks, saluted.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Kozlowski shouted and strapped himself into a jump seat.

Li plunked down next to him, breathless. The GE 80-series engines wound up into a deep-throated roar and the jumbo jet started moving down the runway.

Kozlowski leaned back against his seat as the plane left the ground. He never felt more alive in his life.

11

1148 Hours
The White House

President Rhinehart paced the floor in the bunker while his national security adviser gave him the latest.

“Marshall is on Looking Glass, Mr. President.”

Rhinehart nodded. Whatever political challenges the general had presented him, he was a genuine military asset. “And my doomsday plane?”

“Nightwatch just took off from Andrews,” Jack Natori said.

“Send Nightwatch to California to pick up Bald Eagle at Edwards,” said Rhinehart.

At that moment the tumblers in the vault door began to click-clack. Rhinehart and company looked at each other in surprise.

Rhinehart said, “I thought everybeen accounted for.”

“Everybody has been accounted for, Mr. President,” said chief of staff Stan Black.

“Then who’s that?” Rhinehart demanded.

All eyes turned toward the vault door as it slowly opened to reveal the bald, bullet-headed Secretary of Defense, Ryan O’Donnell.

“What have I missed?” O’Donnell asked in response to the incredulous stares.

Rhinehart gasped, “You’re supposed to be in California!”

“My kid’s in the hospital with the flu,” the Secretary of Defense explained. “I was going to catch a later flight. Central Locator said we’re covered.”

There was no response, only horrified expressions around the bunker.

O’Donnell stared back blankly. “What?!”

12

1149 Hours
Metro Station
The Pentagon

The Blue Line Metro shot down the tunnel, packed with suits and uniforms, all oblivious to the flashing red light behind the front axle of the chassis as the train screeched along the rails.

Inside the cars, faces were buried behind the pages of the Washington Post when the intercom crackled and the conductor’s voice announced:

“Next stop, the Pentagon.”

The caution lights lining the edge of the platform ahead began to blink. As the commuters began to queue up, a beam of light from the Metro stabbed out of the tunnel.

Six Special Forces troops burst onto the platform and fanned out, parting the sea of commuters into waves of panic and confusion. Their commanding officer, Lt. Matt Omar, was once an Azerbaijani national in Baku, trained by the CIA and Oklahoma National Guard to fight terrorists, before Wanda Randolph of the U.S. Capitol Police brought him stateside and helped him become an American citizen. She had argued that anyone already putting his life on the line for America deserved it.

“Down there!” shouted Omar.

On the track, attached to the rail’s tie-plate, was a small black box on which an even smaller red light was blinking. The security cameras had missed it.

Omar dove for the device even as the Metro shot out of the tunnel and into the station. He desperately tried to disengage the signal box. He looked up helplessly at his partners a second before the Metro, brakes squealing, mowed him down, tripping the signal box and detonating the nuclear warhead bolted to the train.

Suddenly there was a blinding white flash.

13

1149 Hours
Northern Command
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

The deer raised her head from the fresh powder of snow and stood deathly still while the pine trees, dripping white, trembled ever so slightly. Then she scrambled away over a slope past the “Danger! Restricted Area” sign and out of view of the security c

Hundreds of feet beneath the earth, behind a giant vault-like door of titanium cut out of the mountain, it was snowing inside too, on the monitors of the command center of the U.S. Northern Command.

USAF Maj. Gen. Norman Block, squat and brash, stared at two giant screens where his bosses used to be. “What the hell happened?”

“IONDS sensors detect a nuclear detonation within the U.S., sir,” his senior controller reported. “It’s Washington.”

Block looked at the reconfiguring screens. The left screen displayed TOT MISL 1 — total number of missiles launched. The right screen displayed TTG +00.00.35 — time to go before detonation. It was the plus sign that made Block’s blood jump.

“God Almighty,” he said.

What happened next went strictly according to plan as America’s so-called Post Attack Command Control System swung into action.

Block picked up the gold phone of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Alerting Network (JSCAN) from the console in front of him.

“Put me through to General Carver at SAC.”

14

1149 Hours
Strategic Command
Omaha, Nebraska

Inside the underground command center of the Strategic Command, the gold JSCAN telephone started beeping in SC Commander Duane Carver’s office. Carver, a lean, low-key man, picked up and heard the news from Block.

“Yes, sir,” he replied and stepped out onto his balcony overlooking a floor half the size of a football field where SAC officers manned their consoles deep beneath Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha. Display screens told them which bombers were in the air, which were sitting on runways and how long their engines had been running. “I’m on it.”

Carver hung up and picked up the red telephone to the Primary Alerting System. As soon as he did, an alarm warbled and a rotating red beacon flashed.

On the surface, sirens blared as blue trucks rushed pilots to their awaiting bombers and tankers already lined up for a quick escape.

“Alert crews to your stations,” blared the senior controller’s voice over the base speakers. “This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill.”

On the runways, B-2, B-52 and FB-11 bombers and their supporting KC-135 tankers began to blast off in Minimum Interval Take Offs (MITOs), one after another with less than twelve seconds between them, collectively armed with enough nuclear warheads to destroy the world’s 25 largest cities.

15

1149 Hours
Looking Glass

The Looking Glass plane had reached its 30,000-foot cruising altitude among the thunderclouds when Marshall heard the ominous click-clack of an Emergency Action Message or “go code” print out in the battle staff compartment. Wilson ripped it out and walked it over to him.

“Northern Command confirms a first strike on U.S. soililson said in a trained monotone stripped of all emotion. “The ANMCC says we’ve lost the Pentagon, White House and most of the nation’s elected leadership.”

Marshall read the EAM, his mind racing. Without a star in charge and only a junior grade skeleton staff, the Alternate National Military Command Center at Raven Rock was about as valuable now as a call center in Bangalore, India. That left General Duane Carver at Strategic Command, General Norm Block at Northern Command, and himself aboard Looking Glass as the essential National Command Authority to run the country.

They would be contacting him any second now, Marshall thought, when

Major Tom’s voice came on the speaker from the communications compartment.

“Sir, I’ve got Generals Carver and Block for you in the conference center.”

“I want a launch poll, Major Tom,” he told her as he rose to his feet. “I want to know what assets got off the ground, what assets are on the ground and which ones are in the ground. And I want it waiting for me when I get there in thirty seconds.”

Marshall found the two faces of his last remaining superiors staring from the big screen when he sat down in the conference center: Block, the squat cigar-chomping warrior from the old schools, and Carver, the tall, wiry egghead from the new. Laurel and Hardy in uniform, except Block was white and Carver was black.

“Damage reports, Marshall?”

“Early reports indicate a ground burst,” Marshall said, glancing down at the screen beneath the surface of the table. “One hundred fifty KT. Blast radius three miles. Casualties estimated at about four thousand. Looks like snow kept most nonessential federal workers at home.”

“So we caught a break,” Block said. “That puppy’s bark was worse than its bite.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” General Carver said dully. “Marshall, the launch poll.”

Marshall glanced down again. The poll had just popped up. It was everything they already knew, but protocol demanded acknowledgment.

“We’ve lost the Commander-in-Chief at the White House and the Joint Chiefs at the National Military Center at the Pentagon. But we still have command posts at Northern Command, Strategic Command and the ANMCC at Raven Rock,” Marshall reported. “We are the National Command Authority now.”

Block looked relieved on screen. “So the actual damage to our ability to fight this war is minimal.”

“I suppose so, sir,” Marshall said. “General Block, you now have operational launch control of U.S. ICBMs in the ground. I’m your back-up here in the Looking Glass air command. General Carver?”

“All my birds are in the air and my sharks are in the water,” he said, referring to U.S. bombers and submarines armed with nuclear warheads. “All awaiting orders, soon as we know whom to strike.”

“I put my chips on yellow,” said Block. “I bet it’s General Zhang and the chinks.”

Marshall could see the slight grimace on Carver’s face at Block’s derogatory remark. But Carver was too smart to be politically correct in a state of war, and Marshall had never seen Carver lose his cool. “From this moment on, everything goes strictly accordour plan per our Post Attack Command Control System,” Carver ordered. “Hell, Marshall, you wrote it. What’s next?”

“The Nightwatch plane from Andrews is circling in the air until the Central Locator selects a designated presidential successor, “ said Marshall and pressed his speakerphone. “Major Tom, patch us through to Edwards. The NCA needs to speak to the new president, President O’Donnell.”

“Negative, sir,” the voice on speaker said at the same moment Wilson walked into the conference room with another EAM printout. If Marshall didn’t know better, he could have sworn the impenetrable soldier’s lower lip was now quivering.

“This just came in, sir.”

Marshall scanned the EAM. Twice. Then he looked up at the big screen and broke the news to Block and Carver. “Central Locator says the SecDef swiped his card at the White House just before the blast. He died with the president.”

Block looked stunned. “Then who is the designated presidential successor?”

Marshall had trouble forming the words.

“The Secretary of Education,” he said. “Deborah Sachs.”

“Deborah Sachs?” Carver repeated, the look of dismay on his face rivaling that of Block’s. “Are you sure?”

“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “As of right now, if she’s alive, she’s our new Commander-in-Chief.”

“Deborah Sachs sure as hell ain’t my Commander-in-Chief,” Block said. “Who else have you got?”

Marshall frowned and glanced at Carver on the split screen.

“This isn’t a football game, Block,” Carver said, quickly getting a hold of himself. “We can’t simply sub any quarterback we like from our roster.”

“You kidding me?” Block shot back. “This is the goddamn Armageddon Bowl, and Team USA needs to field her best quarterback.” Block glared out of the screen at Marshall. “Now, son, who else have we got?”

“We have Percy Carson, the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Marshall said, playing along with Block as he tried to figure this nightmare out. “He was in Chicago to face election fraud charges from his stint as senator. The president wanted him out of sight for his State of the Union.”

“Good enough for me,” Block said. “And a hell of a lot more qualified than Sachs.”

Marshall said, “Only problem is that presidential succession goes in the order in which the Cabinet offices were created. And Homeland Security was created after Education.”

“Then what about the Speaker of the House, somebody, anybody. How do we know for sure they’re all dead?”

“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “Even if it’s wrong, FEMA rules state that if a higher-ranking successor has survived, he cannot retrieve the office from the sworn successor. Once Sachs is sworn in, she’s Commander-in-Chief.”

Block said, “Then we have to see to it that she’s not sworn in until we’ve got somebody better to present to America’s people and enemies.”

“Careful, boys,” Carver warned with unmistakable firmness. “The Constitution trumps any poApocalypse game scenarios. Report back in two minutes.”

Carver disappeared from view, leaving a fuming Block on the screen.

Marshall said, “You have a problem with the plan, sir?”

“You tell me, Marshall. How does Sachs compute into all your scenarios?”

“She doesn’t, sir.”

“What the hell does that mean, son?” Block demanded. “You see, unlike you, I’m an old fart who has no plans to run for office, or not run for office, whatever the hell dance you and the president had going on. So I can say whatever the hell I goddamn please.”

Marshall bristled at the condescension and looked down at his screen. “Psych profile says she’s a reformer. The teachers unions hate her. Her husband died in the 9-11 attacks. Went down with the North Tower of the World Trade Center.”

Block said, “You saying she might surprise us and prove tougher on the enemy?”

“I’m saying if Sachs is appointed, she’s going to play by the book,” Marshall said. “And our playbook is pretty clear. Regardless of who’s the president, he or she has only a limited set of response options to choose from. In other words, she’s not a factor.”

“Not a factor?” Block said in disbelief. “Hell, Marshall. The sight of her alone is going to inspire the chinks to unload everything they’ve got at us. So don’t give me this bullshit that she’s not a factor. You better goddamn believe she’s a factor. Figure out how.”

Marshall crumpled the communiqué in his hand. “Yes, sir.”

“God help us if she’s still alive, Marshall.”

16

1155 Hours
The Westchester School

“The federal government can’t do everything,” Sachs said from the podium in the gymnasium. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her framed the school’s wintry track and field. “But it can do something.”

The bored eyes of the students and faculty began to glaze over. Sachs could see Jennifer slump even lower in her folding chair.

So much for the lecture circuit.

“Please tell me there’s more to the United States of America than a libertarian philosophy of no government, no shared values, no community and the notion that the only moral authority for each of us is ourselves.”

That seemed to perk them up, ironically, because the students and faculty stirred.

“That’s not a country,” she continued with more feeling. “That’s chaos.”

But all eyes were looking over her shoulder. She turned and blinked as two military Black Hawk choppers with side-mounted machine guns landed on the school green and soldiers in field uniforms jumped out.

Suddenly there was a crash from the opposite side of the gym. A dozen men in dark overcoats and sunglasses burst through the doors into the gymnasium.

Some kid yelled, “It’s Rambo!” as the men rushed past Jennifer to get to the podium. The look on Jennifer’s face said, “You really did it now, Mom.”

The leader of the detail halted in front of Sachs. “Secret Service, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Raghav. You are Deborah Sachs?”

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Curtis Raghav. Secret Service. May I see your authentication card?”

Sachs rummaged through her purse and presented her card to Special Agent Raghav.

He looked back and forth at her like a passport inspector at Dulles International Airport, like she was on the terrorist watch list. Then, showing no emotion, he returned the card and nodded to the others. The agents closed ranks in a circle around her. “Please come with us.”

Sachs didn’t budge. “Where?”

“A secure location, ma’am.”

“I’m not leaving my daughter.” She looked over at Jennifer, who took a few steps back into the crowd, trying to disappear.

Raghav nodded to two agents. “Grab the kid.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you goons!” Jennifer shouted as they approached her. “I’m staying with my friends.” She then shoved a prominent middle finger above the heads of the student body and made a break for the opposite exits, the two agents giving her chase.

“Jennifer!” Sachs called out.

But Raghav and the rest tightened their protective ring around her, lifting her an inch off the floor and forcibly carrying her away.

“Smoker Four,” Raghav said into his lapel. “Secure exit!”

The freezing air outside on the school green slapped Sachs in the face. A dozen Green Berets wearing distinctive 1st Special Forces headgear and holding M-16s guarded the Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawks, their rotors turning impatiently, screaming to lift off. But the commanding officer, a hulking, pock-faced presence in field uniform and jump boots, halted Special Agent Raghav and Sachs’ protective detail with a broad, flat hand.

“I’m Colonel Kyle,” the officer said. “This chopper is reserved for Green Dove. We’ll take it from here.”

Raghav flashed his ID. “Wherever she goes, I go.”

“I’m not going anywhere without my daughter and until you tell me what’s going on,” she demanded, trying to veil her fear.

Colonel Kyle looked like he was about to bark an order but seemed to change his mind when he noticed the sea of faces pressed against the gymnasium glass.

“Green Dove and two agents board Black Hawk One,” he ordered. “The rest of the suits, inside Black Hawk Two.”

Before Sachs could protest, Raghav shoved her hard into the eleven-seat chopper, then climbed in after her with five Green Berets so she couldn’t get out. Kyle was the last to board. He signaled the pilot to lift off.

“This is Marine Six to base,” the pilot spoke into his radio. “Green Dove is airborne. Repeat. Green Dove is airborne. En route to DZ.”

As the Black Hawk lifted off, a furious, helpless Sachs could see students and teachers below, noses pressed to the glass wall of the asium, waving good-bye.

“I’m going to have it out with the president when I see him,” Sachs said. “If anything happens to my daughter…”

“Don’t worry,” Colonel Kyle assured her. “We’ll get her.”

17

1200 Hours

Jennifer and a thousand other students exploded out the front doors to the pandemonium in the pick-up lanes. An army of Range Rovers, Mercedes and BMWs jammed the snow-plowed street in front of the entrance. Mothers and a few fathers were screaming for their children.

Jennifer slogged across the slushy parking lot as fast as she could. But now two Green Berets in field uniforms and M-16s were gaining on her, and a line of waiting cars stood in her way.

The touch of a hard combat glove on her back prompted her to scream and leap head first across the icy hood of a Mercedes, sliding off into the snow.

She barely had time to look up before she saw a Volvo careening toward her, brakes locked, skidding on the ice. She rolled away seconds before it crashed into the Mercedes.

Getting up, she looked back to see the Marines on the other side of the cars, pointing at her. They split and came at her from both sides, stymied by the panic in the streets.

She turned to run away when a silver minivan braked to a halt in front of her, stopping her cold. Jennifer held her breath as the door slid open automatically and the driver’s window rolled down at the same time.

Behind the wheel was her prom date, Robbie, who had given her the red thong for the dance. “Get in!” he shouted.

“What are you doing, Robbie?” she screamed. “You don’t have a license!”

Robbie looked panic-stricken. “Quick!”

Jennifer glanced back over her shoulder. The Marines had cleared the line of cars and were closing in fast. She opened the driver’s side door.

“Move over!” she ordered, climbing inside. “I’m driving.”

Robbie resisted. “What are you talking about?”

“Your feet barely reach the pedal,” she said. “Move! Now!”

She pushed Robbie into the passenger seat, closed her door, slipped behind the wheel and hit the accelerator.

The minivan lurched backward, knocking the front corner of a sedan and kicking up slush into the windshields of the cars behind it.

“Dang,” she said.

“Dang?!” Robbie repeated, apoplectic.

She checked the rearview mirror and saw one of the Marines aiming his M-16 at them.

“Holy shit!” Robbie shouted. “They’re going to shoot!”

Jennifer shifted into drive and they shot off.

She took the first corner too fast, and they slid across the ice, side-swiping a Jeep before gaining traction. Robbie slammed against the inside of the passenger d

“What the hell did your mom do?” Robbie cried out.

“I don’t know.” Jennifer looked up in her rearview mirror, worried that bullets would shatter the back windshield at any moment. “But I’m not gonna sit around to find out.”

She hit the accelerator again, and they sped off into the straightaway.

18

1210 Hours
Black Hawk One

It wasn’t long before the chopper was skimming the white trees of the Hudson Valley and Sachs could see the hills of White Plains rising ahead. They must be going to the local airport. She thought of Jennifer on the run from the very people sent to help her, and worried that in her haste her daughter would have an accident or hurt herself someway.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

Colonel Kyle of the Green Berets said nothing, but Special Agent Raghav of the Secret Service told her, “Nearest presidential emergency facility.”

“Emergency?” Her brushes in the past with Washington security types had taught her a general rule of thumb: the less the inflection in the monotone voice, the worse the situation. “What kind of emergency?”

“There was an explosion in Washington a few minutes ago.”

Her mind raced through the multiple-choice scenarios: a) an Oklahoma City-style bombing of the Internal Revenue Service headquarters, b) a plane crash into the White House, or c) the Capitol Building. My God, she thought, I was supposed to be there tonight for the State of the Union address.

“Tell me the worst,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“It was nuclear.”

The answer was: d) all of the above. Sachs snapped her eyes open and stared at the deadpan Secret Service agent. “How many casualties?” she heard herself ask hoarsely.

Raghav said, “Less than four thousand.”

Sachs blinked. She could feel her throat catch. “That’s how many died?”

“So far,” Raghav said matter-of-factly. “The National Weather Service hasn’t given us any updates on wind shifts. And fires are still burning. Should have been more than a million dead. But snow kept hundreds of thousands of federal workers home. And the nuke was small and exploded underground. Very clean. Minimal damage to civilians, maximum destruction to the federal government. Total decapitation.”

“Decapitation,” Sachs repeated, unsure what the jargon meant, although she had an idea. She suddenly felt very lightheaded, her heart thumping beyond control. “Terrorists?”

“Nobody’s claimed responsibility,” Raghav said. “We think it’s connected to what’s happening in the Far East.”

“Where’s the president?”

“Dead.”

Sachs took a deep breath. “And the vice president?”

“Nobody survived,” Raghav informed her. “All designated presidential successors are being taken secure facilities.”

Sachs leaned back in her seat and stared out the window. America was at war, its leadership attacked. And Jennifer, her baby, was on the run. Sachs wanted to go back for her. But the hardened faces of the agents and Green Berets told her there was no turning back now.

Sachs asked, “So how many designated successors are there?”

Raghav was evasive. “I can’t say for sure, ma’am.”

“Something like fifteen or sixteen?”

Sachs suddenly felt something cold touch her temple. The barrel of an M-16 came into view. Pointing it at her was a grim Colonel Kyle with hate-filled eyes.

“One too many,” he said.

19

1225 Hours
Nightwatch

Colonel Kozlowski looked around the empty conference table. The empty chairs were for the president and his staff. The Secretary of Defense. The National Security Adviser. Anybody else that survived, of which there were none.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Koz sat alone at the head of the table and stared at a wall of display screens. The displays showed that American bombers were en route to their positive control points outside the Far East, where they would circle until they received further orders from the president-designate. Other displays showed that American submarine and missile crews were also awaiting executive authorization.

The only problem was that there was no president-designate to issue the launch authorizations. For that, Koz needed Deborah Sachs, of all people.

Northern Command’s confirmation that Washington was gone—and with it Sherry—was devastating enough. Upon learning the news, in fact, Koz proceeded to spend several private minutes in the presidential bathroom throwing up the cold breakfast Sherry left for him.

Now the FEMA Central Locator confirmed that the SecDef was not at Edwards AFB in California after all but in Washington. Which meant he was dead and the presidential mantle had fallen to nearly last-in-line Deborah Sachs.

So Koz ordered a change in course, and Nightwatch was en route to its rendezvous with the president-designate at an as-yet-undamaged airfield, in this case the local airport in White Plains which had one runway barely long enough to handle an emergency 747 landing.

President Sachs. It just didn’t sound right. “Madame President” would be the protocol. Unless she preferred Ms. President. Koz cringed at the thought.

Whatever his private opinions of the woman, Koz knew he had sworn an oath to protect and defend the United States Constitution, and right now that meant Deborah Sachs.

The red phone next to his seat rang. He picked up. It was Captain Li. “We’re cleared for approach,” she said.

“Fine.”

“And we’ve got footage from ground zero.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and left the emptyom and walked into the battle staff compartment where fifteen of his officers huddled around their monitors.

A traffic chopper from a local Baltimore TV station was offering the world its first look at what had really happened in Washington, D.C.

Koz took a deep breath and looked over his crew. All eyes were glued to their monitors as the chopper was fast approaching a ridge of black trees.

“This is Chopper Dave,” the traffic reporter pilot radioed from the cockpit. “Approaching ground zero.”

Koz shook his head. Unless Chopper Dave’s blades were shielded for radiation like Nightwatch, the traffic reporter was filing the last story of his life.

Chopper Dave was soaring over the ridge when suddenly there was…

Nothing.

A flat wasteland rolling on beneath gray skies.

Koz felt a pain in his stomach, like a knife had gone clean through, in and out.

“Oh, God.”

He thought of Sherry and realized she deserved that Purple Heart after all. At the moment of impact she was probably sitting in her chair in Senator Vanderhall’s office in the Hart Building, scripting some stupid sound bites for the self-important ass to parrot in reaction to the president’s State of the Union address. Little did any of them know that a new president was going to have to address the fact that the state of the Union was shit.

The monitors in the battle staff compartment displayed what Chopper Dave saw: devastation beyond recognition. Heaps of rubble, once buildings, lay scattered across the parched earth. A dark, snakelike fork was all that was left of the Potomac River. Radioactive fallout had already settled along its banks. Sporadic fires and black smoke completed a portrait straight out of Dante’s Inferno.

“I’m circling the capitol.” Chopper Dave’s voice crackled over the intercom. Koz wasn’t sure if it was the traffic reporter’s voice or the reception breaking up. “No survivors in the impact area. Repeat. No survivors.”

The battle staffers were watching the images, offering guesses as to the landmarks. “That stump is the Washington monument!” gasped one, pointing. “There!”

Koz wasn’t sure. But the location looked right. His trance was broken when Captain Li came into the compartment to apologize for the bumpy landing.

“I didn’t even know we touched down,” Koz said.

The Nightwatch plane taxied to a stop along the runway. Hydraulic steps unfurled from the belly of the plane, and Koz climbed down to the tarmac where federal agents and vehicles were waiting.

“Where’s the president-designate?” Koz demanded.

The special agent in charge, clearly a greenhorn from the bench, threw up his hands. “God knows, Colonel. Our boys called in to say she was picked up by two Black Hawks fifteen minutes ago.”

“Should have been here by now,” said Koz as he searched the dark skies in vain. He felt like some schmuck waiting for his blind date, fearing she was standing him up.

Captain Li, who had been standing at attention beside Koz, tugged his elbow. “Sir,” she whispered. “We’re vulnerable on the ground. I suggest we take off and continue to circle, or we’re going to look like those images we just saw on TV after the next strike.”

She was right, Koz realized, although he didn’t want to leave. Finally, he said, “Tell De Carlo to keep the engines hot and prepare for take-off.”

“Yes, sir,” Li said.

“Tell him we’ll circle for ten minutes,” Koz said. “Then we follow the predesignated flight path out of the United States and proceed to the territory of an unattacked ally in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“We’re going south?”

Koz nodded. “Fallout free.”

20

1230 Hours
Black Hawk One

“What are you doing?!” Sachs stared at the barrel of Colonel Kyle’s M-16 and glanced at Special Agent Raghav, who put up his hands as the even younger Secret Service agent next to him reached for his Uzi.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Kyle warned. Before the words were out, a Green Beret hit the young agent’s head from behind with the butt of his M-16. There was a sickening crack, and the agent collapsed to the floor.

“You crushed his skull!” Raghav yelled as another Green Beret expertly relieved him of his weapon.

Sachs looked down at the boy’s body. The sight of hair matted in blood sickened her. She looked up at Kyle in horror. “Why?”

“Ours is not to reason why, Ms. Sachs,” Kyle replied, sliding open the Black Hawk’s door. A blast of freezing air whooshed in, and Sachs found herself staring at the treetops below. “It’s a tragic thing when accidents happen on military craft.”

Sachs turned to Raghav and said, “Tell me you only look like a Secret Service agent. You’re really an ex-SEAL or martial arts expert or something.”

“I’m an ex-law student with a G-4 salary grade at the Treasury Department, ma’am,” Raghav replied.

“Shut up!” Kyle kicked Raghav in the groin. Raghav dropped to his knees in agony and moaned. Sachs saw Kyle swing the butt of his M-16 across Raghav’s face, knocking him to the floor, unconscious. Then he trained his machine gun on her. “On your knees.”

“No,” Sachs said. “I will not submit to your animal brutality and disregard for life, whatever the damn national security.”

Kyle grabbed her by the hair. She struggled as he forced her down, choking back her urge to scream. “Think about what you’re doing!”

“I’m thinking how I didn’t serve my country to see it fall into the hands of a woman who was supposed to be fired today.”

As Kyle put his M-16 to her head, Raghav stirred to life and lunged at Kyle’s jumpboots. Kyle lowered his M-16 to fire, but Raghav pulled him off his feet.

Kyle’s M-16 spat out its automatic rounds. The bullets caught two Green Berets in the throat and drilled holes through the ceiling, making a sweeping arc of destruction over Kyle’s falling body until they finally popped the pilot

The Black Hawk started to pitch and roll. The rest of Kyle’s Green Berets were thrown back. Raghav grabbed Kyle’s M-16, turned and unloaded a round into the rear compartment before the Green Berets could recover. Fire shot out of the muzzle as Raghav jerked the trigger, raining dozens of smoking shells around Sachs, who was sprawled on the floor, hands clapped over her ears.

Suddenly, the shooting stopped. Sachs could hear only the rotor of the Black Hawk’s blades and the howling wind. Or was that ringing in her ears?

“Are you OK?” asked Raghav, helping her up.

Sachs looked across the floor at the bodies and blood. Raghav impressed, after all. But she felt something awful rising up inside her, grabbed her stomach and started to heave.

Raghav gave her a helpful pat on the back and looked around. “Guess they took you for a liberal.”

Sachs noticed Raghav’s lapel pin on the floor and picked it up. “You dropped this.” She turned it over to see conservative TV talk show host Glenn Beck smiling back at her.

Sachs straightened and handed the button to Raghav. The young Republican cheerfully pinned it to his blood-stained lapel with trembling fingers. “Thanks.”

Suddenly the Black Hawk banked sharply. Sachs turned to see the pilot slumped over in his seat.

“Oh, God.”

Raghav climbed over the seat, pushing the pilot’s corpse aside. He then took the controls and tried to level off.

Sachs climbed into the seat next to Raghav. “I suppose you can’t fly, either?”

“Nope.”

“Then let me.”

“You can’t fly,” Raghav said incredulously.

“No, but I watched my husband fly his planes, and I probably have more hours in the air than you do.”

Raghav hesitated, and then the radio headset crackled. It was the pilot from Black Hawk Two. “Black Hawk One, you’re trailing smoke.”

Sachs watched Raghav struggle with the stick. It was a miracle they were still airborne. “If you or I respond, he’s going to know Kyle’s out,” she said. “What’s he going to do then?”

“Shoot us down if he’s in with Kyle, or help us land if he’s not. But we can’t take a chance.”

Sachs saw Raghav flick a switch to arm the sidewinder missiles and stopped him. “You can’t even pilot this thing, and you’re going to try and down that chopper with your own men on board?”

“You are the priority, ma’am, and they know it.”

The radio crackled again. “Black Hawk One, please copy.”

“Shit, they’re locking missiles on us,” Raghav said, looking at the dashboard.

Sachs said, “Radio your men, Rahgav, and tell them to take over that chopper. Now.”

Raghav nodded and spoke into his lapel microphone. “Do not reply. Repeat. Do not reply. This is a Code 33. You have to take over that bird. Repeat. Code 33.”

looked out at the Black Hawk behind them and to the left. It suddenly dipped as she saw a flurry of shadows inside. Then its guns exploded. Sachs and Raghav jumped in their seats as bullets chewed holes around them.

“They’ve opened fire!” Raghav said.

Sachs replied, “I can see that!”

Raghav said nothing, and Sachs felt a shiver up her spine. She glanced over at Raghav next to her and with a shock realized the handle of a knife was protruding from his neck. Her eyes widened as a bloody, monstrous Colonel Kyle reared his ugly head from behind and removed the red-stained blade.

“You’ll never get sworn in,” Kyle said, as he thrust the blade at her.

Sachs leaned away into the windshield, escaping the first thrust. Then the chopper banked sharply, Raghav’s corpse weighing heavily on the stick, throwing Kyle off balance and her head against the windshield.

The flurry of bullets hit nearly everywhere. Dazed, she dragged herself forward and looked up to see Black Hawk Two spiral out of control, a fight for control in the cockpit.

Sachs tried to crawl into the pilot’s seat. She had just about pushed Raghav’s body out of the way when she felt a tug at her legs and looked back to see the bloody face of Colonel Kyle come to drag her back to hell.

“Get off me!” she screamed and kicked him in the face, her high heel spiking his eye.

Kyle loosened his grip and slid back limply as the chopper started to climb.

Sachs gripped the back of Raghav’s bloody head, hoisted herself up on top of him and grabbed the stick. She saw the runway of the White Plains airport dead ahead.

She wiped her wet eyes and took a deep breath. The ground was coming up fast in the windshield, and the chopper began to spin with its own cloud of black smoke, going wobbly as it approached the small airport.

Sachs peered through the cracked windshield, straining to see. Then the curtain of smoke parted for a moment and she could see a team of federal agents and their vehicles waiting on the icy tarmac. A gigantic white jumbo jet dominated the runway.

She strapped herself into the pilot’s chair, so tight she could barely steer. Everything seemed to be whooshing around her, and she felt her stomach drop with the chopper. She could see several Air Force personnel rushing toward her as she plunked the chopper down with a heavy thud. Then something seemed to give way as the chopper tipped over on its side and everything went black.

21

1315 Hours
Nightwatch

Colonel Kozlowski studied Sachs as she lay on the fold-out surgical table in the Nightwatch plane’s medical center. Her eyes were closed beneath the high-intensity lights, an IV attached to her arm. Her black hair was brushed back from her face, her shoes removed and the belt around her skirt loosened.

The young medic had finished stitching a gash on her shoulder and was studying her with awe. Her bloody blouse was gone, and he gazed at the size C cups of her bra rising and falling as she breathed. He let out a low whistle. “Hail to the Chief.”

“It’s president-designate, Lieutenant Nordquist,” said Koz, feigning indifference. “Nothing official until I know she’s fit for office. Is she fit?”

“She’s in better shape than those Green Berets on that Black Hawk, that’s for sure.” Nordquist started tapping up a chart for her on his tablet computer. “What the hell was that all about, anyway?”

That’s what Koz wanted to know. What kind of remarkable woman could survive that kind of battle? Or cause it?

“You tell me,” said Sachs, opening her eyes.

They were soft and brown, Koz noticed, but her voice was dry and cracked. It was probably the cabin air. He wondered how much she had heard. “Dehydration, ma’am.”

“There’s got to be a better explanation for their behavior than a lack of Gatorade.”

A sense of dry wit too, thought Koz.

“No, ma’am. You’re the one dehydrated. We’ll give the IV another 20 minutes and take you off when we’re at cruising altitude.”

She started. “You mean we’re in the air?”

“Thirty thousand feet,” said Koz. “Welcome aboard the presidential Advanced Airborne Command Post.”

“Then I want to see the president,” she demanded, and Koz didn’t know if she seriously didn’t understand the situation or was testing him.

He paused. “Why?”

“Because those soldiers sent to pick me up tried to kill me,” she said.

Koz blinked. “The Army Green Berets?”

She nodded. “Who sent them?”

“Uh, I did.” He saw her eyes widen. “But I can assure you that I did not give Colonel Kyle orders to harm you or anyone else. He must have gone rogue.”

She looked at him with a glint of paranoia. “Don’t insult me with a lone gunman theory. Because he had a dozen others with him, all wearing the uniform of this country.”

Koz exchanged a glance with Nordquist. “Physically, she checks outs,” the medic said with a shrug. “Mentally, who knows? She’s pretty shaken up.”

“I’m fine,” she said flatly. “Where’s Special Agent Raghav?”

“Didn’t make it, ma’am.”

Her shoulders slumped and she dropped her head. “He was brave.” Then her head snapped up again. “Jennifer,” she said with a start, and swung her badly bruised and cut legs over the side of the table. “I want to talk to my daughter right now.”

She tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness seemed to pass over her and she started to sway.

Koz put a hand on her shoulder and braced her. “Easy now. I’m sure she’s been taken care of.”

“Like your Green Berets tried to take care of me?” she shot back.

“We’ll find her, ma’am, I promise, and make sure she’s safe.”

“You do that, Colonel,” she said, then noticed she had nothing but a bra on above her waist. She folded her arms over her chest, wincing as her shoulder flexed. “May I have my blouse back?”

“Try this.” Koz opened a locker closet and pulled out an Air Force bomber jacket. He draped it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said with a shiver.

A beeping sounded in the medical compartment. Sachs jolted, turning to see if it was one of her medical monitors. But Koz walked over to the intercom on the wall and punched a button. “What is it?”

Captain Li’s voice squawked over the speaker: “Sir, we have NCA commanders on screen for the attack conference.”

“I’ll be right there,” he replied, and turned to leave.

“You’re just going to leave me here?” Sachs demanded. “I don’t think so.” She took two steps and was restrained by her IV feeds like a dog on its leash. “I demand you take me to see the president, Colonel Kozlowski, even if it’s in the mirror.”

Kozlowski looked back at her without answering her implicit claim, although he felt a pang of guilt mixed with uncertainty. “I think it’s best that you’re confined to these quarters pending a thorough medical review.”

“Are you serious, Colonel?” Her tired, brown eyes seemed to search his face and heart for something Koz felt was no longer there.

Koz gave a cool nod to Nordquist, who was already preparing a syringe. “We want to avoid any panic until our forces are in place.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sachs shouted as Koz put his hand on the door.

“Trust me, it’s for your own good,” he said, and walked out.

An alarmed Captain Li was waiting for him in the hallway as the door slid shut behind him like a coffin on a protesting Sachs and syringe-wielding Nordquist.

“Where is she?” Li asked as he brushed past her toward the battle staff compartment. “What’s going on in there?”

He said, “She’s recuperating.”

Li was on his heels like a terrier. “Recuperating? Hello? Are we back in the USSR or what?”

“Can it,” he said as he marched into the next compartment.

Li would not let up, nor would he expect her to. “She is our only legal president, and our respect for a higher authority, in this case the Constitution, is the only thing that separates us from the boys in Beijing.”

Koz nodded as they entered the battle staff compartment. “Let me feel out the others on the conference call.”

“You’re talking about a coup, sir.”

Koz caught a few stray glances from the young crew as they passed by. A little louder, Li, he thought.

“She’s delirious, Captain,” he told her, waiting until they had entered the empty briefing room. “She accused me of trying to kill her. How much credibility is she going to have with her commanders if she starts making wild charges like that? You really want her in charge?”

“What I want and what is right are often two different things, sir.”

“Let me put this another way, Captain.” He turned to face her, square on. “America has just suffered its worst blow in history. We’re on the brink of universal Armageddon. As president, Deborah Sachs is not some civilian politician but our commander-in-chief. Would you follow this woman into battle?”

Her answer was firm and unwavering. “Yes, I would.”

Koz studied Li’s stoic, determined face. “Well, I’m not so sure.”

Li simply stood there, not giving in.

Koz took a breath. “OK,” he told her. “While I speak to the NCA, I want you to check DOD records and see if this guy Kyle has a history with anybody who could have given orders to kill Sachs. But discreetly.”

“Yes, sir.”

He could see the approval in her face.

“And while you’re at it,” Koz said, “check out the last communications between the White House and Pentagon. Check anything unusual that happened in the city within the past two or three days. Everything should have been backed up at remote DOD mainframes before the blast.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Find Jennifer Sachs,” Koz said as he sat down at the head of an empty conference table and looked up at the big screen on the wall, wondering how exactly he was going to explain Deborah Sachs.

22

1315 Hours
Nightwatch

Inside the Nightwatch infirmary, Sachs recoiled as Nordquist flicked the long needle of a syringe with his finger until some clear liquid spurted out. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said as he approached her with the hypodermic. “You’ll feel a lot better after this.”

She braced herself against the edge of the surgical table. “Lieutenant, there is no way in hell that you’re going to drug me with whatever is in that thing.”

“Propofol,” he said, reaching for her arm. “A sedative-hypnotic drug to put you to sleep. It’s terrific. No side effects like hangover or nausea. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better when you wake up.”

She leaned against the surgical table, trying to escape his grasp.

“This is for your own good, ma’am,” he said, trying to jab her.

She arched over the table until she was almost on her back. But before he could take another swipe, she leaned back in a rocking motion, lifting her legs and then shoving both feet into his gut, pushing him back against the opposite wall. His head slammed against a cabinet and he dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.

She jumped off the table and grabbed the hypodermic he had dropped on the floor. He was trying to get back on his feet, and she couldn’t let him or he’d overpower her. With a quick thrust she plunged the needle into his arm before he slapped her away.

He began to sway back and forth, even as he shook his head at her.

“That wasn’t nice,” he said and then collapsed into her arms.

“Your medicine, doc,” she said, barely able to hold up his weight. She eas down to the floor, where he lay unconscious.

As she stood up, she felt a terrific pain in her shoulder. The regional anesthetic was starting to wear off. Somehow she managed to put her bloody blouse back on and surveyed the room: three first-class seats, two bunk beds, a sink, a refrigerator for blood and medicines and a closet full of medical equipment.

Outside the compartment, beyond locked doors, were more of Koz’s crew. So she was going nowhere. Not at thirty thousand feet.

She had a hard time believing Kozlowski could be in on this. He was a uniform like General Marshall and Colonel Kyle. But the way he touched her face with his hand—it was warm and caring, like Richard’s. His actions, however, seemed to have proven otherwise.

Perhaps he would say the same of her, what with the chopper landing and now knocking out the good doctor. But this was self-defense, she determined as she looked down at the medic. And the odds were horribly uneven—one woman in a plane filled with trained soldiers. All she had on her side were two weeks dropping in on Jennifer’s Wing-Chun Kung-Fu class. She picked up no moves, only the idea to use anything available to strike back at your enemy, even his own weapons.

In this case, it was the doc’s own hypodermic.

She checked Nordquist on the floor. He was completely out, but the angle of his body seemed uncomfortable. The least she could do was slip a pillow under his head.

She began to search for one and then saw her purse on a counter. Her cell phone was still inside. She wondered if it would actually work, and, if it did, if anyone would answer. She desperately wanted to talk to Jennifer and her sister Dina, find out if they were OK, tell them she was fine. Which she wasn’t.

She picked up the purse, pulled out her phone and pressed the #2 key to dial Jennifer’s mobile number.

23

1317 Hours
Bedford Hills

Jennifer turned the wheel hard, and the minivan skidded onto an unplowed country road. As she pulled at the steering wheel to adjust, her iPhone started ringing. She tightened one hand on the wheel and with the other dug into the front pocket of her jeans for her phone. But Robbie tried to stop her.

“You still have your phone?” he shrieked. “Don’t answer it! They can track us!”

But Jennifer’ s hand was already around her iPhone and pulled it out. The display showed “The Deb” and her mother’s number. She answered. “Mom, where are you?”

“Thank God you’re OK.” It was her mom’s voice, but the connection wasn’t good at all. Her phone showed five bars for reception, but her mom sounded like she was a mile underground. “Listen…Jennifer….Those men…chasing you ….”

“Don’t tell me they’re just trying to help, Mom.”

“No, Jennifer. They want…to hurt you.”

Jennifer felt a shiver up her spine and involuntarily swerved the minivan around the next corner. “What?”

“They want…”

“You’re cutting out, Mom.

Jennifer, trying to drive and talk, turned onto another road and saw a Westchester County Sheriff’s highway patrol car coming their way. She held her breath as they passed each other, then looked up in the mirror to see the patrol car make a long, sloppy U-turn in the snow.

“They found us!” she shouted into her phone.

“Jennifer!” Her mom’s voice rang out.

Robbie was screaming hysterically, “Get rid of the fucking phone!”

Jennifer lowered her window, tossed the phone into the snow and drove away as fast as she could from the flashing lights behind her.

“We’re screwed,” Robbie said. “There’s no way we’re going to outrun the cops.”

She had enough and slowed down.

“What are you doing?” Robbie shouted.

“Kicking you out of the van.”

“Shut up and drive!”

“You shut up, Robbie, and then I’ll drive.”

He finally chilled out and she looked up in her mirror in time to see the police car get rammed by a black Suburban. The Suburban pummeled the police car into an icy wall of plowed snow, then began to back up and ram it again and kill the driver. She could see two Green Berets inside the Suburban.

“Holy shit!” she screamed and hit the accelerator.

The minivan skidded forward until it got its grip on the ice, and she slowly applied more pressure to speed away. She made several sloppy turns through the maze of winding winter roads, losing sight of the Suburban behind her and praying against reason that the goons behind the wheel wouldn’t pick up her trail.

24

1318 Hours
Nightwatch

Three puzzled faces stared at Koz from their respective screens inside the Nightwatch conference compartment: General Block at Northern Command, General Carver at Strategic Command and General Marshall aboard the Looking Glass Airborne Command.

Carver in Omaha was the first to speak. “What the hell do you mean she’s incapacitated, Colonel?”

“Just that, sir,” Koz replied, learning forward in his seat at the end of the long, empty conference table. “She got pretty banged up when her chopper went down en route to the designated rendezvous.” Koz watched the generals closely for any reaction. “She said the Green Beret escort I sent tried to kill her.”

Block’s round face turned beet red. “Christ Almighty!” he said. “What did the Green Berets say?”

“Nothing, sir. They’re all dead.”

Koz thought he caught a tick at the corner of Block’s left eye, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Colonel, are you trying to tell us that this…woman…single-handedly took out an entire Green Beret escort in two choppers?”

It did sound unbelievable, Koz realized, the way Block put it. “She had the help of her Secret Service detail, none of whom survived.”

“How convenient,” Block muttered. “For all we know, Sachs is the one taking orders and the Chinese wanted her to be president.”

There was silence. Absolute silence. Koz stared at the screens, waiting for the first sign of an emotion to cross any one of the three faces. It was a ballsy, completely out-there accusation from Block, but something they had to chew on.

“We all know how the chain of command works in a situation like this,” Marshall explained, breaking the silence. “The National Command Authority is in charge of our nuclear forces. In peacetime, that’s usually the president and the secretary of Defense. In time of war, it’s their designated successors and us, the surviving commanders. As things now stand, the president is only one voice out of four. And in military matters, she’d obviously defer to us. But politically—constitutionally—we still need presidential authorization, and that requires a president. That president, for better or worse, is Deborah Sachs.”

More silence. Koz could sense both Carver and Block almost wishing Marshall to put up his hand for the job himself. He had earned it, Koz knew, that’s for sure. His deference to the Constitution only confirmed his leadership ability in time of war.

“Marshall’s right,” Carver concluded, his tone signaling that he was bringing the first attack conference to a close. “The last thing we need is a constitutional crisis. America can’t go into this war split. I think Sachs could work. She has to work. She will review the attack options while we move our forces into place. Then, when the time comes, Colonel Kozlowski can relay her strike authorization. If Marshall is right, she’ll play ball.”

“Play ball?” Block repeated incredulously. “How the hell do you expect her to play ball, boys, if she ain’t got none?”

Koz opened his mouth to offer his own observation when his comlink beeped. It was Captain Li. “Sir, we have an unauthorized, outbound transmission originating from the medical center,” she reported. “The officers on duty outside can’t break in. The door is jammed.”

Sachs.

Koz said, “I’ll be right there.”

25

1319 Hours

Sachs texted her daughter from inside the infirmary of the Nightwatch plane: J, where r u? But Jennifer wasn’t responding since they had been cut off. She tried calling again, at least getting a ring this time. She waited for what seemed like an eternity when Jennifer’s voice came through. “Say what you gotta say and leave me alone, loser.”

She had reached Jennifer’s voicemail.

“Jennifer, it’s mom,” she said, trying to sound calm but forceful. “You know what’s going on with the attack. I have to know where you are and that you’re safe. We need to stay connected. Call or text me back right away.”

Knowing Jennifer, she was probably heading home to Dina’s, which would be the first place anybody after her would be waiting.

“Don’t go to Aunt Dina’s,” Sachs pleaded into the phone, then said it again quietly. “Don’t go anywhere near the house

Sachs hung up and paced back and forth in the medical center, deciding what to do next. She tried all of Dina’s numbers, getting only voicemails or service interruption messages. She had to reach somebody on the outside, someone in government or media, she decided, to let them know where she was and find out what was going on in the outside world. Someone beyond the D.C.-New York beltway. Maybe California. Rhinehart’s former press secretary, Vicki Blaze, was the news manager at NBC in Los Angeles. She might even put the call live on the air right there and then. Assuming NBC was still on the air on the West Coast.

She typed in Vicki’s name on her BlackBerry to call up the number and was about to hit “dial” when Colonel Kozlowski burst through the door with Captain Li and two armed Nightwatch officers.

Sachs froze as Li rushed over to Nordquist slumped on the floor. “He’s unconscious, sir.”

Kozlowski gave her a wild look and pointed an accusing finger at her BlackBerry. “Did you just make an unauthorized call?”

Before she could answer, he grabbed the phone and waved it in her face. “Our flight plan is secret!” His face was red with fury, the gentle touch gone. Somehow she was the enemy again. “You’ve compromised our location to anybody listening! Enemy missiles could get a lock on us because of your stupidity!”

He was shouting at her now. Her ears hurt.

“Listen, Colonel,” she replied calmly, the way she whispered to a rowdy classroom so the kids had to shut up to hear her. “I’m having a tough time getting up to speed on my new responsibilities. No thanks to the medication you gave me. I’d appreciate it if you treated me with a little respect and were more gentle.”

Koz looked at her like she was from another planet. “Gentle?” he repeated. “This isn’t the Lifetime Channel. This isn’t about you being a symbol of spunky feminism making her mark in a male-dominated world. This is war. You think the enemy is going to be gentle on you?”

“No,” Sachs replied, “but I expect my friends to be. Are you my friend, or are you my enemy, Colonel?”

Her words seemed to have an effect on him. He was looking at her as a real woman now, not some anonymous civilian. He seemed to be aware of the gravity of his verbal assault, because his tough facade began to melt.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Am I or am I not the designated president of the United States?”

Koz, aware of his officers, slowly nodded. “You are, Madame President, as soon as we swear you in.”

“And you have sworn an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I may not be everybody’s idea of a president, much less a commander-in-chief,” she told them. “But I used to teach American History. And the history of America taught me that right is stronger than might. Right now, the U.S. Constitution has decided that there is only one right person for this job, and that person happens to be me. If we stay on the right side of history here, we will win.”

She looked into the eyes of the various crew members. Some seemed barely older than the middle and high school students she once taught. Others, with weathered faces, had clearly endured much in previous wars and in the life that is the American military. She watched their heads nod, acknowledging her appeal to their moral conscience, deeply impressing her.

“Now may I please confer with my military commanders?” She fixed her gaze squarely on Koz. “Before we waste any more time?”

“Yes, ma’am. But first the Constitution.”

Koz glanced over at a disheveled medic being slapped into consciousness by Captain Li. “Nordquist, get up off the floor and fix those cuts on the president’s face,” he barked. “Li, go grab your Bible and a camera and some make-up. We need to release an official photo of the swearing-in.”

Then Sachs watched his hazel eyes look into her own, look through them and deep into her.

“She seems fit to me,” he declared.

26

1426 Hours
Bedford Hills

Jennifer turned the minivan up the long incline overlooking her aunt’s grand 1890 carriage house that abutted the riding trails. The secluded home looked dark and foreboding. Inside the minivan, the radio was playing with continuous news reports from New York’s WCBS-AM.

Jennifer pulled to a stop and looked out the frosty window at the house in the distance. It was early afternoon, but with the January snow it felt like early evening. She hadn’t seen the Suburban for an hour, and she was tired of playing hide-and-seek. If they had hoped to find her here, they would have already come and gone.

Robbie, tense as ever, observed, “The lights are off.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Jennifer said. “Carla likes to keep the ConEd bills low for my aunt when she’s out of town. It’s like a freezer inside.”

“You mean your aunt isn’t even home?”

“Vacation in the Bahamas with her boyfriend,” Jennifer said. “But there’s a loaded.357 Magnum locked up in a closet, food in the kitchen, and a place to hide in the basement.”

The CBS radio news was suddenly interrupted by a flat, ominous tone. A deep, authoritarian voice blared from the speaker.

“This is the Emergency Alert System. This is not a test. Repeating. This is not a test.”

“Holy crap!” Robbie squeaked.

Jennifer looked at Robbie and suddenly wondered what she ever saw in this wus. “Shut up and listen.” She turned up the volume.

“This is the Emergency Alert Message from the president of the United States.”

But it wasn’t President Rhinehart that came on. It was a woman.

“Whereas an unprovoked nuclear attack has been launched against the United States by foreign military forces…”

Jennifer listened closely to the distant but familiar voice.

“…And whereas the exigencies of the international situation and of the national defense require the suspension of traditional democratic practices…Jennifer cocked her ear in disbelief. “Mom?”

“We’re doomed!” Robbie moaned.

Jennifer punched him in the arm. “I told you to shut up!”

“…Now therefore I, Deborah Sachs, president of the United States, hereby proclaim that a state of war exists.”

Oh, my God, Jennifer thought, clapping both her frozen hands over her mouth.

Robbie pointed an accusing finger at the dashboard radio. “Hey, the Constitution says only Congress can declare war.”

Jennifer cracked open her door and planted one boot in the snow.

“Hey!” Robbie shouted. “Where are you going?”

“Are you deaf?” she said. “Didn’t you just hear the radio? My mom and Aunt Dina are probably worried sick about me. I can call them from inside the house and let them know I’m OK. You coming?”

“No way,” he said and slid behind the wheel. He quickly adjusted the driver’s seat so his feet could reach the pedals. “You’re surrendering.”

“I’m the First Kid now,” she told him. “Everybody has to listen to me. Including you. Fine, drive home to your folks. They’re probably just as worried.”

She shut the door and watched him put the minivan into reverse, back up, and then screech down the road, disappearing into the darkening afternoon. She then turned and trudged through the knee-high snow down the hillside, one long stride after another, toward Aunt Dina’s house.

She burst through the front door, key in hand. “Carla? Carla?” she called for the housekeeper.

The living room, filled with expensive built-ins and antiques and period rugs, was empty. “Carla?” she called out, then ran up the stairs to the bedrooms.

But the bedrooms were empty too, including her own. She looked at the shelves next to her bed lined with trophies from soccer, basketball and softball. Even the trophies, however, were dwarfed by the ribbons and cups from her horse riding conquests. But it was the solid crystal cube— a commemorative urn—on the middle shelf that caught her eye. Etched in the crystal was an outline of an old-fashioned biplane and the words:

Richard Sachs

July 7, 1955-September 11, 2001

Jennifer looked at it for a long moment, then turned and walked into the hallway again, calling Carla’s name.

Maybe Carla left, she thought as she hurried down the stairs and ran into the kitchen, tripping over a pile of laundry. She landed hard and sprawled across the floor.

“Owww,” she cried out.

She pushed up with her hands to get on all fours when she saw the blood on the travertine tiles and froze. Slowly she willed her eyes to follow the blood trail until it ended at Carla’s skull.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed and jumped back.

Carla was on her back, staring at the ceiling, a small, dark hole in her forehead. Jennifer glanced up at the window over the sink. There was a hole in the center of a spider-web crack.

niper got Carla, she realized, feeling her heart pounding out of her chest as she gasped for air. Somebody’s out there.

She didn’t dare stand up again. Instead she crawled along the cabinetry and poked her head around to look outside the sliding glass door. A black Suburban suddenly hit its high-beams, blinding her. She recoiled and crouched back behind the counter.

“No, no, no,” she moaned.

She poked her head out again and saw the silhouettes of two shadowy figures with guns—M-16s from the profiles—walking toward the house.

She ducked back out of sight, staring at Carla on the floor in front of her. Warm tears rolled down her frozen cheeks as she bit down hard on her lower lip.

Her mom was right.

27

1431 Hours
Air Force One

Inside the presidential bathroom of the Nightwatch plane, now officially Air Force One, Sachs wiped off the makeup Captain Li had applied for the swearing-in photo and looked at herself in the mirror. Other than the bruises on her forehead, she didn’t look too banged up. But she also didn’t look like an American president, she thought, and she certainly didn’t feel like one. As if to underscore her testosterone deficit, she caught a glimpse of the prominent urinal behind her in the mirror.

She zipped up the flightsuit Captain Li had given her—presidential seal and all—and walked out into the presidential suite. It was a smaller compartment than she had imagined, dominated by a desk, an American flag, and a long gold couch from which a grim Colonel Kozlowski and Captain Li rose as she entered.

Sachs said, “What’s FEMA doing for the victims and their families in Washington, D.C.?”

“Everything humanly possible, Madame President,” said Captain Li. “First-response medical units from around the country are treating the wounded and tagging the dead. Communications command posts are being set up to handle family inquiries. And financial credits are being applied to all affected.”

Sachs then looked at Koz and said simply, “Jennifer.”

“Soon as we’ve located her, we’ll put you on with her, Madame President,” Kozlowski assured her. “Meanwhile, Captain Li has General Zhang on behalf of the People’s Republic of China on hold.”

Sachs said, “What happened to Premier Peng Hu?”

Kozlowski shook his head. “China has made it clear that Zhang is their point man with us.”

Not a good sign at all, Sachs thought.

She looked at the phone on the desk in front of her, light blinking. She sat down behind the desk. There was a presidential seal on the bulkhead above her left shoulder.

She swallowed hard and then nodded to Kozlowski, who pressed the speaker button.

“General Zhang,” she said. “This is Deborah Sachs.”

She heard a quick translation from Captain Li, then General Zhang’s voice and another translation.

people of China wish to express our profound sorrow for your loss today, Madame President, and desire to offer any assistance the United States may require.”

Sachs replied, “The only thing I require, General Zhang, is confirmation from your own lips that neither you nor any agent of the Chinese military was responsible for today’s attack on Washington, D.C.”

“We are not responsible,” General Zhang said firmly. “But we will consider

any retaliation directed at us an act of war. If so, I guarantee you that many other American cities shall suffer the same fate as Washington.”

Before she could reply Zhang hung up, his transmission over. She looked at Kozlowski. “Now what?”

Kozlowski said, “You’ll review your options. The National Command Authority is waiting on screen in the conference room for your first attack conference. That’s General Norman Block at Northern Command, General Duane Carver at Strategic Command, and General Brad Marshall aboard our Looking Glass plane.”

“Looking Glass?” she asked. “What’s that?”

“An airborne command post like this plane, with a few additional military modifications thrown in,” Kozlowski told her.

Brad Marshall, thought Sachs with mixed emotions. She would be conferring with the Brad Marshall. Wouldn’t Jennifer be impressed?

General Brad Marshall did indeed impress from the moment she stepped into the conference center and saw him on the big screen. He was flanked by General Carver on the left and General Block on the right, who started things off with his own commentary on the D.C. strike.

“Charlie looks guilty as hell, Madame President,” Block said, full of bluster.

Sachs said, “So I hear, General Block. And we know this because?”

General Carver, the ranking general of the three, said, “Marshall, you better tell her.”

Marshall said, “Have you ever heard of an online video game called the War Cloud, Madame President?” His voice was very smooth and inspired immediate credibility and confidence.

“I know what the War Cloud is.” Sachs instinctively touched Jennifer’s “Fembot Fiona” USB drive hanging from her neck. “But what does it have to do with the real world?”

“A lot, actually,” Marshall said. “The DOD has been closely monitoring this game for almost two years now, because it is the only program or application of any kind running on the Chinese military’s Tianhe-1A supercomputer in Tianjin. The Tianhe-1A performs at 2.67 petaflops per second. The most powerful computer the U.S. has, the Cray XT5 Jaguar, tops out 1.27 petaflops. So you’ve got the world’s most powerful supercomputer running nothing but a video game.”

Sachs was hooked. “Why would the Chinese give their most powerful computer system over to a video game?”

“Same reason the Chinese have been running other Cloud-based games like Farmville and virtual worlds like Second Life on their next dozen most powerful supercomputers,” Marshall said. “The War Cloud is basically the world’s eBay for arms dealers and terrorists.”

“What?” Sachs blinked. “You lost me, General.

Marshall said, “Gamers around the world can buy or sell virtual goods or weapons with real money to help them advance to the next level in these games. Players end up spending more money on their virtual upgrades than they do buying the game itself, making the game companies—and the supercomputer’s owners—billions.”

Sachs nodded. She remembered the first time her credit cards showed charges from PayPal and Google Checkout for Jennifer’s purchases of “accessories” like exploding diamond earrings and biotoxin-tipped fingernails for her Fembot Fiona avatar. The accessories were pure fantasy, but the money was real.

“I think I follow you now, General Marshall. What looks like a grenade launcher online for a player’s avatar like Fembot Fiona or Duke Droid might actually represent a real grenade launcher—or a stolen Soviet SS-20 warhead. Is that it?”

Marshall seemed surprised at how quickly she put it together, but pleasantly so. “Exactly, Madame President.”

Sachs didn’t know if it was his surprise that bothered her or that his opinion mattered to her more than it should. “Monitoring an arms deal isn’t the same as brokering the deals, much less being party to it,” she said, pressing on. “How do we know for sure it was the Chinese who bought the SS-20 that exploded in Washington today?”

“Two things,” Marshall said. “First, the former deputy FSB intelligence chief and arms dealer who was trying to sell the SS-20 in South Africa confessed under joint CIA-FSB interrogation. He said he sold it to an agent of the Chinese military. You can call up the video on your workstation aboard Air Force One. The three warheads were placed on a Chinese freighter bound from Cape Town to Baltimore. The assembly of the housing and detonation devices took place in transit across the Atlantic.”

She glanced down at the conference table and realized there was a computer screen beneath the surface playing the footage. When she placed her finger on the table a touchscreen keyboard terminal appeared.

So cool, she thought, Jennifer would love this. But she quickly pushed the thought away, along with her natural questions about what form of “interrogation” the CIA and FSB used on this arms dealer.

She asked Marshall, “So you’re telling me there might be two more warheads out there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She exhaled. “What’s the second thing that fingers China as the state sponsor of this morning’s nuke attack and this imminent War Cloud threat?”

“A cyberweapon that we eventually tracked back to China attacked Pentagon computers nine months ago,” Marshall said. “At first, U.S. Cyber Command assumed it came from the Middle East, in retaliation for the Stuxnet worm the Israelis used to sabotage the Iranian nuclear power station at Bushehr.”

“I remember,” said Sachs, looking down at a report on her screen detailing the work of Unit 8200, the signal intelligence arm of the Israeli Defense Forces. “Something about a biblical reference to the Book of Esther that was embedded in the computer code. It pointed to Israel as the originator of the cyber attack. So there’s something like that in the code of this cyberweapon that points to China?”

“Yes,” Marshall said. “The Chinese characters for ‘War Cloud.’ This War Cloud cyberworm infiltratedour most critical systems. We haven’t been able to get rid of it, and we don’t know what its true purpose is, other than it’s malicious.”

Sachs asked, “What could it possibly do?”

“Well, the Iranians wondered the same thing after the Israeli Stuxnet infected their systems. Then it suddenly came alive and disrupted their uranium enrichment centrifuges by causing rapid fluctuations in motor rotation rates, causing some of them to explode. Set their nuclear program back months.”

“So you think this War Cloud worm could actually take down our physical infrastructure like our power grids and defense systems?” she asked, daunted by the prospect.

Marshall nodded. “We’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did today with the attack on D.C. Or, more accurately, the nuke this morning was the first shoe. Now we’re waiting for the second shoe to drop when the War Cloud reveals its true nature.”

Sachs pressed. “What is that nature, General Marshall? What exactly do you believe is the purpose of this War Cloud cyberweapon?”

“To degrade our ability to respond under attack, Madame President,” Marshall said. “Meaning if you don’t act this minute, you might not be able to at all.”

28

1435 Hours
Looking Glass

Marshall’s first read on Sachs was that she had a much quicker grasp of an evolving situation than her predecessor Rhinehart. But he was worried about her trigger finger. He doubted she was born with one.

He sat back in his chair inside the battle staff compartment of his Looking Glass plane and studied President Sachs on the split screen as she took in everything he said. General Carver’s expression from Omaha seemed to be giving her the benefit of the doubt. But then Carver was a consensus builder who only weighed in at the end after all viewpoints were shared.

General Block, buried under Cheyenne Mountain, looked like he was about to burst. Marshall saw it coming a full minute before Block opened his mouth. “Say the word, Madame President, and we’re ready to point and shoot.”

Marshall groaned inside and watched Sachs start.

“Point and shoot?” she repeated incredulously. “That’s the option you’re giving me?”

Marshall cleared his throat and addressed the screen. “You’ve basically got three decent options, Madame President,” he told her. “Tall, Grande and Venti.”

She said, “Venti, I suppose, means an all-out nuclear attack like General Block is suggesting?”

Marshall said, “Basically.”

Sachs said, “I don’t want to bring an end to China, gentlemen. I want to end this war before it gets out of control. So we can eliminate the Venti option right now. What’s the so-called Grande option?”

“Limited strike,” Marshall said. “But we spare their most valued targets and leave them at risk. That way the enemy has a strong incentive to seek an end to the conflict. As you just said, that’s what we want: an end to the escalation.“What if they don’t ‘get’ that we’re only inflicting limited harm? They’re liable to launch everything they’ve got at us. What’s the Tall option?”

Marshall didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. “Something you can reliably recall, like a B-2 stealth bomber armed with a nuclear-tipped Maverick surface-penetrating cruise missile.”

“A Maverick?”

“I’m sending the data over right now,” Marshall said, and immediately a 3-D model appeared on the screen. “It’s a next-generation bunker-buster than can burrow through hundreds of feet of earth and concrete and knock out Zhang’s underground headquarters.”

Sachs said, “Like they took out Washington.”

“Tit for tat,” Marshall said. “An underground detonation. No fallout or windshift worries or civilian casualties. Might even liberate the Chinese people.”

“Or their DF-5 missiles,” said a voice off screen, and then Marshall saw Nightwatch’s chief communications officer, Captain Linda Li, lean toward Sachs and mumble something.

Marshall knew Li had a point, but it was obvious that Colonel Kozlowski, standing behind Sachs, didn’t like it. Neither did Block or Carver onscreen. Neither did he. It was all he could do to not tempt the fates by reminding Sachs that if she and her kind hadn’t scrapped his proposed Defender anti-ballistic system that this would be an entirely different conversation and her options would look a hell of a lot better than the box she was in now.

Sachs nodded on screen and then said, “Once battlefield nukes are used, it’s too easy for both sides to justify using more destructive weapons. I’m not going to let it get that far.”

“But it won’t get that far, Madame President,” Marshall injected, aware that his voice revealed the first sign of impatience with her. “Because our Mavericks will decapitate the entire Chinese C3I command-and-control structure. Just like they tried with us.”

“Yes, and leave no Chinese government to negotiate a cease-fire or surrender.”

“Not true,” Marshall said. “The government of our ally Taiwan would replace the old regime, and Taipei would become the new capital of China.”

“Assuming they don’t invade or destroy it first.” She paused. “Something is wrong with this picture. I mean, why haven’t our forward-deployed forces in the Far East been attacked?”

Block, who looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel this whole time, finally blurted out, “Who the hell cares? They hit D.C.! For the love of God, lady, make up your mind!”

She ignored the entire “woman-who-can’t-make-up-her-mind” slur. “I need to think this over before I make an irrevocable decision to kill possibly millions of people.”

Block could barely contain himself. “Think it over?” he cried. “Think it over? You’re not supposed to think.”

General Carver, clearly sensing this so-called “attack conference” was coming to an unfavorable conclusion, seconded Block. “Not to decide is a decision in itself, Madame President.”

“Let me be clear,” she concluded. “For now, I refuse to escalate this conflict.”

St out, leaving Marshall alone facing a blank screen with Quinn standing awkwardly next to him, embarrassed that anyone should speak to the Great American Defender this way.

Marshall simply shook his head and answered the screen, “And if the enemy escalates it?”

29

1436 Hours
Air Force One

Kozlowski stepped outside Sachs’ compartment to give her “time to think,” shut the door behind him, and glared at Captain Li. “What the hell were you doing there, Li, spooking the president with visions of DF-5 nukes raining down on us? You and I have no opinions with regards to attack options.”

“I was providing my commander-in-chief with potential consequences of her actions, like she asked.” Li offered no apologies. “You think President Rhinehart would have given us the time of day if he were on board with his VP, SecDef and members of the NSC? History has appointed you and me as the new president’s primary protectors and filters of information. Otherwise, Marshall and the NCA might as well be running the country.”

“That may not be such a bad thing at this point, Captain.” Koz looked at the presidential seal on the door dividing them from Sachs. “What the hell is she doing in there?”

“Maybe she’s dancing to Britney Spears. Or praying. Or bawling her eyes out. Who besides God needs to know?”

“I do, Captain. I need to know. I have no idea what Sachs is thinking. Only that she is. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“A woman who thinks for herself?”

Koz stared at Li’s black, penetrating eyes. “Of course not,” he said, and then he held up the small action figure USB drive Sachs had given him at his request and handed it to Li. “This belongs to Jennifer Sachs. It’s her school USB drive. She’s probably got files on her that might give us a clue to her friends and where she may have gone.”

“Wow, Fembot Fiona,” Li remarked as she took it. “I’ll check her Facebook texts, too. If she’s not talking to her mom, she might be talking to friends.”

30

1437 Hours
Bedford Hills

Jennifer crouched beneath the kitchen window of her Aunt Dina’s house for almost ten minutes in terror, staring at Carla’s body, aware of the red lasersights probing through the dark.

She crawled into the adjoining laundry room and rummaged through Carla’s purse and found her cellphone. It was a simple Nokia candy bar phone. She dialed her mom’s number. Then she heard a crash in the kitchen and froze.

They were in the house.

She could hear the soft, quick shuffles of their shoes fan out looking for her. She held her breath and looked around. Her only way out was through the dog’s door.

She glanced back in time to see a red laser target beam probe the kitchen. She pushed her body through the narrow door, wishing Aunt Dina’s dog Admiral were here right now and not at the kennel. She was halfway out the or when her foot caught on the other side. She tried to shake it loose when she felt a gloved hand grab it and she screamed.

She began kicking furiously and succeeded in shaking the hand loose, but she lost her boot. She scrambled to her feet and crashed through the outdoor patio furniture, all covered for the winter, and ran for the barn out back. But her stocking foot slipped in the snow and she fell to her knees, cell phone in hand.

She started to cry as the Green Beret kicked out the laundry room door and stood there in the doorway, starting straight at her with his glowing night vision goggles. He thought he was so cool with his M-16 with the attached laser site and grenade launcher. She knew what he was packing from her hundreds of hours playing the War Cloud game, and the one place he was now vulnerable. She jumped up and snapped his picture with Carla’s cell phone camera, the flash blinding him in his overexposed goggles for a few seconds. Then she ran like hell toward the barn.

She rounded the back of the barn, opened the small side door and ran inside and opened the big double doors. Then she grabbed her saddle off the stake in the wall and ran to Punk’s stall. She strapped the saddle on his back, her freezing hands fumbling with the buckles, trying to get it tight. She slipped her socked foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself up. Punk stamped his hooves and coughed. He didn’t want to go out into the cold.

“Please, Punk. Please.”

She kicked him again with the heel of her boot and Punk bolted out of the barn and knocked over the goon with the M-16, and it went off with a loud crack into the dark skies. She looked back and saw him slip onto his back on the ice while his partner rounded the house and raised his M-16.

She slapped Punk’s neck with the reins, and the horse leaped onto the adjoining trail.

Punk slipped on the snow and for a moment Jennifer thought he was going to fall on top of her. But he regained his balance and quickly galloped through the two feet of powder along the neighbor’s wooden fence.

Suddenly the fence seemed to move and Jennifer heard a loud crash. A black Suburban crashed through the wooden rails onto the trail behind her.

“Oh, God!”

Jennifer kicked Punk as hard as she could, almost breaking the horse’s skin with her boot. She screamed in frustration.

The Suburban, its high beams on, was only a yard or so away, its engine groaning loudly.

Punk picked up his pace with a new surge of momentum.

Jennifer looked back to see the Suburban fall behind momentarily. Then with a grunt and a spin of its wheels, it dug into the snow and zoomed up toward her with no intention of stopping.

Jennifer rode Punk along the narrow trail, the Suburban closing the gap as Punk started to tire, his powerful neck bulging with the strain. Just a little more, she thought, steering him toward the old McAllister place near the country club.

“You know where we’re going, boy,” she told him as he galloped. “We placed second in the Fall Hunter Pace, remember?”

They were riding along Guard Hill Road now, following a low stone wall, the Piney Woods Preserve on the other side, familiar territory to both her and Punk.

But the Suburban was moving up faster from behind.

Jennifer counted her paces. There was a break in the wall coming up. But it was hidden by the piled-up snow. Punk could leap through the gap and break through the snow, but he couldn’t clear the wall if she misjudged the distance.

She kicked Punk and they picked up speed, the break coming up fast.

“Jump, Punk!”

She turned into the wall, gave Punk the right tug on the reins, and closed her eyes. She felt the horse leap into the air and crash through the snow. The ice stung her face, but when she blinked her eyes open, they were into the trees of the preserve, Punk

digging through the snow, his legs working furiously.

Behind her the Suburban tried to stop but slid past the break in the wall on the trail. She heard a crash of metal. But she didn’t dare look back, and galloped on into the woods.

31

1444 Hours
Air Force One

Koz was sitting on the gold sofa when Sachs emerged from the bathroom into the NCA commander’s compartment occupied by first-class passengers on a commercial 747. Her hair was wet and slicked back, and he had to admit she did more for the flightsuit that Captain Li had given her than Captain Li herself. Then he was ashamed for even thinking about his commander-in-chief in that way and pushed the thought out of his mind.

“Feeling better?” he asked her. He was sure he had heard her throw up in the bathroom. It was a natural reaction to her stress-inducing meeting with the National Command Authority, although he wasn’t sure she’d admit to something seemingly unpresidential.

“Much.” She sat down in the high-back leather chair at the desk and warily eyed the stack of executive orders he had brought her to sign, along with a steaming mug of hot tea. “Did you make this, Colonel? Or did Doctor Nordquist?”

It was almost funny, but he didn’t dare crack a smile. “Captain Li did, ma’am.”

“OK, I guess I have to trust her now—and you.” Sachs took a sip, exhaled and looked around the compartment. “I just noticed there are no windows in here.”

“Flash effects from nukes, ma’am. They can burn your eyes out. What windows we do have on the plane are made from the same stuff you’ll find in your home microwave door.”

“Of course,” she said with a frown.

At first Koz thought she felt embarrassed by her technical ignorance. Or maybe she thought his microwave remark was as patronizing as Marshall’s coffee order options. But then he decided she was simply sad.

She asked, “Where are we going?”

“We’re following a pre-designated route to avoid enemy detection. We should be out of U.S. airspace shortly.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want us straying from U.S. airspace. We can’t leave.”

Koz muffled his real reaction, namely to lecture her on the realities of airspace and nuclear cloud bursts. But she would probably le soon enough.

Sachs leaned forward and looked at the stack of Presidential Emergency Action Documents on her desk. “More proclamations?”

“You gotta sign them while you can,” Koz said.

Sachs stared at the first one, an order freezing wages, prices and rent. Then she signed with a flourish and said, “And I thought you were all Republicans,” she quipped.

Koz cracked a smile. He was beginning to enjoy having her around, especially when everything else about the world right now felt so rotten.

“This one,” he said, “is guaranteed to warm a liberal’s heart.”

He pushed another classified document across the desk for her to sign. It was a draft bill authorizing the IRS to collect money via a national sales tax of 30 percent. It even waived interest penalties against taxpayers who filed late returns “due to reasonable cause and not due to willful neglect.”

“I’m not a liberal or conservative, Colonel, I’m an American,” she said, signing the order. “And nuclear war seems as reasonable a cause as any for these extreme—and temporary—measures. Anything else?”

Koz slid a thick binder across the desk to her. “The latest National Strategic Target List,” he explained. “It ranks more than forty thousand places and things in China, the Far East and elsewhere deemed worthy of destruction.”

He watched as Sachs tentatively ran her finger down the list, pausing at a target and moving on. He could tell she couldn’t do it, couldn’t let her finger rest on any single item, knowing thousands of human beings would die if she did.

She said, “I guess I had forgotten that the United States has considered China its No. 1 enemy since the end of the Cold War.”

“Until 9/11,” Koz said. “General Marshall made his career at the Pentagon with his quadrennial reports stating that the war on terror in the Middle East had distracted America from containing the real threat in China. By the way, for every target you don’t pick, you might as well put your finger on a map of the United States, because that’s who will suffer instead.”

“Thanks for the information, Colonel.”

“You wanted presidential authority,” he reminded her, and pushed a second operations manual at her, this one thicker than the first. “Now you have it.”

“And what’s this?” Sachs asked, looking overwhelmed.

“The Single Integrated Operational Plan,” he explained. “The plan for destroying the places and things on the target list.”

Sachs thumbed through the pages slowly. “This says that even after we and our enemies exhaust all our nuclear warheads and destroy the planet, America still has a secret reserve of nukes for after Armageddon.”

“That’s right,” said Koz. “The winner will be the one who can continue the fighting and inflict still more damage.”

“But there will be nothing left to destroy! There will be no America left for our bombers or subs to return to.”

Koz said, “They could land or dock at foreign airstrips and ports. As you’ll see, secret treaties with foreign allies would enable our government to political entity even if the United States itself were destroyed.”

“Sure, it just wouldn’t have any people,” Sachs said. “Doesn’t thinking about this all day drive Marshall insane?”

“You have to be a little insane to dream up these nightmares in the first place.”

“So why do we do it?”

“It’s an insane planet.”

She picked up her mug of tea and curiously looked at the decal on the side, which depicted an F-16 fighter jet and the tag line: Air Force: When it Absolutely, Positively Has to be Destroyed Overnight.

Koz asked, “Something wrong?”

“It’s just that nothing today is playing out like the likeliest scenario detailed in this report.” She tapped her finger for emphasis on a graphic of the Taiwan Strait, the 112-mile strait of water between China and the island of Taiwan. “This says the Chinese would attack Taiwan before they ever risked attacking a U.S. target, let alone our seat of government. It also says with 99-percent probability that such an attack would take the form of a thousand land-based cruise and ballistic missiles in China blasting over the strait to knock out Taiwan’s defense shields, followed by invasion before our fighter jets and carrier groups could arrive on the scene. Even then, China wouldn’t strike the United States itself.”

She was good, Koz thought. He tested her further. “So what exactly are the Chinese supposed to be doing?”

“According to Brad Marshall?” She didn’t even have to glance at the report. “First, they’re supposed to be hitting us at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, hoping to strike before our F-15E fighters get in the air and knock out our best staging area for combat patrols. Second, they’re supposed to blind us in the theater of war by knocking out our overhead communication and imaging satellites. Third, if necessary, they might launch their new anti-ship ballistic missiles at our carrier groups plowing toward Taiwan. But they’ve done none of those things yet.”

“No, they haven’t, Madame President,” he told her. “But General Zhang has proven to be irrational in the past, and it sure looks like the Chinese hit D.C. and accomplished an unimaginable regime change in the United States. A regime change that put you in charge, Madame President, and your actions or lack thereof can only stoke speculation.”

“Meaning I’m a Chinese sleeper of some kind?” she asked him.

He knew the idea was ridiculous, but had to push. She had enough doubters already in the ranks of the military, and she couldn’t afford having her authority questioned. “It was you, after all, and not the Central Locator that found a way for you to get out of Washington before the blast, ma’am. That’s a fact.”

“I am not an agent of any foreign power, Colonel,” she said firmly, her brown eyes on fire with rage. “How can I prove it to any of you?”

“With this, actually.” He reached into his pocket and removed an authenticator card with the presidential seal on it. “This secret code card will establish your identity as president to military commanders if you’re ever caught away from secure communications facilities.” He paused, and then gave her his warmest smile. “I know you’re not a plant. But you might have to prove it to others. That card will help.”

“Thank you,” she said and slipped the card inside her flight suit’s outside pocket.

Koz wasn’t satisfied. “Not a secure location.”

Sachs started to unzip the top of her flight suit.

Koz tried to keep a straight face as he watched her stuff it inside her flight suit. It was certainly the first time he was aware of an authenticator card occupying that kind of space, except maybe for the time when former President Bill Clinton lost his while in office and the worry was that one of his women stole off with it.

She asked, “How’s this?”

“Better,” he nodded when Captain Li opened the door in time to see Sachs adjust her bosoms.

Koz leaped to his feet in embarrassment, as if he had been caught in some sordid act. “Captain.”

“Excuse me,” said Li without batting an eyelash. The iron-rod discipline of the USAF had taken over. “NORAD reports a massive wave of Chinese missiles heading our way.”

“Trajectory?” Koz demanded.

Li was grim. “They’re silo killers.”

32

1445 Hours
Northern Command

“Use ‘em or lose ‘em?”

General Block watched President Sachs make a face on the big screen from his office perch overlooking the underground Northern Command. But he was more concerned with the two big screens in the operations center below. The left screen displayed TOT MISL 50 — total number of Chinese DF-5 ICBMs launched. The right screen displayed TTG -34.07.12 — time to go before detonation. Meanwhile, six other screens providing real-time data from the USAF Space Command’s early warning radar sites at Clear AFS in Alaska and Beale AFB in California projected their trajectory toward Minutemen III missile fields in Montana, Wyoming and Colorado.

“That’s what I’m saying, ma’am,” Block told her along with Generals Marshall and Carver on the split screen. “These Chinese DF-5s are silo-killers. We either launch our M-III’s or lose them, along with the ability to retaliate.”

He could see Sachs flinch at the either-or scenario, and sure enough she said, “Two options are a dilemma, General Block. Three options is at least a choice. What about our satellites? Do we have any visuals from space? Or even our forward-deployed fleet in the South China Sea?”

Block paused. “Our satellites over China were blinded minutes before the DF-5s launched, and neither our air base at Kadena in Japan nor the 7th Fleet has a visual confirmation.”

“Then maybe they haven’t launched, General Block,” Sachs said. “Maybe this is a phantom missile strike generated by the War Cloud cyberweapon. Isn’t it convenient that we’re denied visual verification at the same time our radars are registering incoming missiles? General Marshall?”

Marshall was visibly taken aback. “You’re probably half right, Madame President. The Chinese technically could have used the War Cloud to blind our satellites, but in political and military terms it would make no sense for them to fake a missile launch and prompt a massive U.S. nuclear retaliation.”

“Not for the Chinese,” Sachs said. “But maybe for another party.”

There she goes again, Block thought, refusing to accept the obvious for some shadowy conspiracy.

Sachs addressed Brad Marshall again, and said, “General Marshall, do you agree with General Block?”

Block could only hope the kid could make Sachs see straight. Or use his baby blues to hypnotize her or something. Anything.

“I have to, Madame President,” he told her. “Right now we have the advantage of not only firepower but accuracy in striking Chinese military targets. We would spare most of the civilian Chinese population while degrading their military’s ability to destroy ours.”

“Even if that prompts them to strike back?”

“Well, it looks like they already have, Madame President. And if they haven’t, I don’t see how they could strike back if we hit them now while we can.”

Block could see Sachs try to keep a poker face, like she was thinking it through. But that was two votes of the NCA to her one, with Carver left to cast his ballot.”General Carver,” she finally said. “If the Chinese attack is for real, and if we do lose our land-based ICBMs, will our nuclear-armed bombers and submarines survive the attack?”

Block knew Carver had to nod a yes, which is what he did.

Carver said the only thing he could in his position: “The airborne and seaborne legs of our defense triad will indeed survive, Madame President, with enough firepower to destroy the world several times over and, per our war plan, preserve the continuity of government for the United States of America.”

Block could see that was enough to satisfy Sachs and give her what she needed: a 2-2 split between the four of them. Worse, she clearly interpreted her vote as commander-in-chief to count as two in a tie. “So we can live without land-based ICBMs.”

We can live without ICBMs? Block sensed that this failed Cabinet secretary was losing her grip on reality.

“Of course,” Marshall cut in, “you realize that if you allow the enemy to attack yet again without retaliation, you’ll only encourage further aggression against America.”

Block watched her reaction on the screen. The woman looked positively constipated.

“General Marshall, you’re the one who told Congress that great care and billions of dollars have been spent to construct American nuclear weapons systems that will survive a nuclear attack,” Sachs replied testily. “The point was to give the president—that’s me and not you—the luxury of determining his or her response after the shape of the battle is clear.”

Marshall said, “But you’re letting the enemy shape it.”

“No,” she insisted, summing up. “We’ve got conflicting signals about the reality of this incoming attack. Northern Command says DF-5 silo killers are coming our way. But our satellites show nothing. The best course of action is to ride this out and determine our response after the shape of the battle is clear.”

Ride this out? Block thought with almost unbearable frustration. This has ing to do with conflicting signals. She’s incapable of pulling the trigger.

“With all due respect, Madam President,” he said, knowing the inflection in his voice sounded anything but respectful, “the shape of this battle looks pretty clear on my screens, and that looks like one big mushroom cloud over Cheyenne Mountain in 24 minutes and 53 seconds.”

“Then I suggest you prepare for impact,” she said. “General Marshall, please send me a prioritized target list for those Mavericks you talked to me about earlier. The bunker-busters we’ve got up in the air now that we can always recall. I think you called it the Tall option.”

She had to put that little tweak in the nose at the end, thought Block. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. But at least this was something.

“On its way,” Marshall said and cut out.

Sachs moved on to Carver. “General Carver, American citizens have to prepare themselves for any eventuality. Issue a national attack warning. Move our subs into attack position. I want every plane from Keneda and the USS George Washington airborne. We’ll reconvene five minutes before impact. Over.”

Sachs disappeared from the screen, leaving Block on the video conference with Carver at Strategic Command. If anything, Carver was the one most at risk here, as Block always considered Cheyenne Mountain a far more formidable fortress than Carver’s underground operations center beneath Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha.

Block said, “I say we go ahead and launch, sir.”

Carver frowned. “You can’t be serious!”

“Come on,” said Block. “What are we talking about here? A woman who can’t make up her mind. I say we remove her from the chain of command.”

Carver was adamant. “We can’t do that, Block.”

“Technically, the National Command Authorities are running the show now. That’s us. She’s only one vote out of four in the NCA.”

Carver said, “She is our commander in chief.”

“What the hell kind of commander in chief is this, Carver?”

“The only one we’ve got, understand? Look, she’ll come around. It’s Colonel Kozlowski and Captain Li who are advising her.”

“The Pollock and the chink,” Block said. “She’s got a goddamn rainbow coalition behind her. All she needs now is a Vulcan.”

“Just prepare for impact,” said a stone-faced Carver, obliging him with the split-fingered Vulcan “live long and prosper” salute from the “Star Trek” TV series. “I’ll sound the National Attack Warning.”

33

1450 Hours
Bedford Trails

Air raid sirens blared as Jennifer and her horse Punk rode beneath the frosty canopy of the Piney Woods Preserve. She feared she had only minutes to lose the Green Berets before they and every police unit in Westchester County converged on the area. She had to disappear, go somewhere nobody would ever consider, not even her mother.

There was Union Cemetery ad, or the Bedford Golf Club to her right. Either way, she’d have to emerge from the protection of the preserve to cross Clinton Road.

She dismounted Punk in the preserve and gave him a slap on the rump to make him move away from her. Then in one boot and one cold stocking foot, she ran across the narrow, unplowed road. She clamored over a tall, green chainlink fence on the other side and dropped along the 17th fairway of the very old Bedford Country Club. It dated back to 1892. It was practically Neolithic-era, she thought, as she ran toward the majestic clubhouse beyond the 18th hole.

She skirted the clubhouse and went around back to the small, decrepit caddyshack, where Robbie had taken her to make out twice. Well, maybe one-and-a-half times. Nobody would expect to find her here, she decided, because it’s the last place she expected herself to be right now.

She crunched through the snow to the freestanding mailbox in front of the caddyshack. She opened it to find dozens of score cards and pencils—and a key taped to the bottom. She pulled it out and looked back to make sure enough snow was falling to cover her tracks, but it would be a good half hour before that would happen. She realized she had no choice and quickly unlocked the door and went inside.

She locked the door behind her and shivered in the darkness. It was almost as cold inside the caddyshack as outside. She waited for her eyes to adjust in the dim light. First she had to find out what was going on in the world. Then she had to decide whether she should use Carla’s cell phone. She wanted to send her mom that picture of the Green Beret, but she didn’t want to risk giving her location away to the goon and die.

She walked over to a broom closet and opened the door. Etched into one wall were the words “R&J 4eVer.” Beneath the etching was an old AM/FM/CD boombox. She took out the boombox and put it on the floor, then wrapped herself with the dusty beach blanket she had stashed on the shelf weeks ago and sat down.

She said a quick prayer and hit the “on” switch. It still worked. Batteries and everything. She turned up the volume and adjusted the dial.

“This is the National Warning Center,” said the voice of God, or so it sounded. “Emergency. This is an attack warning. Repeat. This is an attack warning.”

A bleeping sound started to repeat itself, then her mom’s voice came on. Jennifer leaned closer to the box.

“This is President Sachs with a warning that another attack is imminent.”

Jennifer gasped. “Oh, God.”

“The threat appears aimed at U.S. military targets, not population centers. So there is little to gain in mass evacuations or hysteria. The best thing every American can do at this moment is to simply take cover in basements, schools, offices, churches, synagogues and mosques until the threat passes.”

Jennifer looked around the sorry interior of the caddyshack. It had no basement but was about as good as anywhere else at the moment.

“Local police departments and National Guard units will be patrolling streets to enforce safety and use deadly force against those who would see this crisis as an opportunity to break the law.”

What about those Green Berets chasing me? Jennifer wondered.

“Rest assured that the United States are standing by to unleash the full fury of their wrath upon those states that have financed, equipped or harbored those who have attacked us. Until then, fellow Americans, our prayers are with you and our children. Help them and help your neighbors.”

Jennifer pulled out Carla’s phone. She knew the government could track her even when it was off, but only if they knew what phone she had. As soon as she placed a call, they’d know.

The EAS announcer came back on. “This was a message of the Emergency Alert System. This is not a test. Repeat. This is not a test.”

That was enough to remind her that she could not be selfish in times like this. If there was anything she could report to her mom that would be helpful, she had to do it, even if it gave her away.

She turned the phone on, got a dial tone and punched in her mom’s number. “Mom, pick up,” she breathed.

Even as she heard the ringing on the other end, she saw a flash of light outside and ran to the window. There in the distance was that black Suburban, high beams shooting out its crumbled front end. It was tracing a long path across the vast course, following the buried golf cart paths. It was still a ways off. But the path could only end at the clubhouse, she realized, and then here.

Phone to her ear, Jennifer paced nervously. Light from an outside lamppost streamed through the dirty window, through which she peered with each turn. The Suburban had disappeared from view, and she paused.

“Please identify,” said a woman’s voice in her ear, not her mother’s.

Jennifer jumped in surprise. Her call had gone through. But to whom?

“Jennifer Sachs, is that you?” the woman asked.

Jennifer didn’t know what to say. She was scared.

“My name is Captain Li, Jennifer,” the woman said. “I’m putting you through to your mother now.”

Jennifer heard a click and then her mother’s voice. “Baby, where are you?” She sounded both relieved and frantic.

“I can’t say yet, Mom. This line isn’t secure.”

“It’s OK, I have people who can come and get you.”

“Like the ones who killed Carla and almost killed me?”

There was an audible gasp. “What?!”

Jennifer lost it then. She could feel her eyes tearing up. “They killed Carla, Mom. And if Aunt Dina wasn’t out of town with her boyfriend, they would have killed her too. They’re probably listening to me right now.”

“Jennifer, please, tell me where you are.”

Jennifer paused as she heard a distant wail of the national warning system sirens outside. “Like it matters now, Mom. We’re all going to die. Just like Dad.”

“Jennifer, I won’t let that happen. Tell me where you are. I’ll send help.”

“No, I’ll help you, Mom. I’m sending you a picture of the guy who tried to kill me.” She found the photo in the phone’s SD media card file and then emailed it to her mother. “Just make sure whoever you send isn’t him.”

Suddenly two headlight bes pierced the window and the low hum of a distant vehicle grew louder. “Oh, God!”

Her mother’s voice screamed through the phone. “Jennifer!”

Jennifer ducked and then peered through a corner of the window. The black Suburban with the crushed front end braked to a squeaky halt outside. The two Green Berets stepped out like something out of the War Cloud.

“They found me!” she breathed into the phone and hung up.

34

1501 Hours
Air Force One

Now it was Sachs who lost it, screaming into the phone, “Jennifer!” She sank to her knees and burst into tears, unable to hold back. It all came out, everything she had bottled up since the morning: her separation from Jennifer, the chopper crash, her lock-up in the infirmary, and the strain of circumstances.

She felt Koz put a consoling arm around her shoulders, and let him help her up before she pushed back and brushed her hair from her angry eyes. “Captain Li had better sure as hell have traced that call, Colonel.”

“I’m sure we’ll be hearing from her any second with a location, ma’am.”

On cue the door slid open and Captain Li entered with her tablet displaying a map of suburban New York. “She called from somewhere inside the Bedford Country Club, Madame President.”

Sachs could only wonder how Jennifer ended up there. “The photo.” She opened her email. There was nothing but old messages that had stopped when the nuke had gone off that morning—a lifetime ago. “I didn’t get it.”

“We got it, ma’am,” Li said. “We grabbed it from her outgoing email server. This is the man.” Li tapped the display, and a blurred image of a Green Beret lunging toward the camera came into view.

“Oh, my God!” Sachs said, unable to mask her fear. “That monster is after my baby?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re trying facial recognition, but between the face paint and blurred picture, we haven’t found anything yet. This guy is low-ranking.”

“But he’s one of Kyle’s Green Berets who tried to kill me. How hard can it be to ID him?”

“He’s not fitting the profile for anybody on Kyle’s unit.”

“It’s the same guys who tried to kill me, Colonel,” Sachs said, turning to Koz. “These are Kyle’s Green Berets, I know it. And you still haven’t told me who he might have been taking orders from.”

“I was going to tell you, but more pressing matters, specifically this imminent nuclear strike, got in the way,” he began. “The short answer is everybody.”

“Everybody?”

“I mean everybody, ma’am. It’s not like Kyle was some cipher who had some doctored or classified record anybody was trying to hide. He’s been everywhere in Iraq and Afghanistan and Pakistan and Iran, you name it. And he’s crisscrossed with just about every senior officer in all branches of the armed forces. He even saved Marshall once when Marshall was a major and his bomber went down in Iraq during Desert Storm and the Republican Guards were ing in on him.”

“That’s something, Colonel.”

“But it was Block who sent Kyle’s team to find Marshall in the first place, ma’am, and Carver who got Navy SEAL support for extraction. Like I said, Kyle was the go-to guy for impossible missions.”

“No wonder they all looked at me like I was crazy when I said Kyle was trying to kill me.”

“They just figured you—or your Secret Service detail—confused his tough-guy tactics to save you with a threat on your life, and that’s what may have inadvertently started a firefight aboard your chopper.”

“So that’s how it’s going down?” she said, angrier than ever. “How are they going to explain Jennifer?”

“They’re not, ma’am, because we’re going to get her first,” Kozlowski said. “I have just the team to reach her in less than 80 minutes. I would trust them with my life. Captain Li, please see if you can reach the RATS.”

Li paused, “The blast, sir.”

“If anyone survived it, they did,” Koz said. “I want them moving the second after impact and any EMP.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and left Sachs alone with Koz.

Sachs put her hands over her face. “Oh, my baby, Jennifer. I couldn’t even tell her that she saved my life. She’s the reason I’m alive. If it wasn’t for her, I would have been in Washington this morning when…”

Kozlowski handed her a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes, embarrassed by her emotion.

“Thanks,” she told him, and tried to hand back the handkerchief.

Koz refused. “Keep it. It’s yours.”

She then noticed the presidential seal in the pattern and managed a weak smile. “I never expected any of this when I woke up this morning.”

“None of us did.”

Sachs shook her head. “Oh, I think somebody did, Colonel. And we’re going to find out who that somebody is, for the sake of our families and our country.”

“You can call me Koz, ma’am. Everybody else does.”

Sachs took a breath, then looked at him differently. He had succeeded in breaking her emotional state, which she realized was not in a good place for the commander-in-chief. “So, Koz, where’s your family?”

“Only a brother in Wyoming now. His backyard abuts a missile field. He knew the risks. Hell, we all did.”

Sachs asked gently, “Nobody else?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Don’t meet a lot of women up here.”

“Captain Li sure is a fan.”

Koz dropped the smile, not allowing a hint of ambiguity. “Strictly professional, ma’am.”

Sachs felt strangely relieved. “I’m sure it is, Koz. And you can call me Deb,” she said when suddenly the plane pitched and rolled, slamming her against the bulkhead and knocking her out.

3

1501 Hours
Looking Glass

Marshall felt the shockwave too from his general’s quarters aboard the Looking Glass plane. He had escaped there a few minutes earlier to collect his thoughts and run through his checklists away from the crew. Now an alarm was sounding and there was an expected knock on his door.

“General Marshall, sir!” It was Quinn’s quivering voice.

Marshall said, “Enter.”

Quinn walked in, EAM printout in hand. “We lost Strategic Command, sir. Our home base!”

“Then the day has finally come, Colonel,” Marshall said calmly. “Launch authority transfers to us here aboard Looking Glass. Shut the door.”

Quinn, not quite understanding, turned to close the door. When he again faced Marshall, there was an open bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk. Marshall poured two glasses and handed one to Quinn, who didn’t look like much of a drinker.

“Courage, Colonel, before the storm,” Marshall said and raised his glass in a toast and gulped it down.

Quinn took a sip and coughed. “Sir, we have to get to our posts.”

“We are at our posts.” Marshall set down his glass. “Remember when I asked you for your launch key and told you to shoot me next time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is next time.” In one fluid movement, Marshall drew out his M9 sidearm and shot Quinn between the eyes.

The officer crumpled to the floor. With the ease of a weightlifter, Marshall grabbed Quinn’s body by the leg with one hand and dragged it into his open closet. Then, before he closed the door, he bent over and removed the launch key from Quinn’s neck and put it around his own.

36

1502 Hours
Air Force One

Sachs was on the floor groaning when the emergency lights kicked on and Kozlowski rushed over. She thought she heard him say, “Are you OK, Madame President?” But she wasn’t sure. Her ears were ringing. “What was that?” she asked as she let him help her to her feet. She felt wobbly.

He told her, “Omaha, I think.”

She heard more ringing, but it was her desk phone beeping. Captain Li came through on the speaker. “NORAD has confirmed another nuclear detonation in the continental United States. General Block at Northern Command is onscreen in the conference center.”

She felt Koz reach over her shoulder to the button and say, “The president is on her way.”

The ringing had faded for the most part by the time she entered the conference room. Block’s sour face was already on the big screen when she sat at the end of the table. Koz stood by her side. This was going to be ugly.

Sachs asked, “How many hits did we take, General Block?”

“Two,” Block growled. “They took out our Tier-One Defender anti-ballistic missile site in Alaska and paused, glaring at her, “and Strategic Command.”

Sachs swallowed. “General Carver?”

“That’s right, Madame President,” Block said, holding his stare. “This country has lost yet another great leader today, this time because of your indecision.”

Sachs felt herself shaking. She desperately wanted to hold her voice steady. “Unleashing our Minutemen III missiles wouldn’t have saved Carver.”

“No, but he would have died like a soldier in the line of fire and not like a sitting duck,” Block shot back. “And with our puny excuse for what was supposed to be a full, four-tier Defender system taken out, we have no way of intercepting the next wave.”

She exhaled and paused. “General Block, what happened to all those other missiles the early warning systems said were supposed to hit?”

Block grew quiet. “Ghosts, ma’am. They were ghosts.”

Sachs blinked. “How can several independent warning systems project so many false radar images?”

“At this point, ma’am, we have to assume it’s the work of the War Cloud, like you suggested.”

“But why would they do this, knowing we might have launched?”

Block said, “I believe they did this to prove they knew you didn’t have the political will to act, ma’am, and to prove their cyber superiority. If they can do this, they own our defense networks.”

Sachs was bewildered. “Maybe. But what’s the point of destroying the Strategic Command in Omaha if all its planes and nukes were already in the air?”

“Hard to say, ma’am,” Block said. “Because Marshall can still launch our land-based ICBMs from Looking Glass.”

Sachs started. “Pardon me?”

“The Post Attack Command Control System, ma’am,” Block explained. “If nukes destroy the Strategic Command or other command centers on the ground, Looking Glass can command American forces from the air and launch our ICBMs by remote control.”

“Let me guess,” Sachs said. “The man who designed this brilliant Post Attack Command Control System is Brad Marshall?”

Block paused. “Uh, yes.”

37

1503 Hours
Looking Glass

Marshall had assumed his command post in the battle staff compartment and was reviewing his NSTL targets in China on his digital tablet when Major Banks beeped him.

He ignored the interruption. That he could reprioritize targets with a simple drag and drop on a handheld touch-screen display was something he never would have imagined even five years ago. Harney and Wilson, meanwhile, were establishing the SIOP operations plan with 50 ground-based launch control centers that controlled more than 300 Minuteman III nuclear missiles.

Banks beeped him again. He saved his screen and spoke into the comm.: “You’re patching me to our B-2s with the Mavericks, Major?”

His hope was that President Sachs would finally use the simplest strategy he had gift-wrapped for her: the decapitation of the Chinese high command with the Maverick bunker-busters, followed by the swift threat of nuclear annihilation to any successors.

“I’ve got AF1 on line,” she said instead, her voice hard and edgy. “Colonel Kozlowski is asking for Colonel Quinn.”

Marshall noted several of the battle staffers, not part of his team, exchange glances before they got back to their work. He was playing for two audiences now. “Put him through on speaker.”

“Here he is, sir.”

Marshall pressed the button. “Marshall here. Has the president assessed the damage yet from the Alaska and Omaha hits, Colonel Kozlowski?”

“She’s reviewing them now, sir.”

Marshall nodded. “Then why are we talking?”

“The president would like to speak with your second, sir. Colonel Quinn. The roster says he holds the second launch key.”

“Quinn is busy,” Marshall said. “So am I. We’re trying to re-establish links with several launch control sites that lost contact with Strategic Command. Those boys are in the dark and might launch if we can’t reach them.”

“That is a grave situation, General Marshall, and I will report it to the president. Nevertheless, launch authority for ground missiles has been transferred to Looking Glass. We must ensure procedures—”

Marshall said, “The Chinese have nuked Washington and SAC headquarters. Now you want to quote regulations to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marshall said, “Listen to me, Colonel. We have a commander-in-chief who can’t pull the trigger. I need you. America needs you. The people of China, the real Chinese, need you. Are you on board?”

“Of course, sir.”

Marshall said, “Then quit clogging secure channels. I’ll reconvene with the president at the attack conference in six minutes. Over.”

Marshall disconnected Kozlowski and hit his comm. “You catch that, Major?”

Banks’ voice said, “Yes, sir.”

“Clear skies,” Marshall said, and looked at Harney and Wilson, who had already drawn their M9 side-arms with silencers and began firing, taking out half the battle staffers while the others scrambled, too stunned to figure out what was going on. Banks got them on her way in and then sealed the compartment shut behind her, breathless.

Marshall, disturbed that a bullet ricochet had nicked his forearm with a red skid burn, hit the comm again. “Cockpit now,” he said, and another communications tech upstairs put him through to Captain Delaney.

Delaney said, “General Marshall, sir.”

Marshall knew he couldn’t hide everything from the Looking Glass crew, but he could spin it just enough to give him the time he needed. He had trained them all at one time or another, but he couldn’t include them in his plans. He was counting on personal loyalty and the cloud of war to bridge whatever cognitive dissonance was going through their minds.

“I want you and Rogers to seal off the cockpit, Captain,” Marshall said. “Launch control from Offutt has been transferred to Looking Glass, and we’ve had gunfire here in the battle staff compartment. You know the procedures. Take us down to 18,000 feet and extend the VLF antenna. We need to establish links with both our underground launch centers and our submarines. No line-of-sight communications, not even AF1 for the time being. We can’t reveal our location to enemy aircraft. If we are engaged, prepare to deploy all countermeasures at my orders.”

“Copy that,” the pilot said. “Over.”

Marshall stared at the only three officers still standing in the compartment—Banks, Wilson and Harney. Only Banks had broken a sweat.

“A bit early, sir?” she asked.

“Sachs is on to us,” he said and removed the two keys around his neck.

38

1504 Hours
Air Force One

Koz was still processing his bizarre and disturbing exchange with Marshall when he walked up to Captain Li on the communications deck. “Marshall blew me off,” he told her. “Something’s wrong.”

“Way wrong, sir,” Li said. “I have something the president needs to see.”

Koz had them meet in Sachs’ suite, where Li showed the president satellite surveillance video over Washington, D.C., before the nuke attack. She zoomed in on a railyard not far from Union Station.

“According to the last communications between the Pentagon and White House, it seems the nuclear device was delivered by rail on a Metro subway train right beneath the Pentagon,” Li explained. “So I crosschecked D.C. police dispatch records, what’s left of their remote backups, and learned that a Metro security guard was found slain this morning at this railyard.”

Sachs remembered seeing the story that morning in the Post. “That’s where the Chinese must have hitched the nuke to the train.”

“Now watch this,” Li said and zoomed in until two Chevy Suburbans popped out of the pixels. “Those are military plates, ma’am. And they belong to this man.”

The picture on the screen changed and an ugly, familiar face filled the screen.

Sachs said, “That’s Colonel Kyle, the Green Beret.”

“And you’ll recognize this other man, too, as the one after your daughter,” Li said, and sure enough the next picture that came up matched the one Jennifer had sent.

Sachs leaned closer to the image, fear and rage swirling inside her. “You’re telling me that these men—our men—may actually have betrayed America and helped the Chinese perpetrate this attack on our capital?”

Li said, “We think it’s more likely they and the ones they report to are in fact behind these attacks and not the Chinese.”

“Proof, Captain,” Sachs demanded. “We don’t have a lot of time here.”

Captain Li nodded. “You can thank your daughter Jennifer.”

“What?”

“I found this on her USB flash drive from school.” Li pulled Jennifer’s PowerPoint slide presentation for school. The top slide was Brad Marshall waving to reporters aboard an aircraft carrier. As the slides flashed, Sachs was embarrassed at Jennifer’s obvious hero worship—or more—for Marshall.

Li said, “This is a Time magazine photo of Marshall after he escaped Iraqi capture during the first Persian Gulf War in 1991. Kyle led the team that rescued Marshall when his plane was shot down.”

It was Colonel Kyle, an arm around a beaming Marshall.

Koz said, “So Marshall and Kyle have a history. I’ve been through this with the president. It’s not enough.”

Li said, “How about this?”

Next up came a recent picture of Marshall inspecting the Tier-One Defender ABM complex in Alaska, and then a haunting longshot of him crossing the tarmac at Offutt AFB. Both came from a Time Magazine “Man of the Year” cover story titled “An American Hero: Forgotten But Not Gone.”

Sachs said, “I still don’t get it. You’d expect Marshall to be at these places. They’re all he has left.”

“Had left,” Li said. “Both have been blown to bits. Before they were, each was visited by Colonel Kyle and other men from Marshall’s past for base parties. Swipe card records place them all in highly sensitive areas at both bases.”

Koz said it out loud. “One stolen SS-20 nuke. Three warheads. Each planted at a strategic location to make it look like a Chinese attack and force us to respond.”

Sachs sat back in her chair, everything sinking in. “Maybe Marshall feels his country doesn’t recognize his contributions, but could he really hate America so much kill innocent lives?”

Li said, “The rest of your daughter’s report argues the opposite, Madame President. That Marshall loves America and feels his warnings about an ascendant China and declining America have been ignored. His very public statements underscore his belief that if we—the United States—don’t act aggressively now, we will lack the weapons and will to do so later. According to that logic, he’s saving American lives.”

“And clearly will stop at nothing,” Koz said. “Madame President, we have to warn General Block at Northern Command to strip Marshall of launch authority immediately, before Marshall does anything crazy.”

“Stop,” said Sachs suddenly, thinking out loud. “Would Marshall have access to this plane?”

Koz turned pale. “We share the same maintenance crews as Looking Glass.”

Sachs said, “I want you to sweep for explosives right now.”

39

1508 Hours

Four minutes later they all stood in the cargo hold, looking at an open box of toner cartridges wired together with enough explosive to bring down Air Force One in seconds. The red blinking light on the small BlackBerry phone showed it was armed.

Koz swore. “God in heaven.”

Sachs and Li stood behind Koz as he studied it. The red light bathed his face.

“Look like Marshall tore a page from the Yemen terrorist playbook,” Koz said. “Pack high explosives into printer cartridges to avoid detection by scanners. Poetic, too, since toners are used for all our EAM printouts.”

Sachs said, “Still think I made up the attack on my chopper?”

Koz shook his head and studied the bomb. “This is bad,” he said. “The phone still has its battery. That means it’s not a timer. It’s a remote detonator. Probably synced to the VLF receiver. That’s what our submarines use to receive launch orders.”

Sachs said, “Meaning?”

Koz said, “Meaning Marshall can basically blow us up from any point on the planet as soon as we try anything. Hell, he might have been listening to all our internal communications all along too.”

Sachs paused. “Just how easy is it for Marshall to launch our missiles?”

“Once the eight-digit enabling code is dialed into the launch system, the procedure is simple. It’s not like a sub where you need several other officers involved in the launch. The Looking Glass plane is essentially a remote-control unit.”

Sachs said, “But don’t you still need two officers turning their keys at once to launch?”

“Trust me,” Koz said grimly. “Marshall’s already taken care of that.”

“Then we have to somehow override the Looking Glass controls so he can’t launch,” she said.

“Same problem,” Koz said. “Assuming we can pull it off, as soon as he figures it out he’ll vaporize us.”

Sachs looked him straight in the eye. “I have an idea.”

40

1510 Hours
Air Force One

Sachs entered the cockpit, a finger to her lips and whiteboard in front of her. The two pilots and navigator looked up in surprise, then gaped as they read the words she had written:

Turn off your headsets.

Don’t say a word.

Enemy listening.

The men exchanged glances, then slowly removed their headsets and turned them off.

Sachs said, “There’s a bomb on board and we need to get off this plane. Preferably after we’ve landed safely on the ground.”

The navigator scrambled to check his charts. “We’re over the North Dakota badlands, ma’am. No airstrips or predesignated alternative bases in the vicinity, and Minot and Grand Forks are too far away.”

“Improvise,” Sachs said. “Find a stretch of highway if you have to. But make sure it’s near a truck stop or some place with food and facilities. If we land in one piece, we’ll need to set up a new command post.”

As she left the cockpit, already she could feel the plane making a sharp descent. She rejoined Koz in the battle staff compartment, where he was poring over an operations manual while battle staffers worked furiously at their consoles.

ed over Koz. “How are you doing?”

“It’s tricky, but I should be able to override the Looking Glass launch procedures without Marshall catching on.” Koz looked up at her. “I just don’t understand why he’d do this. I do but I don’t.”

Sachs said, “Decapitation. By blowing up D.C., Marshall ensures we go to war with China — while we can still win it on our terms.”

“Until you came along,” said Koz, as he started reprogramming the overhead launch console.

Sachs said, “Well, clearly he made contingency plans. You said all Marshall has to do is dial in the eight-digit enabling code.”

“Yep. Once you have the code, it’s simple.”

Sachs asked, “How simple?”

41

1520 Hours
Looking Glass

Marshall waited until they had descended to 18,000 feet before he removed the key he wore around his neck and inserted it into one of two locks in the red safe next to his desk console in the battle staff compartment. He then removed the second key he had taken from Quinn and opened the second lock.

As soon as he opened the safe, the alarm went off, a clattering sound like a woodpecker. But there was no intelligence officer to stop him now. Nobody.

The launch procedure was so simple, really.

Let Deborah Sachs keep American bombers and subs at bay, he thought. He was going to launch those missiles at China. At least he could be sure they would launch under attack. Then the war would be underway. A war the United States would win.

Yes, American civilization would be renewed for another century.

Marshall waited a full minute before the clattering stopped. He then removed two more keys from inside the safe and tossed one to Banks.

“The keys to the kingdom, Major Tom.”

Marshall cracked open the code card with the eight-digit enabling code. He repeated it out loud:

“Tango, Seven, Bravo, Four…”

Banks keyed it into the overhead launch console. “Tango, Seven, Bravo, Four,” she repeated.

The corresponding beeps locked in the code.

Marshall read the final four digits. “…Alpha, One, Delta, Nine.”

“Alpha, One, Delta, Nine,” echoed Banks, and locked in the code.

Marshall then inserted his key into the overhead console. “On my count.”

Banks inserted the second key and nodded.

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

“Turn.”

Simultaneously they turned their keys.

4

1520 Hours
Air Force One

It was a white-knuckle landing onto Interstate 29. Sachs felt Air Force One touch ground only to suddenly lift again and then set down. The pilots immediately threw the thrusters into reverse to try and stop it. But the plane wasn’t slowing down and she couldn’t see outside from the seat with the five-point harness that Captain Li had strapped her into.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice shaking as her seat vibrated like an electric chair.

Captain Li put a finger to her earpiece. “There’s a new overpass across the highway that wasn’t on the maps. We had to jump it and now we’re coming up too fast on another one.”

This might be a real short landing, Sachs thought, but she knew that Marshall might launch missiles at any moment. She unbuckled her harness and stood up, her head immediately hitting an overhead bin she hadn’t noticed before. Captain Li was on her feet and right there behind her.

“What are you doing, Madame President?”

Sachs rubbed her head. “Koz can’t wait for us to stop to override Marshall’s launch authority. He’s got to do it now.”

Li didn’t try to stop her, but instead helped her move through the corridor to the battle staff compartment, where Koz and AF1 battle staffers were locked at their stations.

“Koz! We have to stop Marshall now!”

Koz was reading off his operations manual, punching in new authorization codes into the overhead consoles as the plane began to finally slow enough to make Sachs believe they were going to stop safely. “I think I’ve got it!” Koz shouted above the roar of the engines. “Get off this plane, everybody! You too, Madame President.”

She said, “I’m not leaving this plane without you, Koz.”

“Yes, you are,” he said and motioned to Captain Li and two officers, who grabbed her by the arms and began to drag her away.

43

1520 Hours
Bedford Country Club

Jennifer backed away from the window as she watched the two Green Berets walk toward the caddyshack. She ran back to the tiny kitchen that in the summer kept the caddies fed between golf rounds. She opened the pantry next to the refrigerator, which was unplugged. She pulled out the empty, removable stacks and shelves and hid them behind the fridge. Finally, she opened the back door a crack, to make it look like she had escaped. Then she hid herself in the bottom half of the pantry, ignoring the rat droppings. With a shiver she closed the door and held her breath in the dark.

She heard the front door rattle. A second later it was kicked open with a loud crash. She gasped and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

She could hear the soldiers check the sliders of the guns with a couple of loud clicks for effect, to signal they were coming after her, hoping she’d make a sound. She sat stone still.

One of the soldiers whispered, “Look.”

They were at the back door.

Jennifer felt a draft as the back door was fully opened.

“Maybe,” said a second voice. “Check it out.”

Jennifer heard the front door open again, hoping against hope they were leaving, when she heard the floor creak inside the kitchen.

Oh, God, no.

Someone was standing directly on the opposite side of the pantry door. The door began to crack open. She was about to scream when the soldier’s radio popped and the door closed.

She heard his gravelly voice say, “Copy that. We’re out of here.”

She listened to his footsteps walking out of the kitchen. Then she heard the front door open and close shut.

A minute later the heavy thuds of the Suburban’s doors closed. The engine roared to life and then faded in the distance as it drove off.

44

1521 Hours
Looking Glass

Major Banks looked at him blankly inside the battle staff compartment.

“Turn!” Marshall repeated.

Banks turned her key again. Still nothing. “She’s changed the enabling codes!”

Marshall stared at the two launch keys, both turned in their respective launch locks. “Goddamn that Koz!” he said, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled. “I think it’s time we remove the final layer of federal bureaucracy.”

Banks nodded and moved to the consoles. She booted up yet another sabotage program. “Crash and Burn, sir?”

Marshall nodded. “Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.”

Banks pushed the delete button on her terminal.

45

1522 Hours
Ethel’s Truck Stop

It was as bleak as the late afternoon could get in Drayton, North Dakota, population 913.

Especially after two separate nuclear attacks on America. But Ethel’s Truck Stop Café was open for business, as always. The radio by the stove was playing “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” from the old rock group Tears for Fears. Which pretty much summed up the mood at the counter as Ethel with the blue hair poured another cup of coffee to rumpled Joe the truck driver when his cup and saucer started rattling.

Ethel stopped pouring and cocked her ear as she heard an ear-piercing noise outside. She had heard every kind of conceivable aircraft and missile in her lifetime around these parts, and knew it was a 747-200 military converted jumbo jet even before she ran outside and saw it coming straight for the diner.

“Jeez, Louise!” she screamed. “Everybody take cover!”

She ran back inside and ducked behind the counter, staring at Rusty the waitress and poor old Joe who wet his pants. The ground started shaking and plates were falling and crashing on the fverywhere. It sounded like a locomotive was passing straight through the diner.

And then, as suddenly as the roar began, it stopped until there was only the sound of a rolling dish or two breaking.

Ethel cautiously poked her head above the counter and looked out the glass doors as the plane skirted onto the I-29 in three bumps and rolled to a stop about 400 yards from the café.

A moment later it exploded into a giant ball of fire and Ethel ducked for cover again as the force smashed the windows, and shards of glass raked the walls like bullets.

46

1522 Hours
Northern Command

Now that Strategic Command was gone, General Block at Northern Command was suddenly having trouble communicating with America’s three main Minuteman III forces: the 90th Missile Wing at F.E. Warren AFB in Wyoming, the 341st Missile Wing at Malmstrom AFB in Montana, and the 91st Missile Wing at Minot AFB in North Dakota. Together they controlled 450 ICBMs, and Block had to ensure transfer of launch authority from Carver at Strategic Command to Marshall aboard Looking Glass.

He worried this was a War Cloud effect. A similar, inexplicable loss of communication between the control center at Warren AFB and 50 of its missiles had occurred months ago. Block had issued a statement at the time saying that the power failure was not malicious and that the Air Force never lost the ability to launch the missiles.

Which wasn’t true.

“I hope you’ve got Marshall on for me,” he said when his grim senior controller walked up.

“General, sir, we’ve lost Air Force One.”

“Damn,” Block said. “We’ve run out of presidents.”

However much he disagreed with Sachs, he admired her pluck.

“Well, there’s no choice now. Tell Marshall he can authorize our B-2s to deliver the Maverick strike on the Chinese high command. Maybe the destruction of their host supercomputers will cut off the War Cloud and release our missiles.”

47

1525 Hours
Bedford Country Club

Jennifer, her hand on the back of the pantry door, didn’t move. She was afraid to come out. What if the Green Berets hadn’t really left? What if one of them stayed behind? What if it was a trick? What if as soon as she opened the pantry door some guy with a gun put a bullet into her? She breathed slowly, listening for the slightest sound outside.

A minute passed.

Then five minutes, it seemed.

Finally, she could take it no more.

She burst out of the pantry and threw herself onto the kitchen floor, hands over her head, and screamed, “Don’t shoot me!”

She heard herself crying and lifted her head, realizing there was nobody else in the caddyshack.

Sl she got up and walked to the front window and looked outside. She could see the twin tracks of the Suburban leaving the club.

She ran to the back window and looked out too. Nobody there either.

She heard a creak overhead.

She looked up at the ceiling and had the terrible thought that maybe one of them was on the roof. Maybe they were waiting for her to pop her head out the front door and they would nail her then.

She looked around and saw a filthy broom in the corner of the main room. She picked it up and with a cringe of anxiety burst out the front door and thrust the broom outside.

But nothing happened. No shots. Just a dirty broom in the snow.

She was puzzled. Why did they leave?

She saw her blanket and radio in the corner and turned on the radio. The nerve-shattering signal of the Emergency Alert System blared.

The EAS announcer said, “This is the Emergency Alert System. The following is a message from the National Command Authority.”

Mom, she thought with relief.

But it was a man who was speaking.

“This is General Brad Marshall,” said the voice, which she suddenly recognized and felt a chill down her spine. “Minutes ago an enemy missile destroyed the plane carrying former President Deborah Sachs.”

Jennifer’s knees buckled. She dropped to the floor.

“This further act of aggression will not go unanswered,” Marshall announced. “I have ordered the United States Armed Forces to respond with their full fury and might.”

Jennifer turned off the radio. She sat on the floor and let loose with tears and then wailed.

She didn’t care who heard her now.

48

1525 Hours
Ethel’s Truck Stop

Sachs and Captain Li were running toward the diner when the plane exploded with a thunderous KABOOM. She tried not to look back and be turned to ash, but she was worried about Koz, so she began to turn her head over her shoulder as she ran.

“No!” came a shout from behind.

Koz was flying toward her, tackling her like a shield as the force from the plane blew them off their feet and she felt herself hurl through the air over a snow bank. He intentionally landed on top of her, smothering her into the snow.

She couldn’t breathe and struggled for more than a minute until he got off.

Koz asked, “Still in one piece?”

She gasped for breath and brushed the snow off. “You trying to kill me?” she asked when a second thunderous explosion sent a chunk of the fuselage flying over their heads.

Once again Koz face-planted her into the snow.

“Stop it!” she ordered when he let her come up again for air.

“You can court-martial me lat told her as they stood up to survey the damage.

What was left of the Nightwatch plane—Air Force One—burned in smoldering ruins. Engine parts were strewn across the interstate. A broken wing stuck upright out of the frozen ground, glinting in the weak late afternoon sun.

Sachs said, “We need to contact Block at Northern Command and rescind Marshall’s launch authority.”

Koz pointed to his right, and Sachs saw it: Ethel’s Truck Stop Café. “But with Air Force One gone, Block is going to assume you’re dead. How are you going to prove your identity?”

“With this,” she said, and began to unzip her flightsuit.

She watched Koz raise an eyebrow and then smile when she flashed the presidential authenticator card he had given her.

49

1548 Hours
Looking Glass

Marshall stood with his juniors Harney and Wilson, staring blankly at the radar screens inside the battle staff compartment: The D-10s were in position, but the first-strike B-2s carrying the bunker-busting Mavericks were turning back.

“What the hell?” he said.

Banks turned from her console, bad news written all over her face. “Bombers turning back, sir.”

“I can see that,” Marshall said. “Put me through to them right now.”

She paused, putting a finger to her ear. “Northern Command is calling.”

He nodded, and she put General Block through on speaker.

“Our bombers are retreating, Block,” Marshall said. “Zhang already surrender?”

“Sachs is alive,” Block said. “Just got the call.”

Marshall didn’t believe it. “You authenticate her?”

“Yep, and voice prints match too,” Block said. “Listen, son. You’re busted. The president wants to ground Looking Glass, pronto. You are to land at Grand Forks AFB, where a reception team will be waiting for you to turn yourself in. You’ll be tried in a military court and executed for your treason.”

Marshall blinked in disbelief. “I don’t know what kind of horseshit Sachs is feeding you, Block. But pulling back our bombers now is going to cost us. Big time.”

Block didn’t like backtalk any more than Marshall. “You heard me, Marshall. Your pilots have been instructed to land Looking Glass immediately. And in case you have any trouble understanding, we’ve got a couple of F-16s on the way to escort you. Over.”

Block disappeared from view, and Marshall was aware that his own, unreadable poker face was still plain to see for Banks and the others. So he kept it that way on the outside. It wasn’t difficult. Because he knew exactly what to do next.

50

1625 Hours
Ethel’s Truck Stop Café

Sachs watched blue-hathel pour her a cup of Kona blend coffee while the TV blared the downing of Air Force One and her death. It was freezing with the shattered windows, and a dozen AF1 crew were taping plastic sheets from the surplus store in back to keep out the cold. Koz, meanwhile, was still on the pay phone talking to Block, having been unable to connect his phone with its satellite in space. They were trying to set up a call with General Zhang for her, to confirm he knew the U.S. was standing down and requesting the same.

Ethel, who had an old military tattoo on her arm and a Tea Party pin on her apron, asked her, “You really the president?”

Sachs said, “So they say.”

Ethel snapped her gum. “You spoiled everything, you know. Women have been running the country just fine for two hundred years, only our men didn’t know it.” Then she winked and walked off with her pot of coffee to serve the rest of the AF1 crew. All 48 had been accounted for, thank God.

Koz walked over with a frown on his face. “Looking Glass landed at Grand Forks, but Marshall and three crew were missing.”

Sachs stared at him. “How can they be missing?”

“They must have bailed in flight.”

“From a 747? Is that even possible?”

“Not at 35,000 feet and 500 knots,” Koz said. “But the pilots report that Marshall had ordered them down to 18,000 and 150 knots before everything went berserk. That altitude and speed are about what the top extreme skydivers use, and Marshall and his threesome are trained paratroopers. Looks like they shot their way out the rear transport hatch on the cargo deck. There were lots of bodies on the floor and four sky suits with oxygen masks missing from the racks.”

“But where did they go? What does he hope to accomplish?”

Koz shrugged. “I have no idea. Looking Glass by definition circles the Midwest in a nuke attack, to be close to the missile fields. But there must be a reason he stuck close to the badlands of North Dakota. Only problem is that the only active missile fields are a couple of hundred miles away at Minot. There’s nothing in this immediate area except abandoned missile silos. Maybe he’s going to hide out in one and keep us hunting for him for as many days as possible.”

Sachs heard a grunt. It was Ethel. “He’s right, you know,” she said. “We used to have a full missile wing here associated with Grand Forks AFB, until they closed it down, moved almost everything to Minot. That cost us a lot of jobs.”

“Almost everything?” Sachs asked, glancing at Koz.

Koz said, “They still keep a few weapons storage areas around here that hold nuclear contingency weapons. And there’s the old Safeguard complex in Nekoma, but that’s been abandoned even longer than the silos.”

“You sure about that?” Ethel said, clearly unable to help herself. “I’ve served more than a few strangers in recent—”

The cups and saucers on the counter started shaking again. The whole diner started to shake.

“Lordy, here we go again,” Ethel said.

But Sachs knew there wasn’t another Air Force One about to make an emergency landing outside. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flame trail on the hor

Koz and Captain Li had already burst outside through the plastic sheet.

She ran out to join them and stopped cold at the sight of a 60-foot Minuteman III ICBM missile lift off into the sky at 15,000 miles per hour like a space shuttle launch. The ground quaked from the Boeing first-stage rocket’s 200,000 pounds of thrust.

“Oh, no,” Sachs said. “Marshall.”

Another Minuteman blasted off.

And another.

And still another.

Sachs counted ten flame trails lifting off from the fields in a ring of fire that turned the evening into day.

51

1600 Hours
Bailey Family Farm
Launch Control Center

Marshall’s large, dome-shaped canopy, made from a single layer of triangular cloth gores, blossomed under the clear night. Marshall let the cold wind blow him across the desolate winter fields toward the lonely clapboard farmhouse below.

He looked over at Banks, Harney and Wilson, all doing fine on the descent. His jellyfish chute — the MC1-1C round parachute favored by U.S. paratroopers — had been packed and ready aboard Looking Glass.

Special cuts in sections of the gores gave his chute more speed and greater steering capabilities, enabling him to avoid the grain silo on his right and turn into the wind to minimize horizontal speed as he landed.

He hit and rolled, then quickly detached from his chute. Then, with the others close behind, he pulled out his M9 and headed for the farmhouse.

The MP on the front porch, a grandpa-type in a parka, looked surprised to see visitors and whipped out an M-16. He was talking to somebody through an earpiece but froze when none other than General Brad Marshall walked up the steps. He relaxed and lowered his gun to salute.

“General Marshall,” he said with relief when Harney leveled his own M-16 and spat out a round. Blam! Blam! Blam! And grandpa was blow right through the front door.

• • •

Sixty feet beneath the farmhouse in the launch control center, red warning flashes lit up the consoles like the Fourth of July. The two launch officers in blue uniforms and yellow ascots sat tight in their aircraft-style seats, trapped by their shoulder belts designed to keep them from being thrown by the shockwaves if they ever launched ICBMs.

“Shit,” said the first launch officer as elevator cameras showed four armed and unfriendly figures on their way down.

Both launch officers desperately tried to unhook their belts as the vault door opened and Marshall entered with his crew. Wilson and Harney unloaded two shots, and the launch officers slumped in their chairs. Then Banks followed up by relieving them of their launch keys.

The second launch officer was still alive, barely, and Marshall glared at Harney. Too many video games for these younger officers. They shot at faces to save bullets, but the effect was dehumanizing the enemy. And these launch officers were anything but. They w American patriots, and he needed at least one of them alive.

The launch officer groaned in his seat. “General Marshall?”

“It’s OK, son,” Marshall said. “We’ll get you some help. Don’t worry.”

The launch officer relaxed in his chair, blood draining out of him. Marshall knew he had only a minute if that with the kid.

“OK,” Marshall said. “We’ve got ten Minutemen III missiles. Each can be sent to any one of four preset targets. Now where are these warheads targeted?”

“Don’t know,” said the launch officer. “Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to dream about the impact area.”

Marshall was disappointed. “I understand, son,” he said and then popped the kid in the head with his M9 pistol. The launch officer went limp.

Marshall told the rest, “He was useless anyway. How long will it take you to retarget, Major Tom?”

Banks looked at her console. “Thirty-six minutes using the Command Data Buffer system.”

“You have ten,” Marshall told her. “Harney and Wilson, you’ll need to strip some equipment here. I saw an Explorer parked outside. See if old grandpa has the keys in his pockets.”

As they left, Marshall hovered impatiently as Banks calculated the retargeting information.

“You’re taking too long, Major Tom.”

“More than two hundred attack options have been programmed into this computer, sir,” she replied. “We just need to dial up the right war scenario. Those missiles that are supposed to go, go. Those that aren’t, don’t.”

“You don’t get it. I want them all going.”

“Oh, the than won’t even take a minute then—if you can live with collateral strikes.”

“The Chinese can’t, but I can, Major.”

Marshall pushed the launch officer he had killed off his seat and strapped himself in. Banks did likewise in the other chair and then made the final adjustments.

“Missiles are retargeted,” she announced.

Marshall gave the order, “Insert launch keys.”

Banks inserted her launch key into her console at the same time he did.

“On my mark,” he told her. “Three…two…one…turn.”

They turned their keys simultaneously.

The shaking began, and Marshall tightened his belt with satisfaction. Missiles on screen filled the silo cameras with their exhaust flames.

Finally, thing were going according to plan.

52

1625 Hours
Bedford Country Club

Jennifer had decided she had had enough of herself crying over her mother and the end of the world. If this was the end of all things, she didn’t want to go out like a scared rat in a crap shack. She would face the future full-on, it was a mushroom cloud.

She rose to her feet with the old beach blanket around her shoulders for warmth. The floorboards creaked as she walked to the front door. She paused at the door and took a deep breath. She wrapped herself tighter in the blanket with one hand and flung open the door with the other and shrieked.

Standing inches from her face was one of the Green Berets, so close they shared each other’s frosty breath. There was alcohol on his. She then saw the open bottle in his hand.

“We knew you were here and were just waiting for you to come out,” he told her, pushing her back inside and slamming the door shut. “But now that your mom is dead, I thought you could use some comfort.” His lips twisted into an ironic smile. “You see, I’m from the government and I’m here to help you.”

Jennifer was terrified. “Where’s the other guy?”

“Ran home to mommy and the kids, seeing as this is the end.” There was a wild look in his eyes. He believed it, and this terrified Jennifer even more. “It’s a terrible thing when discipline in the ranks break down in a crisis. But I’m getting one last hurrah before we pop.”

She took a swing at his face but he caught her hand and twisted it back until she cried out in pain. Then he pulled her head back by her hair and started dragging her kicking and screaming across the floor.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “You’re hurting me! Stop!”

He turned her over and thrust the neck of the bottle into her mouth painfully so that she choked as the fiery liquid poured down her throat. He laughed again, his eyes on fire as she struggled to breathe, feeling like she was drowning.

53

1625 Hours
Ethel’s Truck Stop

Sachs stared at the ten missiles as they arched into the twilight. Disbelief dissolved into despair as she recognized the world as she knew was ending. A black hole seemed to open up under her feet and suck the soul out of her, leaving her void of hopes of a tomorrow.

“God, no,” she breathed.

Koz, standing next to her, sounded flat and distant. “Minutemen out of the Nekoma missile field. It was supposed to be inactive.”

Sachs simply could not believe what she was seeing. “They’re going to China, aren’t they?”

“Can’t tell you until they explode,” Koz said, looking grief-stricken. “But at fifteen thousand miles per hour, they can reach their targets in less than 30 minutes.”

She said, “We have to destroy them.”

The look on Koz’s face didn’t inspire hope. “Only way to abort is from the launch control center. We could try our sea-based AEGIS ABM systems with the Seventh Fleet, but they can’t take out all 10 Minutemen. Our best bet would have been the Tier 1 Defender complex in Alaska.”

Sachs grew icy calm. “What about this abandoned Safeguard complex nearby that you talked about? What did that use to be for?”

“It was the original Defender system,” Koz said. “Safeguard was designed to deMinutemen silos around here from a Soviet or Chinese counterforce attack during the 1960s.”

“By ‘counterforce’ you mean nukes like the ones the Chinese are about to launch in answer to the Minutemen that Marshall just fired?”

“That’s right,” Koz said. “The Safeguard missiles would hit the incoming Soviet or Chinese nukes, giving us the all clear to launch a second wave of missiles.”

“Punishing them even harder.”

“A nice option for us to have now, huh?” Koz said. “But it was operational for only about four months before they shut it down. Been abandoned for decades.”

Sachs said, “You mean like those Minuteman silos we just saw shoot off?”

Koz stared at her like she was either crazy or brilliant or crazy brilliant. “You think he rebuilt the Defender system on top of Safeguard?”

Sachs nodded. “Marshall isn’t a lunatic. He wouldn’t let those missiles off unless he had some degree of confidence he could shoot down those DF-5s the Chinese launch back at us.”

Koz’s face fell. “It’s at least 40 minutes to Nekoma. We’ll never make it in time on these roads.”

“Stop telling me what we can’t do!” Sachs lost it there, punching him squarely in the chest with her fist. “You dumb bastards!” she screamed, pummeling him again and again. “You’ve got to blow up the world with your pissing contests.”

Koz took the blows stoically, waiting for her to stop.

Sachs calmed down, the missile roar faded, and there was only a ghostly cold wind until she heard the unmistakable snap of gum and turned to see Ethel standing behind them.

Ethel said, “I know how you can get there in 20 minutes.”

Sachs stared at her, daring her. “Tell me.”

“Same way me and Rusty got here to the diner.”

54

1635 Hours
Pembina Trail

The icy Pembina trail wound past several forgotten small towns and rivers toward Nekoma’s infamous Safeguard complex. The snow-covered prairies glittered under the sparkling night skies. Sachs had her hands wrapped around Koz’s waist as he leaned forward and kicked up the speed of Ethel’s four-stroke Yamaha snowmobile. She looked back at Captain Li, further behind on the trial, trying to keep up in Rusty the waitress’s two-stroke Thundercat.

“This sucker can go 110 mph and stay there all day long,” Ethel had promised them back at the truck stop, and Koz was determined to max the 145 horsepower to reach the Safeguard complex inside of 20 minutes.

Sachs felt herself slipping and tightened her grip on Koz, but her hands were too numb to feel. Her face was a frozen mask in the wind. But she could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. The stillness before the coming nuclear storm was ghostly, and she and Koz were just vapors in the night.

“The land that time forgot,” Koz told her, and she was surprised how clearly she could hear him. “That’s one of the reasons the Safeguard complex closed down. Not much around to support it in terms of people or any kind of economy this far out from the Grand Forks base, which itself is nowhere to the rest of the world.”

In another world, she thought, they could make a life together. But not this one.

They went over a snowdrift and there was the bleak Safeguard complex, a 435-acre missile field dominated by amysterious pyramid structure 80 feet tall and a dozen Stonehenge-like monoliths. It looked positively evil, like the technological ruins of some Cold War Giza plateau.

She said, “What are those spooky towers?”

“Intake and exhaust stacks for the missile site’s power plant,” Koz said.

“And that giant pyramid thing with the weird circles on each side?”

“The radar building,” Koz said. “The control center for the whole Safeguard system. It housed the computers and radar that could track incoming ICBM warheads and hit back with 30 long-range Spartans.”

She said, “But it looks so sinister.”

“It was the era,” he said. “But, yeah, it’s got a 1960’s Dr. Strangelove vibe.”

The drove right through the open gate in the chainlink fence, where two slain U.S. Army guards lay in the stained snow, beneath a sign that said: “Stanley R. Mickelsen Safeguard Complex.”

“Vibe?” Sachs repeated. “The era is now, Koz, and Marshall is Dr. Strangelove.”

“Then he’s probably inside the pyramid,” Koz said and followed the SUV tracks in the snow to the tunnel entrance to the pyramid, where they climbed off the snowmobile and Koz pulled out his M9.

An SUV sat just outside the tunnel.

“It’s from the launch control center Marshall hit,” he said, inspecting the vehicle as Captain Li pulled up on her Thundercat.

Li had the schematics ready on her phone’s display. “The radio room is inside the turret at the top of the pyramid. Marshall and his radio gal Banks are most likely up there. The other two officers missing from Looking Glass, Harney and Wilson, are his muscle. We’ll probably encounter them before we ever get near Marshall. By the way, the first two levels inside are probably flooded from a few years back when contaminated PCB chemicals were cleaned out. So we’ll have to wade through.”

Sachs hid her alarm at this matter-of-fact description of the hell she was about to enter. Swimming through toxic waste wasn’t exactly at the top of her life bucket list. But in this moment, such concerns weren’t even worth bringing up.

“Let’s go,” she said when Koz blocked her.

“You’re going to need this,” he said, and handed her a loaded M9 pistol, just like his own and Captain Li’s. “The safety is off. So know that when you point and shoot, a bullet is going to go flying out. Squeeze slowly, be ready for some kickback.”

Sachs nodded as she felt the gun. It looked like one of Jennifer’s toys, but there was enough weight to it to betray its authenticity.

They started through the tunnel into the subterranean levels of the pyramid. At first it was just ice on the ground they had to watch out for. Then the hardness loosened to liquid the furt they got inside, rising from ankle-deep to knee-deep to waist-deep.

Sachs could barely make out oil storage tanks and industrial waste sumps in the dark of the basement level. And she had to take it on faith from the dim glow of Captain Li’s screen that they were passing the oil pumping room and transmitter cooling area of the pyramid.

Sachs said nothing and slogged through the foul-smelling chemical swamp until she was almost neck-deep. Never in her worst nightmares had she ever pictured herself in a place like this. They made it to a narrow concrete stairway and, dripping industrial ooze behind them, climbed one crumbling step at a time.

Sachs slipped and almost fell off. Were it not for Koz’s hand, she would have surely plunked into the inky cesspool below, never to come up again.

“That was close,” he whispered.

“You’re telling me,” she breathed as they finally reached the second level of the pyramid—the empty and thankfully dry shell of the abandoned command and control areas.

No Marshall.

Koz pointed up into the turret above.

Oh, God, she thought, not another level. Each one seemed more sinister than the last.

The third level occupied the lower portion of the turret, and it, too, was an empty tomb. This seemed to bother Koz and Li.

“See,” Koz pointed out to Li. “The Duplexer area is gutted of its microwave devices associated with the radar receivers. Marshall would have had to have replaced them to make this active again.”

All that remained was the fourth floor in the upper portion of the pyramid’s turret. But because all 16 sets of stairways and elevators were removed when the building was salvaged, there was no way to reach it.

They skirted along the concrete wall until they reached a new steel ladder running up the wall to the fourth level. Koz pointed up to the dim square of light way up at the top, where a shadow flickered past the light.

Mashall was up there.

Koz started climbing the ladder with one hand while his other held up the M9. Sachs started right after him, but Li held her back until he was almost out of sight above her. Then she gave her the go ahead, and Sachs put her boot on the ladder and pulled herself up.

As she did, one of Marshall’s men emerged from the shadows like a phantom, moving quickly toward the base of the ladder. She heard a cry and looked down in time to see Captain Li fall away, shot in the back, dead.

Glowing eyes—night vision goggles—looked up at her from below and a red target dot began to move up her body. She struggled to find the gun on her hip, but couldn’t get it out of the holster. A shot rang out and the green eyes exploded in front of her and the phantom sank back into the dark.

She looked up at Koz, hanging on with one hand, the M9 in his other hand. “Look out!” he shouted as he aimed his gun at her.

Sachs flung herself to the side of the ladder, hanging on for her life while Koz pumped several bullets straight down the ladder at a second phantom. Sachs heard a groan and saw a fleeting shadow before she heard a loud kerplunk three level below.

She tried to swing her feet back onto the ladder, but a couple of bullets pinged off the rungs. She looked up. Above Koz, a woman in uniform was leaning over the open ceiling door, firing down at them. Koz fired back one-handed, and the woman cried out and staggered back out of view.

55

1640 Hours
Safeguard Complex

Inside the 30-foot-tall turret of the pyramid, Marshall was booting up his Defender air traffic controller post when he heard the gunfire erupting below. The only reason he had kept the floor’s door open for the ladder was for Harney and Wilson, but he would close it if he had to and they would have to fry.

“See what’s going on downstairs with Harney and Wilson,” he ordered Major Banks, who was setting up the landline communications system and running a line on the floor.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Everything in the turret had been hardened to withstand nuclear impact: The walls, ceiling and floor were lined with an 11-gague steel liner plate. Mounted on the floor were open frame racks for circuit boards, and built into each of the four slanted walls was a gigantic, 20-foot disc—the complex’s phased-array antenna. Suspended overhead was a shock-isolated platform for Cold War support equipment long gone. The only thing it supported now were the servers that hosted the War Cloud cyberweapon program.

He turned his attention back to his radar screens and to opening a clear line of communications with his Defenders on the secret frequency. He was using one of Raytheon’s newer STARS, or Standard Terminal Automation Replacement System equipment, to get a clear picture of aircraft operations over the Pacific airpace.

The digitized blips on the screen represented his ten top-secret Defender 747s armed with laser canons. They were the Tier 3 component of his Defender system, based on America’s Airborne Laser Test Bed program. Each Defender plane could direct energy to attack multiple targets at the speed of light, at a range of hundreds of kilometers, and at a lower cost per intercept than missiles.

He could only imagine the look on General Zhang’s face any minute now when he launched his DF-5s in response to the incoming American Minutemen nukes. The onboard sensors of the U.S. Defenders would detect the boosting Chinese missiles and track them with a low-energy laser. A second low-energy laser would measure and compensate for atmospheric disturbance. Finally, the Defender would fire its megawatt-class high-energy laser, heating the boosting DF-5 to critical structural failure.

And General Zhang would see the futility of his response even before the incoming Minutemen killed him.

Marshall spoke into his headset, “All Defenders report.”

Defender One reported, “All clear.”

“All clear,” reported Defender Two.

Every Defender, save Defender Six, was almost in range to shoot down any outgoing ICBMs from China that General Zhang might launch before he lost them to incoming Minuteman. Zhang’s window was closing fast to make a decision, and so was Marshall’s to make sure the Defenders could take out any Chinese missiles.

“Defender, climb to 38,000 feet,” Marshall ordered.

Marshall knew from personal experience as a fighter pilot that the hardest part of mission flying was reading the clouds. Aiming a laser canon in flight was infinitely harder. Volatile temperature and barometric pressure might bend the beam just enough to miss an outgoing missile, or jiggle the plane enough to blow the shot.

Defender Six updated its position. “Barometric pressure stabilizing.”

Marshall said, “Maintain course, Defender Six.”

Marshall had trained these pilots well, and the beauty was that nobody in the current situation knew about them. Not General Zhang in China nor General Block at Northern Command. Only President Rhinehart and General Carver at Strategic Command, who allowed Marshall’s program to proceed behind Congress’s back. Now they were both dead.

Best of all, at this time of year in January, Beijing was cold but dry, with an average of fewer than two days of rain.

In short, clear skies were perfect for lasers.

Marshall heard Banks cry out and turned to see her stagger back from the open door in the floor and collapse. He pulled out his M9 and walked over. She was spitting up blood, suffering, eyes pleading for help.

Marshall gazed down at her for a moment. She reached up her hand, and he took it in his left even as he lowered his right hand holding his M9.

“Mission accomplished, Major Tom.” There was pride but no pleasure in his voice. “You are honorably discharged,” he said and shot her in the head.

The light went out of her eyes instantly, and her head rolled to the side.

Marshall moved to the open door in the floor and peered over the edge, cautiously. He saw none other than Colonel Joe Kozlowski coming up the ladder, with what appeared to be Deborah Sachs some way behind him. Kozlowski was pointing a gun up at him, and Marshall moved back as a bullet whizzed by his ear.

Marshall stuck his hand holding his gun over the edge and sprayed several bullets straight down until Kozlowski stopped firing.

56

1645 Hours
Safeguard Complex

Sachs heard the gunshots and called out Koz’s name. But instead of an answer she saw him suddenly lose his grip and fall toward her. She grasped the next rung of the steel ladder with one hand and swung out of the way. She watched in horror as Koz’s body hit the concrete floor at the base of the ladder far below.

She screamed. “Oh, my God!”

“I’m up here!” Above her, Marshall’s face lingered in the opening, gun in hand, but then withdrew from sight.

She froze on the ladder. She desperately wanted to crawl down to Koz and run away from that monster Marshall above her. But run to what? A world that Marshall destroyed? There was no turning back, she realized. This was either kill or be killed, and she had to keep going. Jennifer and at least a billion American and Chinese were counting on her.

Sachs willed herself up the ladder, one rung at a time, hand over hand, boot over b until she reached the opening. She wanted to stick a hand up through the space with a gun, but she needed two hands to pull herself up and over onto the steel floor.

She instantly sprang to her feet and whipped out her gun, breathing hard. She looked around cautiously, but there was no one there except for the dead radio operator sprawled against the wall, an M9 on the floor beside her.

Sachs kicked the pistol over the edge of the floor door and scanned the austere, two-story-tall turret. Dominating the chamber were something like huge loudspeakers in each of the four slanted walls. The effect was like being inside the bell tower of some monstrous cathedral from the Dark Ages—the Church of Armageddon. And the altar seemed to be a console with communications and radar instruments.

She noted the large, square radar screen with a Raytheon logo on the bezel and a large brown keyboard with four different sets of keypads grouped on it, along with the biggest metal computer mouse she had ever seen.

The whole thing looked like some Doppler weather radar. But the icons and numbers on the screen told her it was some kind of air traffic controller’s radar screen.

It showed ten arrow-like icons, and the mass they were moving toward looked like China.

The Defenders aren’t anti-ballistic missiles. They’re airborne.

And they were poised off China to shoot down any Chinese missiles.

There was a step behind her. She turned and raised her M9 as Marshall dropped down from an overhead platform, a pistol in one hand pointed at her. He was far more imposing and intimidating in person than on TV, his ice-cold blue eyes revealing an iron will of a warrior on mission, even as his cruel mouth smiled with bemused approval.

“Why, Secretary Sachs, is that a standard-issue U.S. military sidearm you’re waving at me?” he said. “I didn’t know you had it in you. Better be careful, you might hurt yourself.”

Sachs raised her gun at Marshall. “I will kill you, Marshall.”

“You know I’ve already given my life for my country,” he said, taking a step forward. “You think I’m not ready to die to see this through? I’m a patriot.”

“Of course you are, Marshall. You’re the Great American Pretender.”

“Defender, Sachs,” Marshall said sharply, his smile disappearing. “Defender.”

“Defender,” she repeated, trying to put everything together that she had seen. “You were so confident we could win this war with minimal casualties.”

“Maybe we can,” Marshall said.

The radio crackled. “Defender Ten, all clear.”

“Defender Nine, all clear.”

Sachs realized Marshall had established the secret frequency she needed to recall the Defenders. If only she could reach the radio. “You actually built your Defender system, didn’t you?”

Marshall cracked a grin. “I’ve got ten airborne COIL lasers that can pinpoint and destroy enemy missiles hundreds of miles away.”

“So you blew up Washington?” Sachs said accusingly.

Marshall grew scarily calm, but his eyes were ablaze with purpose. “It was clean, Sachs. I took out buildings. Not people.”

“What do you call four thousand Americans?”

“Not much more than 9/11,” he said. “Any reasonable president would have launched under attack. But you wouldn’t.”

“So you blew up SAC headquarters,” she said. “And you went after my daughter!”

“Something worth thinking about now, Sachs, if you want her to live.”

Marshall took another step closer, and Sachs took a step back. Suddenly she wondered why he hadn’t killed her yet.

“What do you want with her, Marshall?”

“Just a little leverage,” Marshall said, raising his gun to her head. “I might need you to make one more address about your attack on the Chinese.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, realizing that Marshall—and history—was going to blame this apocalypse on her failed leadership.

“You’re going to take a bullet for America, Sachs,” he told her. “You think the Chinese promote multiculturalism or celebrate diversity like you want your students to? You’ve seen the trends. You’ve seen the future. You really want your daughter to grow up under red skies? Or, worse, a multi-polar world of war and chaos? I have to protect western civilization before people like you piss it away.”

“How convenient,” she said. “Is that what you’re going to say the day after?”

“This is the day after,” Marshall told her. “Now hand over the gun, Sachs. We both know you can’t pull the trigger.”

She said, “Not until I can see the enemy.”

She felt the veins in her hand throb as she gripped the gun. She could barely catch her breath, her heart was racing so fast. One way or another, she told herself, she was going to take a bullet. Whether she took the shot or not, she was going to die. She had to take the shot. She had to pull the trigger.

Marshall smiled. “Those who can’t, teach,” he said, coaxing her. “Come on. Give it to me.”

Sachs, her hands trembling, started to lower her arms. He was only a few feet away now, more confident than ever, his hand swinging up with his gun.

Sachs jerked up her gun and fired three times fast, one bullet snapping his head back, the others catching him in the chest, driving him against his radar equipment. He bounced off and fell onto the liner plate floor, a stream of blood trickling into a crack like waste in a gutter.

Hands trembling, gun smoking, she dropped the pistol on the floor with a clank.

“Decapitation, Marshall. Your own philosophy.”

Marshall was lifeless. Powder burns surrounded the black hole in his forehead. His piercing blue eyes remained wide open in surprise. Sachs stood there numb, staring at Marshall, her heart sick, her stomach swelling.

The crackle of the radio broke her trance: “Defender One, update.”

Sachs staggered over to the console. She felt weak as she grasped the microphone with her hand and then saw blood on it. She looked down at her body. More blood. Somewhere along the line she already had taken a bullet. Now she had to recall the Defenders before that bullet took her last breath.

57

1649 Hours
The Pacific / Northern Command

High over the Pacific Ocean, ten 747 jumbo jets were strung out like white pearls in the moonlight. Inside their respective cockpits, President Deborah Sachs’ very weak voice came through the secret frequency: “Arm your phasers,” she said. “Target is now U.S. Minutemen missiles entering Chinese airspace. Repeat. Target is now ten U.S. missiles entering Chinese airspace.”

• • •

Inside Northern Command, General Block heard her too, thanks to the Defender One pilot who was patching everything through for verification since General Marshall had ceased transmission.

“Good God,” Block told his senior controller. “They’re really up there, fully operational. Ten actual airborne Defenders.”

“They’re requesting confirmation for the destruction of outgoing U.S. missiles in place of potential incoming Chinese missiles,” the senior controller said.

Even now, Block realized, elements of his own armed forces still refused to heed the words of their new commander-in-chief. “You tell them they heard right.”

• • •

Floating at 35,000 feet, Defender One swung into position. Mounted on its nosecone, a large swiveling laser cannon turret containing a beam director and infrared sensor scanned the horizon for missile launches.

The beam director shot a low-powered laser beam to track the missiles and measure atmospheric distortion.

Meanwhile, inside the forward fuselage of the Defender, a mirror adjusted while the displays of a computer console flashed. One display read Atmospheric Distortion 34.222. Another display read: missile tracking: locked.

The mirror locked into place.

Inside the rear fuselage of Defender One, walls of transparent storage tanks lined both sides of a narrow aisle—30,000 pounds of chemicals moving at supersonic speeds, mixed in a rocket engine-like chamber. A flash in the mix lit up and shot through the clear shaft.

The laser burst out through the beam director in the nosecone of the 747.

Over the Pacific Ocean, the first Minuteman exploded over black waters.

• • •

Not cheers but stunned silence lay like a cloud over the Northern Command headquarters as one by one the blips representing Minuteman missiles coming down on China disappeared.

Block exhaled with both admiration and horror. “Goddamn Marshall.”

It didn’t take long for General Zhang to call.

Block picked up his red phone. “What do you want, Zhang?”

Zhang said in perfect American English, “We wish to cease hostilities.”

“I’m sure you do,” Block said. “You saw that we can destroy our own missiles. Which means we can destroy yours too.”

Zhang continued, “We suggest an immediate, verifiable cease-fire.”

“Lucky for you, President Sachs agrees. But she wants a long-term, verifiable treaty we’ll work out later.”

“Agreed.” Zhang said. “Over.”

Before Zhang cut off, Block caught several more words in Mandarin that he didn’t understand. He hung up and looked at his senior controller, who was fluent in Mandarin.

“Tough broad,” he translated. “But what can we do?”

“You got that right,” Block said. “Tell her we’ve got teams from Grand Forks on the way to her with medical attention.”

But his senior controller said, “She’s not responding anymore, sir.”

58

1650 Hours
Bedford Country Club

Jennifer came to a half hour later, struggling as the Green Beret on top of her forced her against the floor caddyshack, one hand grabbing her hair and snapping her head back, the other pawing at her breasts. Her clothes were still on, nothing open so far, thank God. This drunken perv had only dry humped so far, but his grinding repulsed her like nothing before in her life.

“This isn’t frickin’ Afghanistan!” she screamed, kneeing him in the groin. “You can’t just rape girls!”

He bellowed in pain but didn’t let go of her, pulling her tighter until she winced in pain. “Oh, I’m going to like you,” he told her, forcing his mouth on hers.

She reached for his empty Sam Adams bottle on the floor beside them. Her fingers fumbled, then grasped one by the neck but couldn’t get a firm hold. She was about to lose it as he shifted on her.

She grimaced, then slipped her tongue into his mouth and he came alive. She used the moment to grab the bottle and club him across the side of his head.

“Bitch!” he cried out, staggering to the side as she hit him again, sending him face down on the floor.

“Believe it, asshole!” She kicked him out of the way, the rage in her so strong that this time instead of opening the front door, she just kicked it open with little difficulty and ran out to blazing lights and guns and froze.

A dark, thin figure emerged from the lights, like one of those aliens from the movies.

“Jennifer, I’m Sergeant Wanda Randolph of the United States Capitol Police. Your mother sent me to help you.”

Jennifer wanted to cry like a baby. Instead she fixed her eyes on the long sniper rifle Randolph’s hands. “That’s a sweet Barrett M107 50 caliber. Can I hold it?”

59

0631 Hours
The Day After
The Safeguard Complex

It was the 91st Security Forces Squadron team that reached Sachs first at the Safeguard complex. She was unconscious on the floor under a console, her clothes, hands and hair a bloody mess. But she was breathing, and they stabilized her quickly then moved her outside.

As dawn broke over the 80-foot pyramid radar building, she blinked her eyes open into the cold light of day. It seemed like there were hundreds of soldiers, federal agents and FEMA officials on hand. News crews too, although they had been fenced off beyond the base.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“You,” said a familiar voice. “You’ll be just fine. But we’ll need to airlift you for surgery to get that bullet out of you. I got lucky. Mine passed clean through.”

She looked over to see Koz, his shoulder in a bandage. “Koz.” She paused. “Captain Li?”

Koz shook his head, clearly broken up. “Last official casualty of the D.C. attack. But it’s over, thanks to you.”

There was a shout, and a soldier ran up with a phone for Koz. “General Block, sir.”

Koz took the phone and said, “Captain Li is dead, sir. So is Marshall.”

Sachs could hear Block’s shocked voice on the other end. “You killed Marshall?”

“No, sir,” Koz said, looking at her. “She did.”

“Sachs?” Block repeated, even louder.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

There were more shouts and the snow kicked up. Sachs looked around, bewildered. Suddenly a Black Hawk chopper landed on the missile field. Her body instantly seized up in terror. Then the chopper’s big door slid open and out jumped a tall, thin African-American officer. And right behind her was Jennifer, running toward her.

“Mom!” Jennifer called. “Mom!”

Jennifer ran up to her and embraced her. Sachs cried her eyes out, kissing Jennifer all over, squeezing her until her baby could barely breathe. “Oh, baby.”

Koz had to gingerly pry them apart.

Jennifer straightened and looked over Koz once, then twice, and without disappointment. She must have seen something, because she smiled and saluted him.

Koz returned the salute, and Jennifer gave her mom a big thumbs-up, as if to say that, despite everything that had happened, America was going to be OK.

60

0900 Hours
Three Weeks Later
Looking Glass

Koz sat in the conference room of the Looking Glass plane watching the ceremonies on TV. They were raising the U.S. Constitution from the bowels of the earth where the National Archives once stood, and he noted how regal President Sachs looked as a large crane lifted the indestructible container with the indestructible document into the air. But to Koz it was indestructible only because it lived in the hearts of Americans like Deborah Sachs.

He was so mesmerized by the scene that he didn’t notice his new communications officer walk in. “General Kozlowski

Koz glanced over at Captain Lyndon Han, who was holding his digital tablet and pen out for a signature. Han was no Captain Li, but it wasn’t Han’s fault. Koz signed off the checklist on the tablet and handed it back.

Han nodded at the TV. “Dinner at the president’s again tonight, sir?”

“No,” Koz said, brightening. “I’m cooking.”

As he spoke his BlackBerry buzzed with a text message. Only a few people besides the president were ever allowed to get through to him up here.

“Excuse me, Captain,” he said, looking at the text.

It was from Jennifer Sachs: R u really grilling 2nite? Count me in! : )

He stared at the text for a long minute. He could barely comprehend the tragic, terrible twist of fate that begat a new nuclear family from the ashes of a nuclear attack. He lost himself for a moment, remembering Sherry and so many others who perished in Washington. He should have been one of them, if not for Captain Li. Hell, they all would have perished were it not for Deborah Sachs.

Then his comm beeped with an FYI about a glitch in the VLF extension that he really needn’t worry about and his trance was broken.

“I better have a look at that myself,” he said, taking no glitch for granted since encountering the War Cloud.

As he rose from his chair and stood up, he looked out the compartment window and smiled. The Looking Glass plane was moving up and away above the clouds, its starboard wing reflecting the glint of a new day’s sun against clear blue skies.

THE END

COMING SOON

A stunning technological breakthrough…

enables the Pentagon to use the sliced brain tissues of dead terrorists…

to enter their memories and effectively travel back in time to glean priceless intel.

Now they want to send disgraced counterterrorism agent Sam Deker back to 1943 on a suicidal mission to steal a lost apocalyptic text from ruthless SS General Ludwig von Berg, the legendary Baron of the Black Order. The coded text not only predicts the end of the world but also contains the nuclear formula to do it.

And if Deker fails in the past, he will come back to a 21st century ruled by the Nazis

—if he comes back at all.

Don’t miss….

THE 34TH DEGREE

Summer 2011

At Bookstores Everywhere

Prologue

METEORA, GREECE
1943

It was on the Feast of the Ascension, forty days after Easter, 1943, when ent of the British Secret Service turned up at the doorstep of the Monastery of the Taborian Light and Philip knew his life as a monk was over.

Wrapped in his black cassock and hood, Philip had been on his knees with his brothers in the sanctuary, celebrating the resurrection and ascension of the Lord Jesus Christ, praying in eager expectation of His return. This was as he had done for more than 20 years, ever since he renounced his former ways and retired to the Monastery of the Taborian Light.

The monastery was perched atop one of the many other-worldly peaks of Meteora, the most remote and mysterious region of Greece. A thousand feet below lay the village of Kastraki, nestled in the foothills. Clinging to its gray, granite summit, undisturbed by war or petty human conflicts, the Taborian Light was an impregnable retreat where the Eastern Orthodox monks could witness the unfolding of earthly affairs below and reflect on the eternal.

Here Philip made it his ambition to lead a quiet and peaceful life, just as the Apostle Paul had instructed the original church at Thessalonika. Toward that end he had allowed his gray hair and beard to grow long and make him seem older than his fifty years. Cloaked in the humility of a monk, he tried to make himself as small a figure as possible.

But a shapeless cassock could not hide his hard physique or the alert, confident movements of his limbs. Nor could his hood completely veil his eagle-like nose and sharp features. Locals who glimpsed his face during a rare trip to the village never missed his shining, black ram-like eyes, set wide apart beneath bushy eyebrows. Their faces would darken with fear and they would scurry away. Whether they recognized him or not, they instinctively knew he was not one of them.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke Philip’s trance and his quick eyes darted up to see brother Vangelis whisper into the Archimandrite’s ear. The old monk’s face, barely visible behind his great beard and the smoky veil of burning incense, fell as he looked at Philip, and the peace that Philip had known for 20 years left him.

So the day has come, Philip thought, and with it the dread.

Philip crossed himself three times before he rose from the floor. With a silent nod he acknowledged the Archimandrite, took a deep breath and left the sanctuary.

The visitor was in the narthex, admiring a wall painting of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He was dressed like a Greek peasant, and with his high forehead, long aesthetic features and beard he bore an absurd resemblance to a saint out of some Byzantine icon. But his blue eyes and fair skin betrayed him. When he spoke, it was in perfect Oxford English.

“Commander Lloyd, British Intelligence,” said the Englishman, looking him over. “You must be Philip. You’re smaller than I thought.”

That’s what most men thought. Philip lowered his hood and watched Lloyd drop back a couple of steps in fear.

“They were right, after all,” said Lloyd, marveling. “The face of a hawk and the eyes of a ram.”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Commander Lloyd of British Intelligence?”

“Why, the same thing the Nazis want,” Lloyd replied. “The text.”

An uneasiness Philip hadn’t felt since his early days npped his heart, and he blinked as though he failed to understand. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”

“The Maranatha text,” pressed Lloyd. “The one the Apostle Paul wrote to the Thessalonian church in the first century. The one that predicts the end of the world and the return of Christ.”

The words lifted the hair on Philip’s neck. He struggled to suppress his anxiety and keep a steady voice. “There are two letters to the Thessalonians in the Bible, Commander. In both of them Paul warns—as Jesus did—that believers are forbidden to speculate about the time of the Lord’s return. Indeed, ‘The day of the Lord shall come as a thief in the night.’”

“That a third letter probably existed is confirmed by Paul himself,” Lloyd insisted. “In what you would call his second letter to the Thessalonians, the apostle refers to further information he had taught them previously, probably in person but perhaps by letter.”

“This so-called Maranatha text to which you are referring?”

“That’s right.”

Philip looked at Lloyd, well-bred and impatient. He is as I once was, he thought, and decided to be gentle but firm. “Even if there ever were such a text, Commander, what makes British Intelligence believe it has survived the ages?”
Lloyd had a ready answer. “When Arab Muslims besieged Constantinople in the eighth century, the Byzantine Greeks defending the city were able to save themselves with a miraculous and secret weapon: a compound that burned when it came into contact with water. A substance that became known as Greek Fire. The exact formula used by the Greeks remains a mystery, but we know it included the compound naphthene palmitate. Better known as napalm.”

“Which is hardly a secret anymore,” Philip observed, “as napalm is commonplace in your bombs and flamethrowers.”

“But the Byzantine Greeks deployed it in a different and in some ways more potent form twelve hundred years ago.”

Philip shrugged. “I hardly see what Greek Fire has to do with the Maranatha text.”

“The defenders of Constantinople used Greek Fire aboard their war vessels as a missile to be hurled from a catapult. By destroying the wooden fleets of the Muslim Arabs, Greek Fire blocked the spread of Islam into Europe. Rumors swirled among the ranks of the retreating Muslims that the Byzantine Greeks had discovered the formula for their infernal fire encoded in the contents of the legendary Maranatha text. That is why seven centuries later, when Constantinople finally fell to the Turks in the fifteenth century, bands of Muslim invaders turned over every stone in the city to find it.”

“But the text, I take it, was not to be found,” Philip said guardedly.

“No. During the siege it was smuggled out of the city and returned to its original home, a secret monastic order descended from the original Thessalonian church, whose members can trace their ancestry through the laying on of hands to the Apostle Paul himself.”

“An interesting tale, Commander.”

“Yes, and I have another one for you,” Lloyd said. “This one takes place centuries later during the Greek-Turkish war in Asia Minor in 1922. An aide-de-camp to Kemal, the great warrior Hadji Azrael, the Angel of Death, shocked the empire by laying down his sword, renouncing Islam and embracing the Christian faith of his enemies.”

Philip’s heart skipped a beat. Unconsciously, his placed his left hand over the large, ornate cross that hung from his neck as Lloyd continued.

“There was a secret ceremony with the Patriarch of the Eastern Church himself, the laying on of hands, and a new name for this once sworn enemy of Greeks, this killer of Christians. Ultimately, his orders sent him to the monastic order that guards the legendary Maranatha text he once sought to destroy and he became its protector, wearing a gold cross with a sapphire omega set in the center, the very one you seem to be wearing, Philip. Or, should I say, Hadji Azrael?”

In his former days Hadji Azrael would have known exactly how to deal with a man like Commander Lloyd of British Intelligence. The Englishman would never have been heard from again. But the Way of Christ demanded mercy. And so Philip reluctantly showed his visitor to the Archimandrite’s chambers, a sparse room with a hard bed and rough-hewn table around which the three men sat on straw chairs.

The Archimandrite eyed Lloyd and fingered his black worry beads. “How did you find us, Commander Lloyd?”

“The Koutras family in Kastraki,” Lloyd explained in passable Greek. “They were hiding me from the Germans. Young Gregory knew the secret bridle path to the Taborian Light.”

The Archimandrite turned to Philip, who nodded that this was probably the case.

“I see, Commander,” said the Archimandrite. “And since when is British Intelligence so interested in spiritual things?”

“It’s Hitler’s interest that concerns us, Archimandrite. Fact is, Greek Fire changed the course of history. Hitler believes it can do so again. Only this time it’s the modern fleets of the invading Allies he wants to burn before they land on the beaches of Nazi-occupied Europe.”

Lloyd produced a document from inside his tunic. “This communiqué was intercepted between Ankara and Berlin. It’s a telegram from the German Ambassador to Turkey, Franz von Papen, to Nazi Foreign Minister Ribbentrop.”

He handed the document to Philip, who looked it over carefully. It was an English copy of the German original and said that an SS General, a certain Ludwig von Berg, had discovered the location of the Monastery of the Taborian Light.

This was terrible news, Philip realized, even worse than he had feared. It meant they must flee Meteora at once or risk having the Maranatha text fall into German hands.

The Archimandrite must have sensed his distress, for he asked, “What is it, Philip?” When Philip told him that the Germans had located the Taborian Light, the old monk’s face turned white and he crossed himself. “Lord, have mercy on us all!”

Philip turned to Lloyd. “Who is this General von Berg, Commander?”

“You mean the Baron of the Black Order?” Lloyd shivered. “Only the most dangerous man in the Third Reich after Hitler and Himmler—and more cunning than both of them put together.”

Philip ped the communiqué back to Lloyd, who pocketed it.

“As you can see, Hadji Azrael, our interests are purely political,” Lloyd told him, patting the bulge in his tunic. “Churchill simply wants the Maranatha text out of Hitler’s reach for the rest of the war.”

Philip wasn’t so sure. The communiqué contained several puzzling references to a microfilm of a first-century copy of the Maranatha text, a copy allegedly unearthed by British archaeologists in Palestine. As far as Philip knew, there was no such copy, only the original text now buried beneath the monastery’s crypt. Obviously there was more to this intrigue than Commander Lloyd of British Intelligence was telling them. “And what does Mr. Churchill propose, Commander?”

“That I smuggle the text out of here on horseback to Kalambaka, hitch a ride on the Thessalian Railway to Volos and then board a certain ship to neutral Istanbul. There I entrust the text to the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church himself for safekeeping until the end of the war.”

Lloyd’s offer was too generous for Philip to believe. But he could see it made an impression on the Archimandrite, who began to nod as he worked his worry beads.

“Surely, Archimandrite, you’re not seriously entertaining this stranger’s insane proposition?”

The Archimandrite sighed. “Better the text be with the Patriarch than in the hands of the Antichrist.”

That was presuming the text ever reached the Patriarch. Philip did not trust British Intelligence. Nor could he trust the judgment of his superior, who, having never killed a man, clearly was at a serious disadvantage here. At times the Archimandrite seemed to forget that the heart of man was above all else cruelly deceptive and exceedingly wicked. But Philip, responsible for thousands of deaths, knew the human heart all too well.

“I am bound by a sacred oath to protect the Maranatha text,” he said. “I must insist that I be the one to deliver it to the Patriarch.”

The Archimandrite shook his head. “You know that is not possible. There is a death sentence on you the moment your feet touch Muslim ground. No, Philip. Brother Yiorgios will accompany Commander Lloyd to Constantinople.”

“Brother Yiorgios?” Lloyd frowned.

“Our silent brother,” said Philip, trying to conceal his bitterness. “We found him some months ago, roaming the hills not far from here, the last survivor of a monastery the Italians plundered. He has never said a word of that unspeakable evil. We put it all together when we saw his cassock and heard the reports.”

“He keeps everything to himself,” said the Archimandrite, who raised an eyebrow at Philip. “An example to us all.”

Philip added, “Vangelis insists he goes out at night into the woods to speak to the devil.”

The Archimandrite dismissed the notion with a wave of his gnarled hand. “That one sees a devil behind every fig tree.”

Seeing clearly that his superior was not going to allow him to accompany Lloyd, Philip switched tactics. If reason failed to move the Archimandrite, then perhaps the unreasonable would smoke out the Englishman. “I say we rn the infernal text and be done with it.”

“You would destroy God’s revelation?” The Archimandrite looked at Philip in horror. “Come to your senses, Philip!”

“I’ve told you my suspicions, Archimandrite. Paul warned our forefathers to beware of any unsettling letter supposedly coming from him that talks about the Lord’s return.”

“Just a bloody minute,” said Lloyd, his eyes shifting back and forth between Philip and the Archimandrite. “You don’t think the text is genuine?”

“A genuine forgery, “ Philip told him. “The Bible itself speaks of such a letter, one allegedly written by Paul that claims the last days have already come.” He looked the Archimandrite straight in the eye. “Perhaps the Maranatha text is the very false report Paul mentions in his second letter to the Thessalonians, the very letter from Hell he warns us to consider at our own peril.”

“Perhaps, Philip,” said the Archimandrite, suddenly sounding tired beyond his considerable years. “But how can you be sure?”

“The very nature of this text contradicts Paul’s repeated warnings to us not to entangle ourselves with endless timetables and futile speculations. Can’t you see, Archimandrite? There is something very diabolical about this text. Death surrounds it! Look at what it does to men.”

Philip was pointing to Lloyd, who at first was startled by the gesture but soon found his tongue and turned everything Philip had said to his advantage.

“Archimandrite, if what Hadji Azrael says is true, then you must help us,” he argued with rising passion. “If you don’t, if the Maranatha text should fall into Hitler’s hands, you will fan into flame the all-consuming fires of Armageddon. And if Jesus Christ should come back today or in a thousand years, it will be you who must stand alone before his throne of judgment with the innocent blood of millions of women and children on your hands. And these words of mine will judge you when they are replayed for all to hear. How will you account for yourself?”

It was a dirty trick that had its desired effect on the Archimandrite. The mere thought of what Lloyd said seemed too great a burden for the old monk to bear. His shoulders drooped and a faraway look filled his eyes. “Yes,” the Archimandrite repeated with resignation. “Better the text be in the hands of the Patriarch than the Antichrist.”

Philip could not believe this was happening. “But Archimandrite—”

“The matter is settled, Philip.” The Archimandrite grasped his rough, wooden cane and rose slowly to his feet. “Brother Yiorgios will accompany Commander Lloyd to Constantinople. The Patriarch will decide what should be done with the Maranatha text.”

“The Prime Minister’s sentiments exactly,” chimed Lloyd, grinning in triumph as he looked at Philip.

Philip stared at the floor, unable to suppress the restlessness in his heart. “To let this text leave this monastery is to open a Pandora’s box of evil,” he warned. “Who knows where it could end?”

It was a question that neither the Archimandrite nor Lloyd was able to answer, for at that moment Bangelis burst through the door.

“Germans!” he cried, out of breath. “Coming up the hill!”

It was a sight Philip had to see with his own eyes from the monastery’s watchtower: A Death’s Head battalion of 24 SS paratroopers was converging on the granite summit. Behind them a pillar of black smoke rose from Kastraki. What was once a sleepy village nestled a thousand feet below the towering rock formations of Meteora was now death and destruction.

They had come from Crete, these Fallschirmjager in field-gray uniforms and rimless steel helmets. Hand-picked by Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself, they were the pride of the Waffen SS. These days found them loose on the Greek mainland, clearing the mountains of partisans and performing special missions for Himmler’s second-in-command, the mysterious SS General Ludwig von Berg.

Leading the way up was the Baron of the Black Order himself, handsome and wholly evil. One hand held a Schmeisser machine pistol, the other a leash with a terrified Gregory Koutras straining at the end. The boy tried to shout a warning. Von Berg yanked hard on the leash, choking off his cries.

Philip was no stranger to the art of war and the effects of military regalia. But even he felt a chill at the sight of Ludwig von Berg marching toward the monastery in his smartly tailored black dress uniform, black boots and black leather accessories. Above his sleeve’s cuff title was the diamond-shaped SD patch of the Sicherheitsdienst or SS intelligence service, which meant he was the worst of the lot. Flanking him were two Fallschirmjager with their machine pistols.

The Baron of the Black Order looked younger than his reputed age of 40 and radiated venal power. Glints of gold hair were visible beneath his black SS cap, and his smooth, clean-shaven cheeks tapered down to a twisted smile. His beak-like nose and upper lip, in particular, gave him the air of a predator. But it was his eyes that dominated his appearance, those clear blue eyes with a gaze that could pierce armor plating.

The silver skull-and-crossbones insignia of the Death’s Head badge on von Berg’s cap signaled the general’s willingness to give and take death in the holy cause of National Socialism. But it was also the grim reminder of the invincibility of the Baron of the Black Order, who was said to have a silver plate in his skull and a seemingly supernatural ability to survive assassins’ bullets. Even Philip had heard of the joke within the ranks of the SS: The Baron had nine lives, and for each life the world was a worse place.

Philip turned from his perch and rushed to the cave beneath the monastery. Commander Lloyd stood at the secret exit tunnel with Brother Yiorgios, who clutched the ornate gold canister from Byzantium containing the legendary Maranatha text. Six monks stood by, ready to roll the large mosaic slab that hid the tunnel back into place.

“You’ll come out in the Pindos chain of mountains,” Philip told them. “From there you are in God’s hands. Now go.”

Inside the marble crypt beneath the monastery, Philip joined the Archimandrite and the rest of the monks huddled together in the dark. It was musty from the bones of the saints buried in the alcoves around them, the temptation to cough and betray their presence all too real.

Philip could hear the scrape of jackboots on the floor above as the stormtroopers stripped priceless mosaics from the walls. He was sure the incense and smoke from snuffed-out candles had already informed Baron von Berg that the monastery had not been long abandoned. But even if the Nazis should torch their monastery and burn it to the ground, yes, even then they would rise from the ashes like the Phoenix and rebuild, just as they had done after the Italians, the Turks and every invader before them.

“Outstanding, really,” a chilling authoritarian voice that could only be Baron von Berg’s boomed above. “These Greek Orthodox monks have transformed their faith into an art form. Unfortunately, I suspect their art will outlast their faith. Yes, several icons here would make excellent additions to the Fuhrer’s collection. The best ones I keep for myself, of course. Along with the Maranatha text.”

Suddenly, something like thunder rumbled overhead, followed by a flash of light as the marble slab to the crypt was lifted away. Fear seized them all as they looked up to see the face of evil staring down like an austere icon painted inside the dome of a church. The face of SS General Ludwig von Berg smiled at them, but his voice addressed somebody else.

“Unfortunately, Standartenfuhrer Ulrich, you will have to join the martyrs in making a rather abrupt departure from this world. You and Himmler didn’t really think you could run off with the text and keep it a secret from me?”

From somewhere out of view came the cry, “I know who you are, von Berg! Himmler told me. You can’t get away with this! We know who you are!”

“To whom are you appealing, Ulrich? Reason? Justice? God? According to the SS rules that you have chosen to live and die by, you stand outside the jurisdiction of German state courts and even those courts of the Nazi Party. I am your judge now, and I know no justice except my own.”

Philip and the monks now could see Ulrich’s back pressed against the low wall of the crypt. Something about him seemed oddly familiar to Philip.

“You are mad, von Berg, insane.”

“The Reichsfuhrer chases fantasies and you call me mad? Hardly, Ulrich. Oh, I’ll keep this so-called Maranatha text, but not to indulge the Fuhrer’s mysticism. There’s a war going on, and the last thing we need is this apocalyptic nonsense to further cloud the Fuhrer’s judgment. Now if you will please hand over your SS dagger, Standartenfuhrer. Quickly, we haven’t all day.”

Philip heard the shuffle of boots and then saw Ulrich’s own men take hold of him. Then a black sleeve reached forward and removed the dagger from its sheath.

“See the words engraved on its hilt? Yes, say them out loud.”

Ulrich’s hoarse voice replied, “Blood and honor.”

“That’s right, Ulrich. Your blood, my honor.”

There was a flash as the blade caught the light. Ulrich screamed.

“You see, there is an art to dying,” von Berg’s voice mused above Ulrich’s cries. “In one stroke a traitor is killed and decrepit monks become martyrs. Of course, it may help you to consider yourself a martyr. Every faith needs them, even our own. I can only wonder when you wake up whether it will be in the same place as those you are about to join.”

The monks saw Ulrich fall backward into the crypt, pushed by the stiff hand that still lingered in the air overhead. They shrank back in fear to avoid the falling body and felt the ground shake when Ulrich hit the floor.

Philip bent over the crumpled, robe-clad body, and turned the head to see the German’s face.

Brother Yiorgios!

In that instant Philip realized that Yiorgios was a Nazi spy, Commander Lloyd of the British Secret Service was dead, and the Baron of the Black Order now possessed the Maranatha text.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner!

Then he felt something like raindrops and smelled petrol in the air. When he looked up, the Baron held a lit cigarette over the open crypt.

“See you in Valhalla, Ulrich. You, too, Hadji Azrael.”

Finding himself at his enemy’s mercy, Philip rose to his full height and looked up. “It is true I once answered the call of the muezzin to prayer as a child, that I have made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca, that I once lived by the sword of Allah. But now I serve the Lord Jesus Christ in the order of the Taborian Light.”

“The last of a dying order, I might add,” Von Berg said. “And you’ll fare no better than your brothers. Where is your precious Jesus to save you now?”

Philip stared at the burning cigarette above. Realizing that he was about to die, he resolved to depart this earth in a manner worthy of his calling. He must not allow a moment of personal weakness to blemish the cause of Christ. Nor must his hatred of this evil man keep him from extending the Lord’s forgiveness. “Oh, He is coming soon, Baron von Berg. You need not worry about that. His reward is with Him and He will give to everyone according to what he has done. He will repay you for your wickedness. But if you repent now, He will forgive you.”

“Is that so?” Von Berg smiled as his fingers dangled the cigarette. “You should have kept the vengeful faith of your former life, Hadji Azrael. Because if you had, the Maranatha text might be yours. Now it’s mine.”

Philip watched in horror as the Baron dropped the cigarette into the crypt. The flicker of light grew larger and larger until it bounced off the wall and scattered its tiny, glowing ashes across the floor. For a moment they seemed to melt into the darkness with no effect. Then a sudden flicker of light exploded into a burst of fire, illuminating the horrified faces of the Archimandrite and the brethren. A second later the inferno engulfed them all like the flames of hell.

THE 34TH DEGREE arrives in bookstores everywhere Summer 2011.

PRAISE FOR THOMAS GREANIAS

New York Times Bestselling Novelist and

The No. 1 Name in eBook Adventure

“The king of high-octane adventure.”

— Brad Thor, No. 1 New York Times bestselling author

“Irresistibly adding.”

— San Francisco Chronicle

“A superb writer who knows how to tell a tale with style and substance.”

— Nelson DeMille, No. 1 New York Times bestselling author

“Thomas Greanias masterfully exhibits superior craftsmanship of the English language as he weaves his in-depth knowledge of many different aspects ranging from astrology to international politics throughout his books.”

— Sacramento Book Review

“Thomas Greanias is a talented thriller author who never disappoints. His characters are well fleshed out and jump off the page with life. You can rest assured when you pick up any of his books that you will be turning pages super fast.”

— GoodReads.com

History’s greatest spy story begins here.

THE PROMISED WAR

The time-traveling, mind-bending, heart-stopping

and critically acclaimed epic adventure.

“Thomas Greanias masterfully blends the best aspects of the modern thriller and historical fiction. The end result is his finest work to date. It is a pleasure to witness Thomas Greanias’s growth as a writer from book to book. Greanias keeps getting better.”

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“A page-turner that portrays ancient Jericho as a city filled with airborne disease that would have killed the Israelites had they not killed the Canaanites.”

—World Magazine

1

Jerusalem

The Dome of the Rock mosque rose like the moon behind the towering wall that surrounded the Temple Mount. Sam Deker cleared the top of the wall and dropped into the gardens below, a wraith in the night. He glanced at the illuminated hands of his Krav Maga watch. Seven minutes to three. He had told Stern fourteen minutes back at the van. He had used up six. Time was running out.

Deker reached into his combat pack and pulled out a brick of C-4. He had enough bricks to take out half of the 35-acre complex. If he had any doubts about this mission, now was the moment to turn back. He slipped the C-4 back into his pack and moved through the maze of trees and shrubs.

The Temple Mount was the most contested religious site in the world. For Muslims the eight-sided, golden-capped Dome of the Rock mosque protected the “noble rock” that they believed to be the foundation stone of the earth and the place from which the Prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven.

But religious Jews believed the rock was the place from which God gathered the dust to create the first man, Adam, as well as the site of King Solomon’s Temple. According to Jewish prophecy it was also where a new temple would be bu—once the Dome of the Rock was gone. Many of these Jews, like Deker’s fanatical superior officer Uri Elezar, refused to set foot on such holy ground.

None of this was a problem for Deker. He could care less. Deker had been recruited by Israel’s internal security service, the Shin Bet, precisely because he was a secular American Jew who had served with the U.S. Marines in Iraq and Afghanistan as a demolitions officer. Who better to protect the Temple Mount, he was told, than a 26-year-old who specialized in the destruction of major structures and equally offended both sides of the religious divide?

Deker followed the route he had planned well in advance, timing his steps with the movements of the Palestinian security guards of the Islamic Waqf, or religious trust.

For almost a thousand years the Waqf had served as the protectors of the Temple Mount, even after Israeli captured Jerusalem in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. Such was their status as the true guardians of Islam—and allegedly above the petty political interests of the modern Palestinian Authority, which claimed it had sovereignty over the site.

Deker, however, knew the Waqf to be as political as any Muslim organization; it simply saw the Arab-Israeli struggle in terms of centuries, not decades. So far as the Waqf was concerned, Israel’s resurrection as a modern state in 1948 after 3,000 years of exile was but a foul blot on the long scroll of history. Israel, meanwhile, decided it best to prevent unnecessary provocations by its own more zealous citizens. So not only did it allow the Waqf to continue to manage the Temple Mount, it even enforced a controversial ban on Jewish prayers there.

When Deker finally reached the east wall of the Dome of the Rock mosque, he pressed his back against the blue ceramic tiles of the outer wall. He peered around the corner. A Waqf guard was making his way across the vast plaza toward the other mosque on the Mount, the silver-capped Al Aqsa. Deker waited until the guard passed under the “ma’avzin” arches and disappeared down the steps to the lower plaza. Then without hesitation he darted across the colonnaded entrance of the mosque and ducked inside.

The Waqf officer in charge that night was rounding one of the titanic marble columns that supported the dome 20 meters overhead when Deker entered the mosque. The Palestinian managed to grab his radio, but before he could engage the device to transmit even a sound Deker gave him a chop to the throat. He crumpled to the floor.

Deker made sure the guard still had a pulse before he turned to his right and followed the plush ruby carpet to the steps that led down to a cave dedicated to King Solomon. A relic of the Crusades, the cave had been carved out by the Order of the Knights Templar after they had converted the Dome of the Rock into their Templum Domini, or “Temple of our Lord.”

Medieval maps marked the cave as the “center of the world,” and the “well of souls” beneath it was said to have one time served as the resting place of the legendary lost Ark of Covenant. According to the ancient biblical account, the sacred Ark—an ornate box made of shittah wood and coated with gold—contained the original Ten Commandments, the tablets that God gave to Moses at Mount Sinai as the ancient Israelites wandered the desert in search of the Promised Land. Deker thought God—Yahweh to the Israelites—should have simply given Moses a map. It would have saved the Israelites 40 years and countless lives.

But the Knights Templar couldt hold the Temple Mount for long. A few years later it was back in the hands of the Muslim Waqf, where it had remained that past millennium.

Recently, the Waqf had quietly begun a massive subterranean tunneling operation. The IDF feared that the Waqf was on the verge of discovering an ancient network of chambers and corridors deep beneath the mount that predated even the First and Second Jewish Temples. The front door to that network was none other than the well of souls beneath the Dome of the Rock.

Adjan Husseini, the Palestinian head of the Waqf in Jerusalem, was kneeling face down in prayer when Deker entered the cave. At the sound of Deker’s footsteps, he lifted his head and started at the sight of the C-4 brick Deker removed from his pack.

Looking Husseini in the eye, Deker held the brick up and said, “Boom.”

“Commander Deker.” Husseini rose to his feet. “Go ahead. Take the shot.”

Deker put the C-4 brick back into his pack and took out his BlackBerry. Draping one arm around Husseini’s neck, he extended the other and snapped a photo with his phone’s camera. He then emailed it to Colonel Elezar.

“It’s time-stamped,” Deker said, putting the phone away. “I copied you, too.”

But Husseini, eyes wide, was staring at the explosives and blinking LED displays inside Deker’s open pack, catching on that the C-4 charges were real. “You could have blown us all to bits!”

Deker said, “I promised you that I would expose loopholes in your security in the hopes you’d finally relent and let us put up the electronic surveillance net.”

“So you can spy on us.”

“So we can better defend the Dome of the Rock from the ultra-Orthodox Jews who want to destroy it so that they can erect a Third Temple. Or from radical Palestinians who would pin the blame on Orthodox Jews. You’ve seen the intel. The threat’s real and it’s imminent.”

Husseini said nothing for a moment. A hole in the six-foot rock ceiling allowed a shaft of light from the mosque above to illuminate several small altars and prayer niches around the chamber. Deker could see Husseini’s eyes study him with bitter resentment through the haze of incense and flickering candlelight.

“You knew from the start that we’d never agree to Israeli surveillance,” Husseini said. “Yet you proceeded to pull this dangerous stunt only to humiliate us.”

Husseini was baiting him now, stalling. Deker sensed a trap and realized he had no idea where the Waqf guards outside were at the moment. He thought of Stern back at the van. It was time to leave.

“This security test isn’t nearly as dangerous as the weapons cache you’ve been stockpiling in the southeast corner under Solomon’s Stables,” Deker said.

Surprise registered on Husseini’s face, although Deker wasn’t sure if it was real or manufactured by the man.

“Oh, yes, we know about that,” Deker told him. “And that tunnel you’ve been digging right under this cave. If anyone is going to start the fire, it’s going to be you.”

Husseini picked up a bronze candelabra and brought it down heavily onto the floor’s marble slab. It gave out a hollow thud, revealing the existence of a lower chamber known as the Well of Souls. His face was an unreadable mask again.

“Is that really your concern here tonight, Commander Deker? Or are you afraid we might find something that Israel has been hiding from the world? Wise men have long believed that a cosmic portal exists here, a tunnel through space and time that leads to Paradise.”

Deker paused. “Or maybe it’s the gate to hell.”

Husseini was angry now. The expression of his face didn’t show it, and his voice was steady and subdued. But his words were bitter and sharp.

“You think you’re so special, Deker, better than the rest of us. That you’re the human pin in a live grenade, standing alone between old Arabs like me and Jews like your Colonel Elezar. But know this: the Jews won’t stop until they have destroyed the dome above us. Armageddon is inevitable. It’s a time bomb that will go off. You can’t stop it. Just like you couldn’t prevent your girlfriend from blowing herself up with an explosive made by your own hands.”

Deker felt the world give way under his feet at the thought of his Rachel. But he stood firm, emotionless in his expression, and turned to face Husseini, who picked up a ceremonial washbowl with a candle from the altar.

“I’m told it looked something like this,” Husseini said, stroking the red and black ceramic pattern. “You and your IDF masters intended to assassinate a Hamas militant inside the home of a Palestinian government official. But by some mystery known only to Allah, your bowl ended up in the hands of your beloved as she prepared to light her Shabbat candles to celebrate the first night of the Passover at the Western Wall. Mercifully, she perished the instant you hit your remote detonator. News reports said the six injured Jews around her took several hours to die.”

In that second, Deker wanted to reach out and rip out Husseini’s throat. And he would have, if he didn’t know that’s exactly what Husseini wanted him to attempt.

“The grief must torment you every waking hour and haunt you in your sleep,” Husseini went on, the corners of his mouth turning into a slight smile at having gotten even the suppression of a reaction out of him. “Perhaps that’s why you can’t leave this place. To you it was always a holy pile of rubbish, but to her it was her faith and life. Now it’s her tombstone and you are a ghost stumbling in the graveyard of history. But it’s impossible to bring her back. We can’t change the past any more than we can change the future.”

“That hasn’t stopped you from trying.” Deker produced a pottery shard he had found in an open trench at the base of the eastern wall. He pointed it like a dagger at Husseini’s chest. “Your bulldozers are destroying ancient First and Second Temple artifacts. As if you can erase Israel from history.”

Husseini’s eyes flickered in fear for the first time that night as he looked at the shard in Deker’s hand, clenched so tight that Deker didn’t know he had cut himself until he felt a trickle of blood through his fingers. The Palestinian seemed to realize he had pushed Deker too far, but he stood defiant.

“Keeping your dead lover’s memory alive doesn’t change the fact that Jerusalem has always been an Arab and Islamic city,” Husseini said, sticking with the party line to the end. “This is a plant. No Jewish Temple ever stood here.”

“Right,” Deker said, placing the bloodstained shard on the small altar as a souvenir of this encounter. “Neither did I.”

“Would that were true,” Husseini told him. “But a man at war with himself can’t keep the peace forever.”

Deker wiped his bloodied hand on his trouser leg, gave him a slight bow and turned toward the cave entrance. He then vanished up the steps, leaving Husseini to his prayers.

Three minutes later—and six minutes later than he had promised Stern—Deker rappelled over the eastern wall and landed on the roof of a yellow Caterpillar backhoe loader parked against the base. He jumped off and raced down the slope of the Muslim graveyard abutting the wall, weaving his way through the tombstones toward the parked Gihon Water and Sewage Company service van.

He stopped the second he saw the cracked windshield and unmistakable bullet hole.

Deker whipped out his Jericho 9mm pistol from his pack and rushed to the driver’s side of the van, aiming his Jericho through the window with one hand as he threw open the door with the other. Stern was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Deker felt sick with rage. He pushed Stern’s head with the nose of his gun. The lifeless head rolled to the side, a bloody hole in the temple.

A flash in the driver’s side mirror caught Deker’s eye and he glanced back to see a black van barreling up from behind. In the same motion, Deker jumped into the Gihon van, pushed Stern’s corpse away and slid behind the wheel. He heard the squeal of brakes and the crash of boots on the ground. As he turned the ignition and shifted gears, the glass behind him shattered.

He felt a prick in the back of his neck and he lurched forward into the dashboard. His head hanging down, everything spinning, he saw Stern’s twisted face staring at him before everything exploded in a burst of light.

Eight Questions for Thomas Greanias
About The Promised War

An interview by James Rollins,

New York Times Bestselling Author of

The Doomsday Key and The Devil Colony

Q. The Promised War depicts the ancient siege of Jericho as seen through the eyes of Sam Deker, a 21st-century demolitions specialist for the Israeli Defense Forces. Has he really been blown back to 1400BC? Or is he hallucinating under torture by his captors who want to break him into divulging Israel’s secret failsafe for Jerusalem?

A. Well, that’s one of several mysteries Deker has to figure out in the novel, along with staying alive, if he is still alive. Especially as everything is reversed in the world of 1400BC: It’s the Israelites in effect who are the Palestinians of that era, and it’s their leader General Joshua Bin-Nun who has declared holy war and “death to every breathing thing” in their patit’s clear from the start that The Promised War cuts across the ancient past, present day and apocalyptic future all at once.

Q. The love story between Deker and his beautiful enemy Rahab also breaches time and space. What inspired you?

A. The Book of Joshua says that General Joshua Bin-Nun, after supernatural guidance from Yahweh, sent two mysterious “spies from Shittim” to spy out the Land of Canaan—the Promised Land for the Israelites—in advance of the Israelite invasion. Who were these guys? What were they? I was always fascinated by the fact that the two spies are never named. That’s a break from the tradition of the other historical books of the Hebrew Scriptures, as are the missing details behind the covert ops Bin-Nun employed. They seem to be spelled out, except they aren’t, really. More like dust kicked up into our eyes to hide what’s really going on behind the smokescreen. I was also fascinated by the central role of Rahab the hooker in what many academics consider “the greatest spy thriller in history” because of its seminal impact on human civilization. There’s far more to her than meets the eye. Then my research confirmed that the Book of Joshua was written to hide as many things from Israel’s enemies throughout the ages as it was to reveal them to insiders. I was hooked, and the hunt was on.

Q. The Promised War is clearly not the Sunday School version of the ancient siege of Jericho. In playing with the fire of ancient history, modern politics and religious faith, how much pressure did you feel to make readers accept “This is as it was”?

A. I discovered that Jews and Arabs, both clerics and scholars alike, agree that the Israelites conquered the Promised Land around 1400BC, reset our history of the ancient world and shaped the next 3,500 years into the 21st century—even if they differ on particulars and whether or not it’s been a good thing. The bigger divide I found during my research was between people of faith who believe in the miraculous intervention of God—Jews, Muslims and Christians—and secularists who tend to dismiss the supernatural out of hand. (Unless, of course, it involves Atlantis, global conspiracies and other trademarks of my previous novels. But the contradictions of our contemporary pop culture are an entirely different discussion.) Because Sam Deker’s remarkable journey plays out against the paradox of miracles as “extraordinarily ordinary, yet ordinarily extraordinary,” I’m pleased to see that both camps have embraced The Promised War, or at least its paradox. And that’s what this novel is all about—paradox, those things our finite minds have the most trouble grasping.

Q. But you seem to explain away every miracle in the Book of Joshua in surprising, military-secular terms.

A. The key here is General Joshua Bin-Nun, successor to Moses and general of the Israelite army. On the one hand, he trusted Yahweh to lead his people into the Promised Land. On the other hand, he left nothing to chance. Think of David who killed Goliath with a single stone from his slingshot. If he knew God was going to help him bring the giant down with his first shot, then why did he pack five stones going into battle? In the same vein, Bin-Nun may have had faith that Yahweh would part the waters of the Jordan and bring down the walls of Jericho with a perfectly timed earthquake. But it’s inconceivable that a great leader like Bin-Nun didn’tntingencies or deploy them in startling and surprising ways like he does in The Promised War. Of course he had a back-up plan. The future of his people was on the line. What kind of general would he be if he didn’t? That early reviewers have found themselves in suspense and surprise as to how things play out to the very end, to me that’s the real miracle of the novel. But then again, the Bible says God often surprises us because “His ways are not our ways.” You see that in The Promised War.

Q. Sam Deker of the IDF is such a different character than Conrad Yeats in the Atlantis novels. Where did he come from?

Born out of 3,000 years of conflict in the Near East, on the surface. In the Atlantis trilogy, Conrad Yeats is a rogue archaeologist who likes fun and adventure with the woman he cannot have—the beautiful Vatican linguist Serena Serghetti. In The Promised War, Sam Deker is a demolitions specialist responsible for the death of the woman he loved and lost forever. There’s not a single funny bone in his body. He’s all business now. But the two heroes are similar in that they both have identity issues: Conrad in terms of his possible Atlantean DNA, and Deker in terms of his Jewish identity and what sort of loyalty to Israel that may or may not demand from him. We live in a world—the U.S. especially—that is increasingly defined less by nationality or even ethnicity and more by our passions. Loyalties are fraying everywhere, to our companies, churches, countries and international institutions. We have fewer examples to believe in than ever, and yet must have more faith than ever. Sam Deker personifies our conflict and gets put to the ultimate test with the fate of history—past, present and future—in the balance.

Q. The Book of Joshua counts the Israelite population at 2.5 million including 600,000 troops at the time of the invasion. The Promised War counts the civilians at fewer than 40,000, including 8,000 troops. Why the huge gulf?

The numbers are always tough here at this point in Israel’s history. On the one hand, you have counts as high as 600,000 troops and 2.5M civilians on the Israelite side. On the other hand, you look at that eight-acre mound of ancient Jericho and realize you could barely pack more than 5,000 tops behind the walls, with fewer than 2,000 troops. Hmmm. An army of 600,000 Israelites against 2,000 enemy troops. With those odds, who needs faith in Yahweh for a miracle? The Book of Joshua is different from the rest of the books in the Bible in that it was written contemporaneously during the campaigns for the Promised Land, and Joshua did not want to tip his hand to enemies. So he kept things close to the vest, grossly inflating population and troop counts—very common in that day—and keeping key strategies and intel out, starting with the names of his spies. In this way the Book of Joshua is similar to the Book of Revelation. Revelation points 144,000 Jews—12,000 each from the Twelve Tribes of Israel—as a small but symbolic figure to represent the entire nation at the end of time. The Book of Joshua does the opposite, using a huge but symbolic number to magnify the presence of Yahweh with the nation. One of the things Deker struggles with in 1400BC is the reality of a smaller but overwhelmingly more brutal world than what he might have imagined. It’s blood-on-blood contact. No retreats. No mercy.

Q. That explains perhaps the ingenious use of airborne diseases to justify the Israelite slaughter of men, women, children and even animals?

A. That’s one part of it. The oldest record of TB was recently unearthed from bones beneath Jericho. And some scholars believe the Israelites planted diseased bones in the Ark of the Covenant as a form of biological warfare against enemy troops who touched it. The other part, of course, is that I had to throw a bit of James Rollins into the mix.

Q. There are quite a few twists, many hitting in the last pages. The Promised War comes across as a fully realized, stand-alone adventure. Will there be any sequels?

The book stands alone in its own right. But unfortunately for Sam Deker—and fortunately, I hope, for readers—his journey through the looking glass has only just begun.

The end of all things is near.

THE ATLANTIS REVELATION

The international blockbuster finale of the

New York Times bestselling Atlantis trilogy

“Extremely fast-paced. … An exciting adventure.”

— Booklist

“Lightning-paced, dagger-sharp and brilliantly executed.”

— James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

“A pedal-to-the-metal thriller that combines good old-fashioned suspense with throat-grabbing twists. … Marvelous.”

— Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

“It’s rare to find a tale as well researched as it is entertaining, and this is it: a rollicking, globe-spanning thriller that pulled me in from the very first page. Best of all, it’s pure fun.”

— Christopher Reich, New York Times bestselling author

1

The Calypso Deep
Ionian Sea

Conrad Yeats started having second thoughts as soon as they anchored the fishing boat Katrina over the discovery.

It wasn’t just that he hated the water. Or that it was three miles to the bottom at the deepest part of the Mediterranean. Or that his Greek crew believed these waters were cursed. It was the words of a former U.S. secretary of defense warning that what Conrad sought didn’t exist, but if it did, he was not to disturb it or else. Maybe it’s time you gave it a rest, son, and let the damned past rust in peace.

But he had come too far on his journey to recover a real-world relic from the mythological lost continent of Atlantis to turn back now. And he would never rest until he found out exactly what kind of damned past everyone would just as soon bury simply because it threatened their own vision of the future.

Conrad pulled the black neoprene wet suit over his shoulders and looked over at Stavros, his diving attendant. The big, strapping Greek had hauledar towfish that a team of sidescan sonar experts from the exploration ship had used to get a fix on the target only hours ago. Now he was fiddling with Conrad’s air compressor.

“You finally fix that thing?” Conrad asked.

Stavros grunted. “Think so.”

Conrad glanced up at Polaris, the brightest star in the constellation Ursa Major, and then at the silvery waters. This location wasn’t on any charts. He’d found it by using ancient poems, ships’ logs, and astronomical data that only an astro-archaeologist like himself would take seriously.

Yet he wasn’t alone.

The black cutout of a megayacht loomed on the dark horizon. For a pleasure palace cruising the Ionian Islands on an Easter holiday vacation, the six-hundred-foot vessel boasted an impressive communications array, a helicopter, and for all Conrad knew, even a couple of submersibles. It was probably all for show, but Conrad still didn’t like someone else with that kind of firepower near his find.

He planned to be long gone before the sun came up. “I need forty minutes of air to the bottom and back,” he told Stavros.

Stavros threw out a small buoy tied to two hundred meters of line. “If she’s still sitting on the edge of the trench, like the robotic camera showed, you’ll be lucky to get twenty minutes of bottom time,” Stavros said. “If she’s slipped into the Calypso, then it doesn’t matter. The Baron of the Black Order himself will grab you by the leg and drag you down to hell.” He shivered and made the sign of the cross over his heart.

Conrad could do without a Greek chorus to remind him that tragedy haunted these waters. In the light of day, the surface of the Ionian was among the most serene for sailing in Greece, surrounded by easy anchorages and safe bays for cruise ships and private yachts alike. But in the darkness of its depths was one of the most seismic areas in the world.

There, three miles down at the bottom of the Hellenic Trench, lay the vast Calypso Deep. It was the point where the African tectonic plate subducted the Eurasian plate, pulling anything too close under the plates and into the earth’s magma. Even, some had argued, something as big as a continent.

“You worry about my oxygen, Stavros. I’ll worry about the curse of the Calypso.” Conrad slipped on his full-face dive mask and stepped off the bow, fins first, into the sea.

The cool water enveloped him as he followed the anchored buoy line to the bottom. His high-powered Newtlite head lantern illuminated the way through the darkness. Halfway down he met a school of bottlenose dolphins. They parted like a curtain to reveal the startling sight of the legendary Nausicaa rising out of the depths, her 37mm antiaircraft guns pointing straight at him.

The German submarine was imposing enough, which Conrad had expected. After all, it had belonged to SS General Ludwig von Berg — the Baron of the Black Order, as he was known to his friends in the Third Reich. Among other things, the baron was head of Hitler’s Ahnenerbe, an organization of academics, philosophers, and military warriors sent to scour the earth to prove the Aryans were the descendants of Atlantis.

That mission had taken Baron von Berg as far away as Antarctica, where decades later, Conrad’s father, USAF General Griin Yeats, had uncovered a secret Nazi base and ancient ruins two miles beneath the ice. But any evidence of that lost civilization — Atlantis — was wiped away in a seismic event that killed his father, sank an ice shelf the size of California, and may well have caused the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004 that killed thousands in Indonesia.

Ever since, Conrad had been trying to find some proof that what he had found under Antarctica wasn’t a dream. Clues left by his father on his tombstone at Arlington Cemetery had told Conrad as much and more. Soon he had discovered that his father’s successor as head of the Pentagon’s DARPA research and development agency, Max Seavers, had developed a weaponized flu virus from the infected lung tissue of dead Nazis found frozen in Antarctica.

Those discoveries ultimately led Conrad to the mysterious Baron von Berg. Classified American, British, and German intelligence files from World War II recorded that the SS general’s U-boat, Nausicaa, was returning from its secret base in Antarctica when it was sunk by the British Royal Navy in 1943.

Conrad’s hope was that he would find on board a relic from Atlantis.

He kicked through the water toward the sunken submarine. The Nausicaa lay like a gutted whale along the cusp of the Calypso Deep with her tail broken off and her forward section jutting out over the abyss like a metal coffin.

Conrad swam to the mouth of the broken fuselage and studied its teeth. The British torpedo that had sunk the Nausicaa had taken out the entire electric motor room. But it wasn’t a clean break. One little nick of his air hose would cut off his oxygen. He spoke into his dive helmet’s integrated radio. “Stavros.”

“Right here, boss,” the Greek’s voice crackled in his earpiece.

“How’s the compressor?”

“Still ticking, boss.”

Conrad swam into the abandoned control room of the forward section, keeping his eyes peeled for floating skeletons. He found none. No diving officers, helmsmen, or planesmen. Not even in the conning tower. Just an empty compartment with unmanned banks of instruments to his port and starboard sides. Had all hands managed to abandon ship before she went down?

The captain’s quarters were empty, too. There was only a phonograph with a warped album. Conrad could still read the peeling label on the album: Die Walküre. Von Berg had been playing Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” over the loudspeakers when the sub went down.

But no sign of Baron von Berg himself. Nor a metallic Kriegsmarine briefcase. Maybe the legend was true, and von Berg never carried secret papers with him, telling everyone instead: “It’s all in my head.”

Conrad’s hopes of finding anything were sinking fast.

He swam up the cramped fore-and-aft passageway through the galley and officers’ quarters. A creeping claustrophobia washed over him as he slipped through the open hatch into the forward torpedo bay.

At one end were four circular hatches — the torpedo tubes. The atmospheric pressure gauges, frozen in time, told him that the Nausicaa had fired off at least three torpedos and drained her tubes to fire more when the Brits sank her. Only the No. 4 tube was flooded. The Baron of the Black Order obviously had not gone down without a fight.

Conrad turned to the bomb racks and found a large protrusion. He fanned away the accumulated silt. An object took form, and he realized he was staring at a human skull with black holes for eyes.

The bared teeth seemed to grin at him in the eerie deep. The skull had a silver plate screwed into one side — the legacy of a bullet to the head in Crete, Conrad had learned in his research.

SS General Ludwig von Berg. The Baron of the Black Order. The rightful king of Bavaria. That was what the old top-secret OSS report Conrad had stolen had said.

Conrad felt a shock wave in the water, and the Nausicaa seemed to lurch.

“Stavros!” he called into his radio, but there was no response.

Suddenly, the black holes in the baron’s skull glowed a bright red, and his skeletal arm floated up as if to grab Conrad.

Conrad backed away from the skeleton, figuring that the water was playing tricks on him. Then he noticed that the glow actually came from something behind the skull. Indeed, the Baron of the Black Order seemed to be guarding something.

Conrad’s heart pounded as he brushed away more silt, revealing an odd hammerhead-shaped warhead. He shined a light on it and ran his hands across the torpedo’s slick casing.

It had no markings save for a code name stamped across the warhead’s access panel: Flammenschwert. Conrad’s rudimentary grasp of German translated it to mean “Flaming Sword” or “Sword of Fire.”

He recalled from his research that von Berg claimed to have developed a weapon that the Nazis were convinced could win them the war: an incendiary technology that allegedly was Atlantean in origin and could turn water into fire and even melt the ice caps.

Could this be the relic he was searching for that would prove Antarctica was Atlantis?

The mysterious glow was coming from inside the hammerhead cone of the torpedo, outlining the square access panel like a neon light. But this was no mere illumination. The light seemed to be consuming the water around the warhead like a fire consumes oxygen.

Conrad’s dosimeter gauge registered no radiation, so he put the fingertip of his glove to the glowing seam of the access panel. It didn’t burn his glove, but he could feel an unmistakable pull. The warhead was sucking in the water around it like a black hole.

He sensed another shock wave through the water and turned to see four shadowy figures with harpoon guns enter the torpedo bay.

They must be after the Flammenschwert! he thought. He’d rather sink the sub than let this weapon fall into anybody’s hands.

He reached up for the blow valves above the four torpedo tubes and twisted the wheels, flooding three of them. The sub tilted forward toward the Calypso Deep, throwing the others back. The rumbling was deafening. Breathing hard in his mask, heaving as he kicked, he was swimming madly to escape the torpedo bay when a harpoon dart stabbed his thigh.

Grimacing in pain, Conrad grabbed his leg as three of the divers swarmed around him. He broke off the harpoon dart and stabbedut the diver who had shot him. The diver doubled over as a cloud of blood billowed out of his wet suit. The other two had grabbed him, however, and before Conrad could tear away, their leader swam over, drew a dagger, and sliced through Conrad’s lifeline.

Conrad watched in shock as silver bubbles rose up before his eyes like a Roman candle, literally taking his breath away.

Then he saw the dagger again, this time its butt smashing the glass of his mask. Water began filling the mask, and he inhaled some against his will. His life flashed by in a blur — his father the Griffter, his childhood in Washington, D.C., his digs around the world searching for Earth’s lost “mother culture,” meeting Serena in South America, then Antarctica…

Serena.

His lips tried to repeat the prayer that Serena had taught him, the last prayer of Jesus: “Into Thy hands I commit my spirit.” But the words refused to come. He could only see her face, now fading away. Then darkness.

When Conrad opened his eyes again, the phantom divers were gone. He wasn’t breathing, but his lungs weren’t filled with water, either — laryngospasm had sealed his airway. He would suffocate instead of drowning if he didn’t surface immediately.

He looked out through his shattered dive mask to see the skull of SS General Ludwig von Berg smiling at him. The fire had gone out of the baron’s eyes. Also gone was the Flammenschwert warhead, along with the shadow divers. But the divers had left behind something for him: a brick of C4 explosive with a digital display slapped next to the torpedo’s open casing.

The numbers read: 2:43…2:42…2:41…

On top of the C4 was a metal ball bearing that glowed like a burning ember from hell. It must have been extracted from the Flammenschwert, which probably contained thousands of these copperlike pellets inside its core. The bastards were going to verify the design by detonating just one tiny pellet, simulating on a small scale the device’s explosive power. In the process, they were going to destroy him and the Nausicaa.

Conrad mustered the last of his strength and tried to swim out, but his leg caught on something — the skeletal hand of SS General Ludwig von Berg. The baron, it seemed, wanted to drag him to hell.

Conrad couldn’t break free. The clock was down to 1:33.

Thinking quickly, he grabbed the baron’s steel-plated skull with both hands and broke it off the skeleton. Slipping his fingers into the eyeholes as if the skull were a bowling ball, he brought it down on the finger bones clasping his injured leg and smashed them to pieces.

He was free, but his fingers were now stuck like a claw through the skull as another shock wave hit the Nausicaa.

The entire forward torpedo bay dropped like a broken table — silt and debris sliding past him to the front, further tipping the submarine over the edge of the Calypso Deep. Conrad’s back slammed against the bomb rack, and he saw the compartment hatch and entire fore-aft passageway beyond rising like a great elevator shaft above him.

The Nausicaa was about to go down nose-first into the Calypso.Conrad had only seconds left. He positioned himself under the hatch, forcing himself to resiptation to panic. He held his body ramrod-straight, like a torpedo, his hands arched together with the skull over his head. Then he closed his eyes as everything collapsed around him.

For a moment he felt like a missile shooting up out of its silo, although he knew it was the silo that was sinking. Then he was clear. He looked down into the Calypso Deep as it swallowed the Nausicaa with the tiny pellet from the Flammenschwert still inside its belly.

The powerful wake of the plunging sub began to pull him down like a vertical riptide. He knew if he fought it, he’d go down with it. Instead he made long scissor kicks across the wake and over the rim of the crater, putting as much distance between him and the abyss as possible. There was a flash of light behind him, and the water suddenly heated up.

Conrad looked back over his shoulder in time to see a giant pillar of fire shoot straight up from the depths of the Calypso. The sound of thunder rippled across the deep. Abruptly, the flames fanned out and seemed to assume the form of a dragon flying through the water toward him. Conrad started swimming as fast as he could.

He surfaced a minute later into the dim predawn light of day, gasping for breath. Finally, as he was on the verge of passing out again forever, his larynx opened, and he coughed up a little water from his stomach as he desperately inhaled the salty air.

His groan sounded like jet engines in his own ears. He was sure he was experiencing some kind of pulmonary embolism from coming up so fast. Several deep gulps of air cleared his head enough for him to scan the horizon for his boat. But it wasn’t there. In the distance loomed the silhouette of a megayacht, its decks stacked like gold bullion in the glint of the rising sun, turning away.

Debris floated around him — the remains of his boat. Poor Stavros, he thought. He swam toward a broken wooden plank to use for flotation. But when he got there, he realized it wasn’t wood at all. It was the charred carcass of a bottlenose dolphin, burned to a crisp.

The horrific nature of the Flammenschwert sank in.

It works. It really turns water to fire.

Conrad stared at the dolphin’s blackened rostrum and teeth. He felt some stomach acid rising at the back of his own throat and looked away. All around him were incinerated bottlenose dolphins, floating like driftwood across a sea of death.

2

SVALBARD GLOBAL SEED VAULT
SPITSBERGEN ISLAND
ARCTIC CIRCLE

Sister Serena Serghetti clutched the metal box containing African rice seeds to her chest as she walked down a long tunnel blasted out of the Arctic mountain. High above her, fluorescent lights flashed on and off as she passed embedded motion detectors. Close behind her a choir of Norwegian schoolchildren held candles in the flickering darkness and sang “Sleep Little Seedling.”

Their heavenly voices felt heavy in the freezing air, Serena thought, weighed perhaps by the tunnel’s meter-thick walls of reinforced concrete. Or maybe it was her heart that felt so heavy.

The Doomsday Vault, as it was called when it opened in 2008, already housed more than 2 million seeds representing every variety of the earth’s crops. In time it would house a collection of 100 million seeds from more than 140 countries here on this remote island near the North Pole. It was built to protect the world’s food supply against nuclear war, climate change, terrorism, rising sea levels, earthquakes and the ensuing collapse of power supplies. If worse came to worst, the vault would allow the world to reconstruct agriculture on this planet.

But now the vault itself was in danger. Thanks to global warming, the shrinking ice caps had spurred a new race for oil in the Arctic. It was the next Saudi Arabia—if someone could figure out a way to extract and transport all that oil through a sea of ice. A few years earlier the Russians had even planted a flag 2 1/2 miles below the ice at the North Pole to claim its oil reserves. Now she feared they were preparing to start mining.

She passed through two separate airlocks and into the vault itself, blinking into the glare of the TV lights. The Norwegian prime minister was in there, somewhere, along with a delegation from the United Nations.

Serena knelt before the TV cameras and prayed silently for the peoples of the earth. But she was aware of shutters clicking and photographers’ boots shuffling for better shots of her. Whatever happened to finding a secret place to pray like Jesus taught? she wondered, unable to shake a guilty feeling. Did the world really need to see “Mother Earth” arrayed in high-definition piety 24/7? As if the prayers of the Vatican’s top linguist and environmental czar counted more than those of the anonymous, humble field laborer whose hands culled the seeds she now held.

But this was a cause greater than herself and her tormented 33-year-old soul, she reminded herself. And her purpose here today, officially, was to focus the world’s attention on its future.

As she knelt, gripping the box of seeds tightly, a feeling of dread came over her. What the vault meant, what it was built for: the time of the end, which the Bible prophesied would come soon. The words of the prophet Isaiah whispered in her ear: God is the only God. He will draw all people to Himself to see His glory.

He will end this world. And he will judge those who reject Him.

Not something TV audiences wanted to hear.

She felt a nagging sense of hypocrisy about her performance here today. A disturbing thought began to bubble up, a thought she couldn’t quite formulate. And her dread began to take shape in the words of Jesus: “If therefore you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”

She didn’t understand. She had plenty of people angry with her at the Vatican—for being a woman, for being beautiful, for drawing cameras wherever she went, and that was just within the Church. Outside, there were oil and gas companies she chided, and diamond merchants, and the exploiters of children.

But that’s not what this word from God was about.

Conrad Yeats.

She fought to push his face out of her mind, and felt the slightest tremor as her knees pressed against the concrete floor.

That rogue? That liar, cheat and thief? What could he possibly have against me? Other than I wouldn’t sleep with hi

But she couldn’t get his face—his handsome, unshaven face—out of her mind. Nor could she forget how she had left things in Washington, D.C., a few years back after he had saved her life. She had promised to leave the Church and be with him forever. But instead she had stolen something priceless out from under him and the U.S. government, leaving him with nothing.

But, Lord, you know it was for Conrad’s own good and the greater good.

When she opened her eyes and rose to her feet, she surrendered the box of African rice seeds to the Norwegian prime minister. With solemn fanfare he opened the box for the cameras to reveal sealed silver packets, each labeled with a special barcode. Then he resealed the box and slid it onto its designated shelf in the vault.

After the ceremony concluded, she went into the main tunnel and found her driver and bodyguard, Benito, waiting for her with her parka. She slipped it on and they started walking toward the main entrance to the facility.

“Just as you suspected, Signorina,” he told her, handing her a small blue device. “Our divers found it at the bottom of the Arctic seabed.”

It was a geophone. Oil companies used them to take seismic surveys of the earth’s subsurface in search of oil, in this case the earth two miles beneath the ice and water of the North Pole. Her visit to the Global Seed Vault had been a cover for her to meet with divers who could investigate for signs of drilling.

“So someone is planning to mine the bottom of the Arctic,” she said, watching her breath freeze as they stood before the facility’s dual blast-proof doors. Slowly and heavily the doors opened.

The Arctic air slapped Serena in the face as she stepped outside, where a van with tank-like treads was waiting to take her to the island’s airport, the northernmost in the world with regular flights. Behind her the exterior of the Doomsday Vault looked like something out of a science fiction movie —a giant granite wedge protruding from the ice.

The Norwegian island of Spitsbergen was chosen as the location for the seed vault because it was a remote region with low tectonic activity and a cold Arctic environment that was ideal for preservation. Now oil exploration posed a direct threat to this environment, she thought. It would also accelerate global warming’s melting of the ice cap, threatening coastal cities around the world.

So why was she thinking of Conrad Yeats?

Something is terribly wrong, she thought. He’s in danger.

But she couldn’t put her finger on why and blamed her gloomy thoughts on the sweeping vista of endless ice and water spread out before her. It only brought back memories of her adventure with Conrad in Antarctica years ago.

Benito said, “Our divers say there are thousands of them, maybe even tens of thousands below us.”

Serena realized he was talking about the geophone in her hand. “It will take them at least six months to map all the underground formations,” she said. “So we still have some time before they decide where to start drilling. That might give us a chance to stop them.”

“The Russians?” Benito asked.

“Maybe.” She flipped the geophone over and saw the manufacturer’s name: Midas Minerals & Mining LTD. “But I know who can tell us.”

3

Corfu

If Sir Roman Midas loved anything in his life, it was his prized superyacht. Named after his one true love—himself—the Midas had a 2,000-square-foot gym, two two- person submarines and two helicopter pads, one for his chopper and one for guests. At 595 feet, the Midas was longer than the Washington Monument was high, and by design resembled a shining stack of sliced gold bricks. Today those bricks sat atop the sparkling blue waters of the Ionian Sea near the Greek island of Corfu.

Not bad for a Russian orphan-turned-British tycoon, Roman Midaslovich told himself as he stood on the aftdeck helipad. He watched while a joist transferred the unmarked crate to the awaiting helicopter, its blades now whirling for take-off.

Midas’s London-based trading firm, Midas Minerals & Mining, had made him the world’s richest trader in minerals and metals futures, and his patronage to the art world had won him a knighthood from the queen. It had also made him a top lieutenant inside the Alignment, a centuries-old organization whose leaders fancied themselves the political if not biological descendents of Atlantis. Utter rubbish, Midas thought when he first heard the Alignment’s claim to have orchestrated the rise and fall of empires across the ages. He alone was responsible for his rise from a Russian orphan working the mines in Siberia to the trading pits in Chicago. But then the Alignment orchestrated his entree to the jet set of London and awarded him seats inside some of the international organizations that truly set the world’s agenda: the Club of Rome, the Trilateral Commission and the Bilderberg Group. Now he was a believer.

He waved off the pilot and watched the chopper lift into the sky. Then he turned to see Vadim Fedorov, his No. 2, standing before him in all his steroid-

pumped muscularity.

“They’re waiting for you in the decompression chamber, sir,” Vadim said.

“They” were two of the other divers from the Nausicaa extraction, Sergei and Yorgi. As far as everyone else was concerned, they were the only people who had seen the Flammenschwert besides himself and the pilot of the submersible, whom he had already dispatched to the ocean depths. Meanwhile, the helicopter would carry the crate to the airstrip on Corfu, and Midas’s Gulfstream V private jet in turn would fly it to its intended destination.

“Is everything set?” Midas asked.

Vadim nodded. “You were right. They are FSB. Sergei sent a text message to Moscow almost immediately after they surfaced.”

“They never really went away, you know.”

Midas was speaking of Russia’s ancient secret police, which after the czars became the Soviet Union’s feared KGB. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia’s first president, Boris Yeltsin, dismantled the KGB and renamed it the Federal Security Service, or FSB. Many deeply disillusioned agents, like Sergei and Yorgi, went into the private security businesultimately supplanting the mafia in running Russia’s “protection” rackets. Others, like Russia’s former president and prime minister Vladimir Putin, penetrated the government. Today in Russia, three out of four leading politicians boasted a background in the security forces, and almost every large Russian corporation was run by ex-KBG executives with personal ties to Putin. Sergei and Yorgi, despite their employment agreements with Midas Minerals & Mining, were Putin’s men and as such no longer of any use to Midas.

“Tell them I’ll be down in a moment. First I owe Sorath a progress report.”

Vadim nodded.

Midas entered his stateroom and poured himself a drink while he waited for the coded signal to connect. Right now, Sorath was just a codename to a voice on the other end of the phone. Midas had no idea who Sorath was or if he had even met him already. But all his questions would be answered soon enough.

“This is Xaphan,” Midas reported as soon as a light told him he was on a secure connection with Sorath. “The sword has been removed from its sheath and is en route to Uriel. A successful test has proved the design is safe for deployment and that the device’s criticality formulas are correct.”

“What of Semyaza?” the voice demanded, referring to Yeats.

“Dead.”

“Those were not your orders.” There was anger in the voice.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Midas said and quickly moved on. “We’re on schedule. T minus eight days.”

“Keep it that way.”

The line cut out and Midas stared at the images of Conrad Yeats on the large flat panel screen of his computer. He zoomed on one in particular—an image of the archaeologist’s DNA. There was nothing remarkable about it save for one thing—it spiraled to the left. All indigenous life on earth has DNA that spirals to the right. To the Alignment, that bestowed Yeats with some mystical meaning, as if the freak of nature somehow possessed some lost pieces of Atlantean blood in his genetic makeup.

Midas could care less. He closed the image on his screen and with a few taps on his keyboard connected with his trading firm mainframes in London. Then he went down to the lower decks and the yacht’s submersible launch bay.

Two double-domed “deep flight” Falcon submarines, designed to fly underwater like a private jet through the air, were docked on either side of the underwater bay, which resembled a large indoor swimming pool. Between the submersibles was the decompression chamber, its hatch wide open, with Sergei and Yorgi waiting for him inside.

Yorgi didn’t look too good, his stomach hastily patched where the late, great Doctor Yeats had stabbed him with his own harpoon dart.

“We could have been decompressing instead of waiting for you,” Sergei complained. “Are you trying to kill us?”

Midas smiled, stepped inside the chamber and allowed Vadim to close the hatch on the three of them. The air compressor started to hum and raise the internal air pressure to rid their bodies of harmful gas bubbles caused by inhaling oxygen at higher pressure during their dive for the Flammenschwert. The two diversbbing their itchy skin and sore joints. It was clear they were displaying symptoms of the bends—their lungs alone were unable to expel the bubbles formed inside their bodies.

“I wanted us to decompress together,” Midas said, taking his seat opposite the two FSB men. “But first I had to see off the Flammenschwert.“

Sergei and Yorgi looked at each other. “The arrangement was for us to take

it back to Moscow,” Sergei said.

“Nyet,” said Midas. “I have other plans for the Flammenschwert, and they don’t involve the FSB.”

“You are a dead man if you betray Moscow, Midaslovich,” Sergei said. “Our organization spans the globe and is as old as the czars.”

“Mine is older,” Midas scoffed. “And now it has something yours does not—

the power to turn oceans into fire.”

“The deal was to use it in the Arctic and split the oil,” Sergei pressed.

“Like the deal you did with British Petroleum in Russia before you stole their operations and ran them out?” Midas answered calmly as the air inside the chamber started to smell like bitter almonds. “Fools. Higher oil prices may have fueled your regime, but you don’t know how to manage production. So you nationalize it and penalize real producers like me. Now that production has peaked, you have no choice but to stick your noses south into the Middle East and make war. You could have been kings instead of criminals.”

Sergei and Yorgi began to cough and choke. Sergei said, “What have you done?”

Midas coughed twice. It would have been easier to just throw them into the chamber, crank the dial and blow their guts out. But it also would have been a mess to clean.

“As a child in the gold mines of Siberia, I was forced to extract gold from finely crushed ore,” he told them calmly, like a firefighter lighting up a cigarette in the middle of an inferno. “Unfortunately, the only chemical up to the job is cyanide. It’s stable when solid. But as a gas it’s toxic. I can see you are already experiencing rapid breathing, restlessness and nausea.”

Sergei began to vomit while Yorgi crumpled to the floor in convulsions.

“As for myself, my body developed a tolerance to the immediate effects of cyanide. But, rest assured, I am experiencing all that you are, to a lesser degree, and my doctors inform me that my long-term prognosis is the same as yours. We can’t all live forever, can we?”

Midas knew he didn’t have to bother with theatrics in order to kill his enemies, but somehow it was deeply important to him to show them that he had not only beat them through his cleverness, but that he was also in his physical and mental evolution inherently superior to them.

“As your blood pressure lowers and heart rate slows, you will soon experience loss of consciousness, respiratory failure and finally death. But, rest assured, you died a hero to the people. Too bad they are the wrong people.”

The two were already dead by the time Midas had finished what passed for a eulogy. A minute later Midas emerged from the chamber. The cyanide dispersed into the air and two crewmen coughed. He left them to dispose of the bodies and took an elevator topside to the deck.

As he stepped into the sunlight and blinked, he reached for the sunglasses in his shirt pocket and glanced at his hand, which trembled slightly. It was the only visible neurological damage caused by his long-term exposure to cyanide poisoning as a child. So far.

He enjoyed watching death—it made him feel so alive. Like the salt that he now smelled in the sea air. Or the sight of Mercedes sunning topless in her chaise lounge that he now drank in on the foredeck. He made himself a vodka martini and stretched out next to her golden body, looking forward to tonight’s party on Corfu and letting all thoughts of Nazi submarines and American archaeologists fade away like a bad late-night movie.

4

Conrad Yeats stared at the skull of SS General Ludwig von Berg inside his suite at the Andros Palace Hotel in Corfu Town overlooking Garitsa Bay. The balcony doors were open wide and a gentle early evening breeze blew in, carrying with it music from the town green below.

He took another swig from his bottle of seven-star Metaxas brandy. His leg smarted from the harpoon dart. And his mind still reeled from the events of the morning: the Flammenschwert, the loss of Stavros and the crew, and the image of Serena Serghetti filling what he thought were his dying moments.

There was a knock at the door. Conrad put his Metaxas down, picked up a 9 mm Glock from under the sofa pillow next to him and stood up. He moved to the door and looked through the peephole.

It was Andros.

Conrad opened the door and Andros walked in. Two big security types with earpieces and shoulder holsters were posted outside.

“We have a problem,” said Andros, closing the door behind him.

Chris Andros III, barely 30, was always worried. A billionaire shipping heir, Andros had squandered several years after Harvard Business School dating American starlets and hotel heiresses from Paris Hilton to Ivanka Trump. Now a consummate international businessman, he was bent on making up for lost time, and owned the Andros Palace Hotel along with a string of high-end boutique hotels around the Mediterranean and Middle East. It was Andros who had helped Conrad find the Nausicaa. Andros claimed the sub was named after his grandmother who as a young nurse in Nazi-occupied Greece was forced to help the Baron of the Black Order recover from his gunshot wound to the head.

“Let me guess,” Conrad said. “That superyacht I saw belongs to Sir Roman Midas, and your friends at the airstrip have no idea what was on that private jet of his

that took off today or where it was going?”

Andros nodded and saw the laptop computer Conrad had used for his research sitting at the bar, its screen filled with news and images of Midas. He was about to say something else when he saw the skull of SS General Ludwig von Berg on the table. “That’s him?”

“Silver plate and all.”

Andros walked over and studied the skull and its metallic dome. He made the sign of the cross. “I cannot tell you how many nightmares this Baron gave me gring up. My parents told me stories about what happened to those who crossed the Baron—or children who didn’t listen to their parents. Being a naughty boy myself, I had nightmares of his skull floating in the air and hounding me to Hades.”

Conrad said, “I didn’t find a metal briefcase with any papers.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Andros said. “Von Berg always liked to say…”

“It’s all in my head,” Conrad said, completing the sentence. “I know. But what exactly?”

Andros shrugged. “At least you confirmed he’s dead.”

“Along with Stavros and the rest of the crew of your boat,” Conrad said. “All at the hands of Sir Roman Midas. So now we plot revenge. Isn’t that what you Greeks do?”

A cloud formed over Andros’ face. “I’m but a humble billionaire, my friend, and barely that. Roman Midas is that many times over, and far more powerful. Especially if he has this weapon you say he took from the Nausicaa. Look outside.”

Andros walked out to the open balcony.

“I saw it,” said Conrad, limping over and looking out at Garitsa Bay.

To their right the sun was setting behind the old town, its colonnaded houses dating back to the island’s days under British rule. To their left the stars were rising

above the old Venetian fortifications.

“Look closely,” said Andros.

Conrad set the bottle of Metaxas on the balustrade and picked up a pair of Zeiss binoculars. Beyond the stone fortifications of the Old Fort, the superyacht Midas was anchored in the bay, with small boats ferrying well-dressed men and barely dressed women to and from shore.

“Looks like he’s celebrating his catch of the day,” Conrad said. “Any way I can get a closer look?”

“Not a chance. Greek coast guard boats are maintaining a perimeter. And the island is crawling with security.”

“Why’s that?” Conrad swept the deck with his Zeiss glasses and noticed the chopper had returned.

Andros said, “The Bilderberg Group is holding their annual conference at the Achillion.”

Conrad looked at the ornate palace atop a hill opposite the bay.

“Ironically, it was Baron von Berg’s headquarters during the war,” Andros told him as he zoomed in with his binoculars. “Built by the Empress of Austria and later bought by Kaiser Wilhem II of Bavaria as a winter retreat. It’s a fanciful place, with whimsical gardens and statues of the Greek gods all over the place. I deflowered many a girl there myself over the years.”

“What’s the structure next to the palace?”

“House of Knights,” Andros said. “The Kaiser built it to house his battalions. There are nice stables, too, for the Kaiser’s horses. For all its romance, the Achillion has a long history of military staging. It was strafed by Allied planes in 1943 during the Baron’s stay and then turned into a hospital after the war. Later it became a casino featured in a James Bond movie.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s a museum, used on occasion as a spectacular backdrop for meetings of the G7 Nations, European Union and apparently the Bilderberg Group.”

The Bilderbergers. Conrad knew a few of them, including his late father USAF General Griffin Yeats, who had attended a couple of the conferences back in the 1990s when he was acting head of the Pentagon’s DARPA research and development agency. Officially, the Bilderberg Group brought together European and American royalty in the form of heads of state, central banks and multinational corporations to freely discuss the events of the day away from the glare of the press. Unofficially, conspiracy buffs suspected the Bilderbergers set the world’s agenda, orchestrating wars and global financial panics at will to advance some totalitarian one-world government that would arise from the ashes.

“I’m thinking Midas is a member of the Alignment,” he told Andros.

Andros looked at Conrad like he was talking about Atlantis, which in a way he was, as the Alignment considered themselves to be the custodians of the lost civilization’s mysteries.

“I’ll have the doctor check the oxygen in your blood again.”

“The Bilderberg Group is the closest real-world equivalent to the Alignment that I know of,” Conrad said. “If there are any Alignment left on the planet, it stands to reason that at least a few of them would be members of the Bilderbergers and use the group as a proxy to advance the Alignment’s agenda.”

“Just as the Alignment used the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Knights Templar, Freemasons, USA and Third Reich?” Andros said, holding up the half-empty bottle of Metaxas with a knowing smile.

Conrad put the Zeiss glasses down and looked Andros in the eye. “I think I know a way into the party tonight.”

Andros frowned. “Who is she?”

“According to Google, she’s his latest girlfriend, Mercedes Le Roche.”

“Le Roche Media Generale?”

Conrad nodded. “Her father,” he said. “She used to be my producer on Ancient Riddles.”

“You’re crazy,” Andros said. “Put this insane idea out of your head. Get off the island before Midas knows you survived. Get out while you still can.”

“I have to find out what Midas intends to do with that weapon,” Conrad said.

“Maybe sell it?”

“He doesn’t need the money. He’s Midas.”

“True,” said Andros. “You say this Flammenschwert weapon is Greek Fire?”

“No, you said it’s Greek Fire. I said it’s a weapon that turns water to fire.”

“Greek Fire,” Andros repeated. “But we Greeks have always called it liquid or artificial fire. We used it to repel the Muslim Arabs at the first and second Sieges of Constantinople in the 6th and 7th centuries. That’s how Europe survived Islam for more than a thousand years.”

“But how did Greek Fire work?”

“To this day nobody really knows,” Andros said. “The ingredients and manufacturing process were closely guarded military secrets. The Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus even warned his son in a book to never give away three things to a foreigner: a crown, the hand of a Greek princess and the secret of liquid fire. All we know is that Greek Fire could burn on water and was extremely difficult to extinguish. The first sight of it alone was enough to demoralize the enemy. My father always suspected that it was petroleum-based and spiked with an early form of napalm.”

“Maybe,” Conrad said. “But I think that the petroleum jelly your forefathers used was just a crude copy of something far more devastating. Something that used a uranium-like ore that could actually consume water like oxygen, not just burn on its surface. Where did you say Greek Fire came from?”

“I didn’t,” Andros said. “But tradition says it was cooked up by chemists in Constantinople, who had inherited the discoveries of the ancient Alexandrian chemical school.”

Conrad nodded. “Who had inherited the discoveries of the Atlantean school. Only the Alexandrians didn’t have access to Oreichalkos.“

“Oreichalkos?” Andros looked mystified.

“The mysterious ore or ‘shining metal’ mined by the people of Atlantis, according to your ancient philosopher Plato,” Conrad said. “Plato called it ‘mountain-copper.’ He described it as a pure, almost supernatural alloy that sparkled like fire. I’ve seen it before.”

“In Antarctica,” Andros said with condescension. “Pish. Atlantis was the Greek island of Santorini. I have a hotel there.”

“Let’s not get into that debate now,” Conrad said. “The point is that this technology is older than mere Greek Fire. I witnessed what just a speck of it can do.

I think Midas could fry oceans with it. But which one?”

“My grandfather said Hitler wanted to use it in the Mediterranean,” Andros said. “The Nazis wanted to protect Fortress Europe with a moat of fire and burn the warships of the Allied invasion fleet before they could land. Von Berg, however, wanted to use it to dry up the Mediterranean and proclaim its one million square miles as the new Atlantis.”

“Too big, I think, and this is a new century.” Conrad shook his head.

“Where else in today’s world?”

“Where it can do the most damage,” said Andros confidently. “The Persian Gulf.”

Conrad paused. Here Andros, whose family’s tankers brought oil to and from the Persian Gulf, knew what he was talking about. “Go on.”

“Midas is in deep with the Russians and they’re running out of production. Best way to boost prices is to cut supply—preferably somebody else’s. Especially when the Americans depend on it. better way to disrupt oil shipments through the Persian Gulf than to set it on fire? Who knows how long it would burn with this weapon?”

“Pretty good.”

“I think so,” said Andros. “So now you tell your friends at the Pentagon and call it a day.”

“Or you get me into the Bilderberg bash.”

Andros looked at the imposing Achillion on the hilltop beyond the bay. “My money reaches the Greek police. But the Bilderbergers bring their own security. Even I can’t get into that club.”

“They publish their guest lists. Maybe I can go as somebody else before they show up. Say hello to Mercedes, get something out of her before Midas knows what’s going on.”

“And kills you?”

“In front of all the other Bilderbergers? No. I know guys like Midas. Appearances and respectability are paramount. He won’t lay a finger on me in front of Europe’s rich and powerful.”

“No, he’ll simply kill you as soon as you step foot out of the palace.”

Conrad studied Andros. “What’s going on? I say Midas and your knees start shaking. The guy blows up your boat, kills your crew and almost kills me, your good friend. Odysseus would have had three arrows in this guy’s throat by now.”

Andros, in turn, studied him. “You were not always so vengeful. I want to meet the woman who hurt you so badly. So I can introduce her to my rival shipowners in Athens.”

Conrad looked out at the lush, green spiniada of Corfu Town and thought of Serena. “When you find her let me know. Because she’s not taking my calls.”

“Forget her,” Andros said. “How did you leave things with Mercedes?”

Conrad said nothing.

“I thought so,” said Andros. “Why should she tell you anything about Midas or his operations? More important, what makes you think Midas would have told her anything of value that she could pass on to you? My rule is the less a woman knows the better.”

“Which explains the women you go out with,” Conrad said. “Look at that boat he named after himself. You know that the richer a man gets, the smarter he thinks he is. Midas is an arrogant bastard, and I’m willing to bet that in his hubris he’s let Mercedes see more about his operations than he’s realized.”

“Are you willing to bet your life?”

“I did that a long time ago. Midas took his shot this morning. And I’m still here.”

“So is he, my friend. And he has an inexhaustible supply of henchmen and money. You are only one man.”

Conrad poured some of his brandy into a glass, gave it to Andros, and then held up his bottle in a toast. “What about my buddy, the Greek tycoon, who is going to get me into that Bilderberg party tonight?”

A centuries-old warning holds explosive implications

for America’s destiny….

THE ATLANTIS PROPHECY

A New York Times, USA Today and

Publishers Weekly bestseller

“A roller coaster that will captivate readers of Dan Brown and Michael Crichton, penetrating one of the biggest mysteries of our time.”

— The Washington Post

“Greanias keeps the pace breakneck … sweeping readers right into Conrad’s struggle.”

— Publishers Weekly

“A devilishly clever maelstrom of history, secrets and modern-day political intrigue. Relentlessly action-packed, with tantalizing twists and twirls on every page.”

— Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

“A top-flight thriller.”

—Blogcritics.org

“Finally, a hero worthy of our admiration!”

—FreshFiction.com

PROLOGUE
December 14, 1799

THE FEDERAL DISTRICT

Five soldiers of the U.S. Provisional Army came to an abrupt halt at the Georgetown wharf and dismounted their horses. The sleet had stopped, but it was bitter cold outside. The commanding officer looked out across the water at Suter’s Tavern. It was the middle of the night, but he could hear music from inside. A lone lantern flickered in the middle window of the second floor.

That was the sign.

The man they were after was inside.

The officer signaled his men. They moved quickly toward the front door in single file. Their boots splashed lightly in the moonlit puddles, the bayonets at the end of their muskets glinting. Two soldiers went around the back to take positions behind the kitchen. The other two pounded the front door with the butts of their muskets.

“Open in the name of the United States of America!”

The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a small boy, who fell back in alarm as the soldiers pushed their way inside. The thirty or so revelers in the tavern sat fast in their chairs, their mugs of ale midair and their mouths open. The music stopped, the sudden silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace flames.

The commanding officer, a head taller than most in the room, grabbed the boy by his collar and demanded, “We are looking for a runaway slave, a cook who goes by the name Hercules.”

Hercules was in the kitchen, chopping onions for one last serving of his popular stew. His wiry dark hair was pulled tight to his scalp and stuck straight back like the handle of an iron skillet. Rules of the house. But he had refused to shave his beard. As his stew rose to a slow boil he suddenly realizedhe noise in the tavern had died down. He cocked his ear.

The kitchen door flew open, and in stormed four Green Coats. Their commanding officer, who identified himself as Major Cornelius Temple of the U.S. Provisional Army, shouted, “Which of you is Hercules?”

Hercules froze. So did the other kitchen staff, all slaves. None of them said a word, but their anxious gazes drifted toward Hercules.

Hercules had been a slave until he ran away from his master two years ago. He had been making his way as a cook ever since, having perfected his renowned Southern dishes at the General’s homes in New York, Philadelphia, and Virginia. If all he ever did was cook for his master, he would never have left. But his master made him carry out other missions, too. Secret missions. Dangerous missions. Now his past had finally caught up with him.

He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

Hercules laid down his chopping knife on the table and stepped forward, praying that the only thing the soldiers were after tonight was a runaway slave, and not the secret his master had him bury years ago.

The major looked down his nose at Hercules. “Come with us, slave.”

Hercules was only average in height, but he was as muscular as his namesake. Standing proud, he gazed directly at the commanding officer. The major’s green coat reached the knee and sported yellow lapels and cuffs. His vest was white, single breasted, with white buttons. The white fringed strap epaulette on his right shoulder designated his rank. But it was the major’s black three-cornered hat that had transfixed Hercules, specifically its small but spellbinding silver insignia.

The Regiment of Riflemen.

Hercules understood then that he was in the presence of killers, sanctioned by the new federal government. Until now Hercules knew of the Regiment of Riflemen by reputation only. Earlier that year Congress authorized the formation of a specialized unit of snipers that engaged in unconventional tactics. “The first in the field and last out” was the regiment’s motto, and their tactics borrowed heavily from the Light Infantry and even Indians. That much was clear from the major’s belt, which along with a leather cartridge and bullet cases held a tomahawk and scalping knife.

Hercules would not resist arrest, if only for the sake of the other slaves.

He turned to open a small closet door and heard the click of a musket hammer behind him.

“Slowly, slave.”

“Jus’ gettin’ my coat.”

Hercules calmly removed his herringbone overcoat with ivory buttons from its hook. The wool was so finely woven it gave the whole coat a glossy sheen.

The young soldier released the cocked flintlock and lowered his special model French Charleville. But be-fore Hercules could button up, the butt of another musket smacked him in the side of his head and he went down on all fours.

“You run away with that coat, slave?” the major snarled, as he kicked Hercules in the side like an animal.

Hercules knew the drill. The major had no feelings for him one way or another. He simply needed to make him an example to any other slav in the kitchen who might think that they, too, could one day run away.

“I bought it righteously, suh,” Hercules managed to say with a grunt before four strong arms pushed him outside.

“He’s a freedman by law in Pennsylvania!” cried one of the cooks.

“He’s not in Pennsylvania anymore,” the major barked as the door slammed shut behind him.

A flat-bottom boat, manned by four boatmen, waited at the wharf, the icy waters of the Potomac lapping at its sides. The sleet had returned, coming down even harder than before. The soldiers pushed Hercules to the stern. A moment later he was sitting between two soldiers and opposite the major and two others as they shoved off into the dark.

“The General is looking for you, slave.”

Hercules shivered. The General, his master, was a just man and a great leader. But he had burdened Her-cules with secrets too heavy for any American patriot to bear, let alone a slave.

Lord, please don’t let this be about the globe.

Hercules gazed at the white exterior of the Presidential Palace as they floated by. Now in its seventh year of construction, it was still unoccupied; President Adams lived in Philadelphia with his family. In the distance loomed Jenkins Hill and on top of it the new U.S. Capitol Building, or at least part of it.

The General had once told him that more than a century ago the hill was called Rome and the Potomac the Tiber, because the property owner, a man named Francis Pope, had a dream that one day a great empire to rival ancient Rome would rise on these banks. But all Hercules could see was marshland, half-finished buildings, and tree stumps along what was supposed to be a grand thoroughfare–Pennsylvania Avenue–linking the great white Presidential Palace to what they were now calling Capitol Hill.

The boatmen were rowing vigorously now, as a few floating chunks of ice struck the sides of the boat. Even the major had to grab an oar. Hercules at first wondered why they didn’t make him row too. But he figured they didn’t want to hand a runaway slave an oar only to have him swing it at them.

Hercules pulled at the collar of his coat as pellets of sleet slapped his face. He felt the stare of the major in the bow, whose own coat was not so heavy. But Hercules had paid for the coat himself, and his tailored wool trousers and buckled shoes, too. The General had allowed him to cook outside of the Philadelphia house in nearby taverns to earn extra money. Much of it he spent on fine clothing, which offended soldiers in the General’s charge who were not paid nearly as much nor dressed as well.

Finally the sleet stopped and the boat struck the op-posite shore. The soldiers pulled him out and escorted him toward steps that led up the hill to the General’s estate.

Mount Vernon was ablaze with light. There were torches everywhere, and Hercules saw carriages and horsemen five deep in the court as he was marched to-ward the servants’ entrance. An express courier gal-loped past on horseback, shouting for them to get out of the way, and almost trampled them.

Inside the manor, at the bottom of the back stairs, Hercules waited with several parties of private citizens and military officers and wondered what he was doing among such august company. The General’s physician, the lanky Dr. Craik, was exchanging sharp words in hushed tones with a portly Catholic priest. Hercules couldn’t hear what they were saying, and he was embarrassed by the curious glances from the others. They all seemed to know some terrible secret that he did not.

A few minutes later, a gaunt-looking man Hercules recognized as the General’s chief of staff, Colonel Tobias Lear, plodded down the steps. Hercules anxiously watched the group part as Colonel Lear walked straight up to him. His military escort, seeing no chance for him to flee, stepped back and released him.

Lear looked him over. “My God, man, they were supposed to bring you, not beat you senseless.”

Hercules didn’t understand what Lear meant, nor Lear’s glare at the major, whose expression remained emotionless.

“I been beaten worse,” Hercules said.

Lear glanced about the room in search of Dr. Craik, but the General’s physician was still occupied with the priest. He took out his own handkerchief and touched it to Hercules’ temple. When Lear withdrew his hand, Hercules saw blood on the cloth. Instantly worried about his coat, Hercules glanced down and was relieved to find no soiling.

“His Excellency will see you now,” Colonel Lear said.

Hercules glanced back at his military escort and then followed Lear up the stairs. Lear paused before the door to the General’s chamber.

“Brace yourself, man,” Lear said and opened the door.

Hercules at last beheld the cause of all the hue and cry: There, in his bed, writhing in pain and gasping for air, lay General George Washington, first president of the United States of America and current commander-in-chief of its armed forces. A string was tied around the great man’s arm, where blood, thick and heavy, oozed from a vein.

They’re bleeding him, Hercules realized. A bad sign.

Sobbing quietly at the foot of the bed was the General’s wife, Martha, who rose to her feet and smiled weakly at Hercules. Young Christopher, the General’s personal servant, helped her out of the room and shut the door, all the while averting his eyes from Hercules. The guilty look on his face made Hercules wonder if he was the servant who gave him up and told Washington his whereabouts.

“The General asked for you,” Lear said now that they were alone. “As you can see, he’s dying.”

How can this be?Hercules wondered. The last time Hercules saw his master, he seemed as robust and regal a man in his 60s as he had ever laid eyes upon. That was shortly before Hercules had run away. Terror seized his heart as he approached the bed, anxious to know what punishment his master might have in store for him.

“Massa Washington,” Hercules said. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just wanna be free, like you said the law allowed back in Philly.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Hercules,” Colonel Lear said. “His Excellency understands the reasons for your departure and apologizes for the abruptness of your summons. He wants you to know all is forgiven. But he asks one final favor of you, not as a slave but as a freed-man and patriot. Apparently, you are the only man he trusts with it

Astonished, Hercules drew himself up to his full stature, his pride mixed with fear. For years the General had trusted him with his life–every time he put a fork in his mouth–like the Pharaohs of Egypt and their taste-testers, paranoid of conspirators who would poison them. But this was different.

Washington tried to speak but struggled with it, forcing Hercules to bend his ear. “The republic requires your services,” Washington gasped hoarsely, in so low and broken a voice that Hercules could hardly understand him. He could smell vapors of vinegar, molasses, and butter on the General’s breath. “I would be most grateful.”

Hercules, moved deeply, bowed low. “Massa Washington, I ain’t up to something like this no more.”

But the General seemed not to hear him and ges-tured to Colonel Lear, who held out an envelope for Hercules.

Despite his protest, Hercules took the yellowed en-velope and saw the bold letters written across that spelled STARGAZER. Like most of Washington’s slaves, Hercules couldn’t read, and he often wondered if this was another reason why the General trusted him with these sorts of communiqués. But he knew the code name all too well.

Colonel Lear asked, “Do you know the Christian name of this patriot, this agent with the code name Stargazer?”

Hercules shook his head.

“Neither do I, and I know more about the General’s military papers than anybody else,” Lear said. “But you know where to find him?”

Hercules nodded.

“Very well then. Two of the General’s officers will escort you to the woods outside the Federal District. From there you will take the route the General says you have taken before for him, and deliver the letter to its proper destination.”

Hercules put the letter in his coat, aware of Washington’s anguished eyes following the path of the letter closely. The General preferred his spies to carry secret communiqués at the bottom of their knee-high boots. But tonight Hercules was wearing his shiny buckled shoes, which the General considered far less secure, so that was not an option.

“One more thing,” said Lear, and presented Hercules with a small dagger in a leather sheath. “As a to-ken of his appreciation, the General would like you to have this. It’s one of his favorites. During the Revolution you apparently proved yourself very good with a knife.”

Hercules took the dagger in his hand. Engraved on the handle were strange symbols that Hercules would never understand but which, after decades in the service of his master, he recognized as Masonic. He slipped it under his coat and into his belt behind the small of his back.

The General seemed to approve and strained to say something. He gulped air to breathe and made a harsh, high-pitched respiratory noise that frightened Hercules.

“Hercules,” he gasped. “There is one evil I dread, and that is their spies. You know whom I mean.”

Hercules nodded.

“Deliver the letter,” Washington hissed, his voice losing strength. “Rid the republic of this evil. Preserve’s destiny.”

“Yessa.”

Hercules rose and glanced at Lear.

“You have the final orders of His Excellency General George Washington, commander-in-chief of the United States armed forces,” Lear said. “Carry them out.”

“Yessa.”

Hercules bowed and walked out the door just as Dr. Craik and two consulting physicians rushed in with Martha. As Hercules stumbled down the stairs in a daze and stepped out into the bitter night, the cries of the servants rang in his ears:

“Massa Washington is dead! The General is dead!”

Outside, dispatches concerning the General’s demise were already being handed to express couriers for delivery to President Adams and Generals Hamilton and Pinckney.

Two military aides, meanwhile, were waiting for Hercules with the horses. Hercules faintly recalled their faces. One was a former Son of Liberty. The other was an assassin and an original member of the Culper Spy Ring who helped Washington beat the British in New York. No words were exchanged as Hercules threw a leg over his chestnut-colored horse and they galloped away from Mount Vernon.

They avoided the main roads as they rode north through the outskirts of Alexandria, cutting across farms and orchards in a wide arc until they reached the nape of the Potomac and crossed a wooden bridge a few miles west of Georgetown. Ten minutes later they reached the great woods at the edge of the federal district and Hercules brought his horse to a halt.

“What are you waiting for?” asked the former Son of Liberty.

Hercules looked into the woods. The twisted trees and strange noises had always spooked him, even before that terrible night when he and the General buried the old globe.

Oh, Lord, not here! Please don’t make me come back here!

Hercules remembered the stories about the ancient Algonquin Indians that old Benjamin Banneker, the General’s Negro astronomer, used to tell him when the General used the stars to draw the boundaries for the federal district. According to Banneker, long before Europeans colonized the New World, the Algonquin held tribal grand councils both at the base of Jenkins Hill, where the new Capitol Building sat, and in the ravines of these woods. What they did during those councils, Banneker wouldn’t say. But he did say that the Algonquin were linked by archaeology to the ancient Mayans and by legend to the descendents of Atlantis. The chiefs of their primary tribe, the Montauk Indians, were known as Pharaoh, like their ancient Egyptian cousins 10,000 years ago. Banneker told him the word Pharaoh meant “Star Child” or “Children of the Stars.”

Hercules craned his head up to the stars. The clouds had parted like a frame around Virgo. A chill shook his bones. Hercules knew that, by making the layout of the new capital city mirror the constellation, the General benignly sought the blessings of the Blessed Virgin in heaven upon the new republic. But such mysteries spooked him, almost as much as words like Pharaoh and Star Child.

After all, slaves built the pyramids of Egypt. Would the same be true of America?

“Let’s move,” demanded the form assassin.

Hercules led his military escort into the woods. For several minutes he listened to the crunch of leaves be-neath hooves as he weaved between the trees in the starlight, a bare branch or two scratching him along the way.

“Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come,” he began to sing, repeating his favorite verse from the song “Amazing Grace.” “’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”

He tried not to think about old Banneker’s other-worldly stories or, God forbid, the secret cave and the secret globe, which contained the greatest secret of them all. As he sang, his eyes darted back and forth, glancing at the dancing shadows all around. Then he heard the snap of a twig and stopped.

He glanced back at the two horses of his military escort in the darkness. But he could see only one rider–the former assassin. At that moment, he felt the muzzle of a pistol in his back and then heard the voice of the other escort, the former Son of Liberty.

“Get down here, slave.”

Slowly Hercules dismounted and turned. Both soldiers, now standing before him, pointed their pistols at him.

“The communiqué,” said the assassin. “Hand it over.”

Hercules hesitated, staring down the long barrel of the French flintlock.

“The communiqué, slave!”

Hercules slowly put his hand into his coat and removed the letter. He handed it to the former Son of Liberty, who glanced at it and handed it to the assassin.

“Who is Stargazer?”

Hercules said nothing.

“Tell me or we kill your family, too, starting with your two-year-old bastard daughter. We know where to find her. She lives with her mother in Philadelphia. So, again, who is Stargazer?”

“I-I don’t know,” Hercules said.

The assassin’s face turned red with rage and he tapped the barrel of his flintlock to Hercules’ temple. “How can you not know, slave?”

“Because, be-because,” Hercules stammered, “he ain’t been born yet. Won’t for a long, long time.”

“What gibberish is this?” The assassin glanced at the other soldier and grimaced at Hercules. “Give me your coat.”

Hercules stepped back, furious.

“Now, or I put a bullet hole in it.”

Hercules shook his head, trying to understand what was happening. “The republic…”

“The republic dies tonight with the General, his slave, and this Stargazer,” said the assassin. “Now give me my coat.”

“Your coat?”

“That’s right, slave. My coat.”

Hercules suddenly felt the calm that often washed over him in moments of great danger, whenever the face behind his fear finally revealed itself. As he started to take off his coat, he used his free hand to reach into the small of his back and remove from its sheath the dagger that the General had given him. He held the coat in front of him.

“Throw it on the ground, slave.”

The soldier might as well have asked him to soil the American flag. Hercules had worked too hard to buy this coat to give it up now, especially as they meant to kill him in the end. He had fed too many American soldiers with food his hands had prepared, and had sacrificed too much for his children and the General’s dream of a free nation for men and women of all races and creeds.

Everything, Lord, but not my coat!

“For the last time, slave, throw it down.”

“Not the ground,” Hercules said. “It would get your coat dirty, sir.”

Hercules tossed it through the air to the soldier. For a moment the soldier let his hand with the gun swing to the side to catch the coat, and in that moment Hercules turned to slit the throat of the soldier behind him, the blade slowed only by the catch of an artery. Before the man crumpled over, Hercules hurled the dagger at the assassin who held his coat. The blade struck him in the chest and drove him back against the trunk of a tree. The flintlock discharged aimlessly as he slid down to the ground.

A wisp of gunsmoke hung in the air as Hercules marched over to the assassin, who was gurgling up blood, his eyes rolling in surprise and fear. Hercules yanked the dagger out of his chest. The assassin opened his mouth to scream, but emitted only a low wheeze as the breath of life slowly escaped him.

“My coat, sir.”

Hercules picked up his coat, mounted his horse, and looked up at the constellation of Virgo, the Blessed Virgin, watching over him. He slipped the letter to Stargazer into his coat and buttoned up. Then he kicked his horse to life and rode off into the night to-ward America’s destiny.

Present Day

1

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Conrad Yeats kept a good three steps behind the flag-draped coffin. Six horses pulled the caisson toward the gravesite, their hooves clomping like a cosmic metronome in the heavy air. Each resounding clap proclaimed the march of time, the brevity of life. In the distance lightning flickered across the dark sky. But still no rain.

Conrad looked over at Marshall Packard. The secretary of defense walked beside him, his Secret Service agents a few paces behind with the other mourners from all branches of America’s armed forces, umbrellas at the ready.

Conrad said, “It’s not often you bury a soldier four years after his death.”

“No, it’s not,” said Packard, a fireplug of a former pilot known for his unflagging intensity. “I wish it hadn’t taken this long. But you’re the only one who knows the extraordinary way in which your father met his end.”

Packard had delivered a stirring eulogy for his old wingman “the Gffter” back at the military chapel up the hill. What Packard had failed to mention, Conrad knew, was that he hated the Griffter’s guts. The two men had had a falling out over Conrad’s unusual role at the Pentagon years ago, which involved identifying secret targets for bunker-busting cruise missiles: underground military installations and nuclear facilities in the Middle East that America’s enemies were building beneath archaeological sites for protection. Packard couldn’t believe that Conrad, the world’s foremost expert on megalithic architecture, would risk destroying civilization’s most ancient treasures. The Griffter couldn’t believe that Packard would risk American lives to pre-serve a few unturned stones that had already yielded all the information that archaeologists like Conrad needed to know about the dead culture that built them. The clash ended with an aborted air strike on the pyramid at Ur in Iraq and the revocation of Conrad’s Top Secret security clearance from the Department of Defense.

“He wasn’t my biological father,” Conrad reminded Packard. “I was adopted.”

There was a lot more Conrad could say, none of it helpful right now. Especially about how he had nothing to do with the planning of this funeral, how the Pentagon wouldn’t even let him see the tombstone his father had picked out for himself before he had died, and, most of all, how Conrad was certain that the man they were burying today could not possibly be his father.

“Level with me, son.” Packard glanced to his left and right. “Did you kill him?”Conrad locked eyes with Packard, the man he called “Uncle MP” as a child and feared more than anybody else except his father. “Your people performed the autopsy, Mr. Secretary. Why don’t you tell me?”

The two men said nothing more on the way down the hill to the gravesite.Conrad suspected that the DOD had spent tens of millions of American taxpayer dollars over the past four years to locate the remains of USAF Gen. Griffin Yeats. It was all in the vain hope of finding out what happened to the billions more his father had squandered in a black ops mission to Antarctica during which dozens of soldiers from various countries had perished.

What Conrad and his father had found was none other than the lost civilization of Atlantis. And just when they were about to uncover its secrets, that ancient world was destroyed in a massive explosion that purportedly killed his father, sank an ice shelf the size of California, and sent a catastrophic tsunami to Indonesia that killed thousands.

The only other survivor of the ill-fated Antarctica expedition besides Conrad was Sister Serena Serghetti, the famed Vatican linguist and environmental activist. But the impossibly beautiful Sister Serghetti, or “Mother Earth” as she was dubbed by the media, wasn’t talking to the United States or U.N. about Antarctica or lost civilizations. Nor was she talking to Conrad.

The long, bitter road ended here, at a belated funeral ceremony for a general more feared than revered, and a corpse that finally allowed the Pentagon to save face and bury the whole affair with full military honors.

For Conrad it was a homecoming of sorts to the only family he had left: the U.S. Armed Forces, even if he was its black sheep.

At the gravesite stood a gray-haired U.S. Air Force chaplain, an open Bible in hand. “I am the resurrection and the life,” he said, quoting Jesus and gazing straight at Conrad. “He s in me, though he dies, yet shall he live.”Six Blue Angel fighter jets streaked overhead in a missing-man formation. As they peeled up into the dark skies, the thunder from their rainbow-colored vapor trails faded and an unearthly silence descended upon the gravesite.

As Conrad watched the flag being lifted off the coffin and folded, he remembered his school days as a military brat when his dad was a test pilot, like many of the other dads at the base. The sound of jets had filled the base playground. But every now and then there’d be a sputter or pop and all the kids would stop playing and listen to the long whistle, waiting to hear the poof of an ejector lid blowing. You knew who was flying that day just by looking at the faces. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he would look up and see a chute open. But if it didn’t, two days later he would be standing at a funeral just like this one, watching a friend’s mom receive the flag and disappear from his life.

The miracle, he thought, was that it took this long for his turn to come.

Packard presented Conrad with his father’s Legion of Merit award, his Purple Heart medal, some obscure medal from the Society of Cincinnati, and the flag from the coffin. The flag was folded neatly into a triangle of stars. The stars, so crisp and white against the dark navy blue, seemed to glow.

“On behalf of a grateful America,” Packard told him, “our condolences.”

The oppressive air was suddenly and violently broken by the crack of gunfire as the seven-member rifle team shot the first of three volleys.

A lone bugler played Taps, and Conrad looked on as the casket was lowered into the earth. He felt angry, empty and lost. Despite his doubts that his father was in that casket and his feeling that this whole charade was yet another attempt by the military to bring clo-sure to a mission gone bad, the full weight of his father’s death sank in, a sense of loss more profound than Conrad expected.

His father often spoke of fellow Apollo astronauts who had “been to the moon” and then came back to Earth only to find civilian life wanting. Now Conrad knew what his father had been talking about. Everything Conrad had been searching for his entire life he had discovered in Antarctica, including Serena. Now it was all lost.

Gone were the days when Conrad was a world-class archaeologist whose deconstructionist philosophy–namely, that ancient monuments weren’t nearly so important as the information they yielded about their builders–led to mayhem and media coverage in many of the world’s hot spots.

Gone, too, was his academic reputation after disastrous digs in Luxor and later Antarctica, where he had returned only to find that any traces of Atlantis had vanished.

Gone, last of all, was his relationship with Serena, the one ruin in his life he actually cared about.

Someone coughed and Conrad looked up in time to see the chaplain step aside from the grave, the sweep of his vestment parting like a curtain to unveil the tombstone behind him.

The sight sucked the air from Conrad’s lungs.

Like some of the older stones in the cemetery, his father’s tombstone was in the shape of an obelisk, just like the 555-foot-tall Washington Monument in the distance. This obelisk was a little over three feet tall. Inscribed in a circle near the top Christian cross. Beneath the cross were the words:

GRIFFIN W. YEATS
BRIG GEN
US AIR FORCE
BORN
MAY 4 1945
KILLED IN ACTION
EAST ANTARCTICA
SEPT 21 2004

Unlike any other obelisk at Arlington, however, this one had three constellations engraved on one side, and on the other a strange sequence of numbers he couldn’t quite make out from where he was standing. The markings were bizarre by any measure, and yet familiar all the same. Four years ago in Antarctica Conrad had come across a similar obelisk.

Conrad stared at the tombstone, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

It had to be a message from his father.

Conrad’s heart pounded as he caught Packard watching him. Other mourners were staring, too, watching him. Belatedly, Conrad recognized the faces of five senior Pentagon code breakers and two hostage negotiators among the gathering. Then it dawned on him: This burial service wasn’t meant for his father. And it wasn’t meant for the DOD, to save face. It was meant for him. It was all some kind of setup.

They’re gauging my reaction.

Conrad felt a surge of fight-or-flight in his veins, but he kept a poker face for the rest of the service. Afterward, the funeral party dispersed, and a few tourists drifted down the hillside from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to watch from a distance as the horses clomped away with the empty caisson. Only he and Packard were left at the grave, along with a younger man who looked vaguely familiar to Conrad.

“Conrad, I’d like you to meet Max Seavers,” Packard said. “He’s your father’s acting replacement at DARPA.”

DARPA stood for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and was the Pentagon’s research and development organization. Among other things, DARPA took credit for inventing stealth technology, the global positioning system, and the Internet. DARPA’s mission was to maintain America’s technological superiority and to prevent any other power on earth from challenging that superiority. That mission is what sent his father and, ultimately, Conrad to Antarctica four years ago.

Conrad looked at Seavers and remembered now where he had seen the sandy locks, the dimpled jaw, and the piercing blue eyes before. Seavers, barely 30, was the Bill Gates of biotech and a fixture in business magazines. A few years ago Seavers had turned over his day job running his big pharma company, SeaGen, in order to devote himself to “a higher calling” by developing and distributing vaccines to fight disease in Third World countries. Now, it appeared, he had been called to public service.

“A younger and, hopefully, wiser DARPA, I see,” Conrad said, offering his hand.

Seavers’s iron grip as they shook hands felt like ice. And his gaze conveyed all the warmth of a scientist in a white lab coat studying a microscopic specimen of bacteria at the bottom of a petri dish.

“We still take America’s technological superiority seriously, Dr. Yeats.” Seavers spoke in a baritone voice that sounded too deep for his age. “And we could always use a man with your unique skills.”

“And what skills would those be?”

“Cut the bull, Yeats.” Packard glanced both ways to see if anybody was within earshot, leaned over and rasped. “Tell us the meaning of this.”

“Meaning of what?”

“This.” Packard pointed to the obelisk. “What’s the deal?”

“I’m supposed to know?”

“Damn right you’re supposed to know. Those as-trological signs. The numbers. You’re the world’s foremost astro-archaeologist.”

It sounded funny coming out of Packard’s mouth: astro-archaeologist. But that’s what he was these days, an archaeologist who used the astronomical alignments of pyramids, temples, and other ancient landmarks to date their construction and the civilizations that erected them. His specialty hadn’t made him rich yet. But over the years it had given him his own now-canceled reality TV show called Ancient Riddles, exotic adventures with young female fans, and the expertise to spend an obscene amount of other people’s money–mostly Uncle Packard’s.

“Hey, your people handled all the funeral arrangements,” Conrad said. “Couldn’t your brilliant cryptologists at the Pentagon crack it?”

Seavers steamed but said nothing.

Conrad sighed. “For all we know, Mr. Secretary, this obelisk is probably another sick joke to send us around the world looking for clues that ultimately lead to a statue of Dad giving us all the finger.”

“You know him better than that, son.”

“Obviously a lot better than you did, sir, if you and your code breakers can’t figure it out. Why do you even care?”

Packard glowered at him. “Your father was a test pilot, an astronaut, and the head of DARPA. If it involves him, it’s vital to national security.”

“Dr. Serghetti is the real expert on this sort of thing,” Conrad said. “But I’m looking around and don’t see any sign of her.”

“And see that you don’t, son,” Packard said. “This is a state secret. And Sister Serghetti is an agent of a foreign power.”

Conrad blinked. “So now the Vatican is a foreign power?”

“I don’t see the pope taking orders from the president, do you?” Packard said. “You are to share noting with that girl. And I expect you to report any attempt by her to reestablish contact with you.”

If only, Conrad thought, as Packard walked away with Max Seavers.

It had started to drizzle, and Conrad watched the pair march down the hill to the secret service detail, which welcomed them with two open umbrellas and escorted them to the convoy of limousines, town cars, and SUVs. Conrad counted nine vehicles parked on the narrow road. Before the funeral procession he had counted eight.

One by one the cars left, until a single black limousine remained. He was certain it wasn’t the cab he called for. He’d give it another two minutes to show up before he walked down to the main gate and hailed another.

Conrad studied the obelisk in the rain.

“Now what have you gotten me into, Dad?”

Whatever answers he was looking for, however, had apparently died with his father four years ago.

He turned again toward the road and splashed toward the limousine to tell Packard’s boys to take the day off.

Conrad felt a strange electricity in the air even before he recognized beefy Benito behind the wheel. Then the window came down and he saw Serena Serghetti sitting in back. His blood jumped.

“Don’t just stand there, mate,” she told him in her bold Australian accent. “Get in.”

The truth is down there…

RAISING ATLANTIS

A New York Times, USA Today

and No. 1 eBook bestseller

“A wonderfully honed cliff-hanger—an outrageous adventure with a wild dose of the supernatural. A fun read from start to finish.”

— Clive Cussler, No. 1 New York Times bestselling author

“A gripping page-turner. Better than The Da Vinci Code.”

—CBS News

“An enchanting story with an incredible pace.”

— The Boston Globe

“A gripping plot…colorful characters…and some clean, no-nonsense writing…adds to the reading speed and suspense.”

— Chicago Tribune

1

Discovery Minus Six Minutes
East Antarctica

Lieutenant Commander Terrance Drake of the U.S. Naval Support Force, Antarctica, paced behind a snow dune as he waited for the icy gale to pass. He badly needed to take a leak. But that would mean breaking international law.

Drake shivered as a blast of polar air swept swirling sheets of snow across the stark, forsaken wasteland that seemed to stretch forever. Fantastic snow dunes called sastrugi rose into the darkness, casting shadows that looked like craters on an alien moonscape. Earth’s “last wilderness” was a cold and forbidding netherworld, he thought, a world man was never meant to inhabit.

Drake moved briskly to keep himself warm. He felt the pressure building in his bladder. The Antarctica Treaty had stringent environmental protection protocols, summed up in the rule: “Nothing is put into the environment.” That included pissing on the ice. He had been warned by the nature geeks at the National Science Foundation that the nitrogen shock to the environment could last for thousands of years. Instead he was expected to tear open his food rations and use the bags for a urinal. Unfortunately, he didn’t pack rations for reconn patrols.

Drake glanced over his shoulder at several white-domederglass huts in the distance. Officially, the mission of the American “research team” was to investigate unusual seismic activity deep beneath the ice pack. Three weeks earlier the vibes from one of those subglacial temblors sliced an iceberg the size of Rhode Island off the coast of East Antarctica. Moving at present ocean currents—about three miles a day—it would be ten years before it drifted into warmer waters and melted.

Ten years, thought Drake. That’s how far away he was from nowhere. Which meant anything could happen out here and nobody would hear him scream. He pushed the thought out of his mind.

When Drake first signed up for duty in Antarctica back at Port Hueneme, California, an old one-armed civilian cook who slopped on the mystery meat in the officers mess hall had suggested he read biographies of men like Ernest Shackleton, James Cook, John Franklin and Robert Falcon Scott—Victorian and Edwardian explorers who had trekked to the South Pole for British glory. The cook told him to view this job as a test of endurance, a rite of passage into true manhood. He said a tour in Antarctica would be a love affair—exotic and intoxicating—and that Drake would be changed in some fundamental, almost spiritual way. And just when this hostile paradise had seduced him, he was going to have to leave and hate doing so.

Like hell he would.

From day one he couldn’t wait to get off this ice cube. Especially after learning upon his arrival from his subordinates that it was in Antarctica that the old man back in Port Hueneme had lost his arm to frostbite. Everyone in his unit had been duped by the stupid cook.

Now it was too late for Drake to turn back. He couldn’t even return to Port Hueneme if he wanted to. The Navy had closed its Antarctica training center there shortly after he arrived in this frozen hell. As for the one-armed cook, he was probably spending his government-funded retirement on the beach whistling at girls in bikinis. Drake, on the other hand, often woke up with blinding headaches and a dry mouth. Night after night the desert-like air sucked the moisture from his body. Each morning he awakened with all the baggage of a heavy night of binge drinking without the benefits of actually having been drunk.

Drake shoved a bulky glove into his pocket and felt the frozen rabbit’s foot his fiancée Loretta had given him. Soon it would dangle from the rear-view mirror of the red Ford Mustang convertible he was going to buy them for their honeymoon, courtesy of his furloughed pay. He was piling it up down here. There simply was no place to blow it. McMurdo Station, the main U.S. outpost in Antarctica, was 1,500 miles away and offered its 200 winter denizens an ATM, a coffee house, two bars and a male-female ratio of ten-to-one. Real civilization was 2,500 miles away at “Cheech”—Christchurch, New Zealand. It might as well be Mars.

So who on earth was going to see him paint the snow?

Drake paused. The gale had blown over. At the moment, the katabatic winds were dead calm, the silence awesome. But without warning the winds could suddenly come up again and gust to a deafening 200 m.p.h. Such was the unpredictable nature of the Antarctic thules or “toolies,” the interior snow deserts.

Now was his chance.

Unable to hold it any longer, Drake unzipped his freezer suit and relieved himself. The nip of the cold stung like an electric socket. Temperatures threatened to plunge to 130° below tonight, att exposed flesh would freeze in less than thirty seconds.

Drake counted down from 30 under his foggy breath. At T minus seven seconds he zipped up his pants, said a brief prayer of thanks and looked up at the heavens. The three belt stars of the Orion constellation twinkled brightly over the barren, icy surface. The “kings of the East,” as he called them, were the only witnesses to his dirty deed. Wise men indeed, he thought with a smile, when suddenly he felt the ice rumble faintly beneath his boots before fading away. Another shaker, he realized. Better get the readings.

Drake turned back toward the white domes of the base, his boots crunching in the snow. The domes should have been a regulation yellow or red or green to attract attention. But attention was not what Uncle Sam wanted. Not when the Antarctic Treaty barred military personnel or equipment on the Peace Continent, except for “research purposes.”

Drake’s unofficial orders were to take a team of NASA scientists deep into the interior of East Antarctica, charted by air but never on foot. They were to follow a course tracking, of all things, the meridian of Orion’s Belt. Upon reaching the epicenter of recent quakes and building the base, the NASA team immediately began taking seismic and echo surveys. Then came the drilling. So the “research” had something to do with the subglacial topography of the ancient landmass two miles beneath the ice.

What NASA hoped to find buried down here Drake couldn’t imagine, and General Yeats hadn’t told him. Nor could he imagine why the team required weapons and regular reconn patrols. The only conceivable threat to the mission was the United Nations Antarctica Commission (UNACOM) team at Vostok Station, a previously abandoned Russian base that had been suddenly reactivated a few weeks earlier. But Vostok Station was almost 400 miles away, ten hours by ground transport. Why NASA should be so concerned about UNACOM was as much a mystery to Drake as what was under the ice.

Whatever was down there had to be at least 12,000 years old, Drake figured, because he read someplace that’s how long ice had covered this frozen hell. And it had to be vital to the national security of the United States of America, or Washington wouldn’t risk the cloak-and-dagger routine and the resulting international brouhaha if this illegal expedition were exposed.

The command center was a prefab fiberglass dome with various satellite dishes and antennae pointed to the stars. As he approached the dome, Drake set off loud cracking pops when he passed between several of dozens of metal poles placed around the base. The bone-dry Antarctic air turned a human being into a highly charged ball of static electricity.

The warmth generated by thermal heaters placed beneath the banks of high-tech equipment welcomed Drake as he stepped inside the command center. He had barely closed the thermal hatch when his radio officer waved him over.

Drake stomped over to the console, shaking off snow. He discharged his fingers on a grounded metal strip along the console edges. The sparks stung for a second, but it was less painful than inadvertently zapping the computers and frying their data. “What have you got?”

“Our radio-echo surveys may have triggered something.” The radio officer tapped his headset. “It’s too regular to be a natural phenomenon.”

Drake frowned. “On speaker.”

The radi flicked a switch. A regular, rhythmic rumble filled the room. Drake lowered his parka hood to reveal a tuft of dark hair standing on end. He tapped the console with a thick finger and cocked his ear. The sound was definitely mechanical in nature.

“It’s the UNACOMers,” Drake concluded. “They’re on to us. That’s probably their Hagglunds snow tractors we’re picking up.” Already Drake could picture the impending international flap. Yeats was going to go ballistic. “How far away, Lieutenant?”

“A mile below, sir,” the bewildered radio officer replied.

“Below?” Drake glanced at his lieutenant. The humming grew louder.

One of the overhead lights began to swing. Then rumbling shook the ground beneath their feet, like a distant freight train closing in.

“That’s not coming from the speaker,” Drake yelled. “Lieutenant, raise Washington on the SAT-COM now!”

“I’m trying, sir.” The lieutenant flicked a few switches. “They’re not responding.”

“Try the alternate frequency,” Drake insisted.

“Nothing.”

Drake heard a crack and looked up. A small chunk of ice from the ceiling was falling. He stepped out of the way. “And the VHF band?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Radio blackout.”

“Damn!” Drake hurried to the weapons rack, removed an insulated M-16 and moved to the door. “Get those satellite uplinks on line!”

Drake opened the hatch and burst outside. The rumbling was deafening. Breathing hard, heaving with each long stride, he ran across the ice to the perimeter of the camp and stopped.

Drake raised his M-16 and scanned the horizon through the nightscope. Nothing, just an eerie green aura highlighted by the swirling polar mist. He kept looking, expecting to soon make out the profile of a dozen UNACOM Hagglunds transports. It felt like a hundred of them. Hell, maybe the Russians were moving in with their monster 80-ton Kerkchenko tractors.

Then the ground shook beneath his feet. He glanced down and saw a jagged shadow slither between his boots. He jumped back with a start. It was a crack in the ice, and it was getting bigger.

He swung his M-16 around and tried to outrun the crack back to the command center. There were shouts all around as the tremors brought panicked soldiers tumbling out of their fiberglass igloos. Then, suddenly, the shouts were silenced by a shriek of wind.

Freezing air rushed overhead like a wind tunnel. The katabatic blast knocked Drake off his feet. He slipped and fell flat onto the ice pack, the back of his head slamming the ground so hard and fast that he instantly lost consciousness.

When Drake came to, the winds had stopped. He lay there for several minutes, then lifted his aching, throbbing head and looked out from beneath his snow-dusted parka hood.

The command center was gone. Beneath it was a black abyss, a huge crescent chasm about a hundred yards wide that had devoured the entire base. The cold was playing tricks on him, he hoped, because he could swear this abyss strehed out across the ice for almost a mile.

Slowly Drake dragged himself toward the scythe-like gorge. He had to find out what happened, who had survived and needed medical attention. In the eerie silence he could hear his freezer suit scrape along the ice, his heart pounding as he reached the edge of the abyss.

Drake peered over and aimed a flashlight into the darkness. The beam bathed the glassy blue-white walls of ice with light and worked its way down.

My God, he thought, this hole has to be at least a mile deep.

Then he saw the bodies and what was left of the base. They were on an ice shelf a few hundred yards down. The Navy support personnel in their white freezer suits were hard to distinguish from the broken fiberglass and twisted metal. But he could easily pick out the corpses of the civilian scientists clad in multi-colored parkas. One of them was lying on a small ice ledge apart from the others. His head was bent at an obscene angle, framed in a halo of blood.

Drake’s mind swirled as he took in the remnants of his first command. He had to check the other bodies to see if anyone was still breathing. He had to find some equipment and get help. He had to do something.

“Can anybody hear me?” Drake called out, his voice cracking in the dry air.

He listened and thought he heard chimes. But the sound turned out to be the frozen limbs of his radio officer, clinking like glass as they dangled over smashed equipment.

He shouted into the wind. “Can anybody hear me?”

There was no response, only a low howl whistling across the abyss.

Drake looked closer and saw some sort of structure protruding from the ice. It wasn’t fiberglass or metal or anything from the base camp. It was something solid that almost seemed to glow.

What the hell is that? he thought.

An appalling silence fell across the wasteland. Drake knew then with chilling clarity that he was alone.

Desperately he searched for a satellite phone in the debris. If he could just get a message out, let Washington know what had happened. The hope that help was on the way from McMurdo Station or Amundsen-Scott might give him the strength to set up some sort of shelter, to make it through the night.

A sudden gust shrieked. Drake felt the ground give way beneath him, and he gasped as he plunged headlong into the darkness. He landed with a dull thud on his back and heard a sickening snap. He couldn’t move his legs. He tried to call for help but could only hear a hard wheezing from his lungs.

Overhead in the heavens, the three belt stars of Orion hovered in indifferent silence. He noticed a peculiar odor, or rather a change in the quality of the air. Drake could feel his heart pumping in some unfamiliar but regular pattern, like he was losing control of his body. Still, he could move his hands.

His fingers crawled along the ice and grasped his flashlight, which was still on. He scanned the darkness, moving the beam across the translucent wall.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He couldn’t quite make out what he was looking at. They looked like pieces of coal in the ice. Then he realized they were eyes, the eyes of a little girl staring straight at him ou of the icy wall.

He stared back at the face for a moment, a low moan forming at the back of his throat when he finally turned his head away. All around him were hundreds of perfectly preserved human beings, frozen in time, their hands reaching out in desperation across the ages.

Drake opened his mouth to scream, but the rumbling started again and a glistening avalanche of ice shards crashed down upon him.

2

Discovery Plus Twenty-One Days
Nazca, Peru

Conrad Yeats scaled the side of the plateau under the blazing Peruvian sun and looked out across the plains of Nazca. The empty, endless desert spread out hundreds of feet below him. He could pick out the gigantic figures of the Condor, Monkey and Spider etched on the baked expanse that resembled the surface of Mars. The famous Nazca Lines, miles long and thousands of years old, were so enormous that they could be seen only from the air. So could the tiny dust cloud swirling in the distance along the Pan-American Highway. It settled near the van he had parked off to the side. Conrad pulled out his binoculars and focused below. Two military jeeps pulled up to the van and eight armed Peruvian soldiers jumped out to inspect it.

Damn, he thought, how did they know where to find me?

The woman on the opposite line adjusted her backpack and said in a flat French accent, “Trouble, Conrad?”

Conrad glanced at her cynical blue eyes framed by a 24-year-old baby smooth face. Mercedes, the daughter of a French TV mogul, was his producer on “Ancient Riddles of the Universe” and helped him scout locations.

“Not yet.” He put the binoculars away. “And it’s Doctor Yeats to you.”

She pouted. Her ponytail swung out the back of her Diamondbacks baseball cap like an irritated thoroughbred’s tail flicking flies. “Doctor Conrad Yeats, world’s greatest expert on megalithic architecture,” she intoned like the B-actor announcer for their show. “Discarded by academia for his brilliant but unorthodox theories about the origins of human civilization.” She paused. “Adored by women the world over.”

“Just the lunatics,” he told her.

Conrad eyed the last ledge beneath the plateau summit. He was stripped to the waist. Strong and muscular, his body had been toughened and tanned from tackling the hills of the world’s geographical and political hot spots. His dark hair was too long, and he had it tied back with a strip of leather. His lean 39-year-old frame and chiseled features made him look tired and hungry, and he was. Tired of life’s journey, hungry for answers.

It was his quest for the origins of human civilization — the “Mother Culture” which had birthed the world’s most ancient societies —that drove him to the earth’s remote corners. His obsession, a nun once told him, was really his quest for the biological parents who had vanished after his birth. Perhaps, he thought, but at least the ancient Nazcans left him more clues.

Conrad grabbed the ledge overhead and gracefully pulled himself onto the summit of the flat plateau. He reached down, took hold of Mercedes’ dusty hand and pulled her up to the ledge. She feop of him, deliberately, and he sprawled on his back. Her playful eyes lingered on his for a moment before she looked over his shoulder and gasped.

The summit was sheered off and leveled with laser-like precision. It was like a giant runway in the sky over the Nazcan desert, and it afforded breathless views of some of the more famous carvings.

Conrad stood up and brushed off the dust while Mercedes relished the view. He hoped she was taking it all in, because her next vista would be from behind bars unless he figured out some way to elude the Peruvians below.

“You have to admit it, Conrad,” she said. “This summit could have been a runway.”

Conrad smiled. She was trying to get a rise out of him. Since the carvings could only be seen from the air, some of his wacky archeologist rivals had suggested that the ancient Nazcans had machines that could fly, and that the particular mount on which he and Mercedes stood was once a landing strip for alien spaceships. He wouldn’t mind one showing up about now to take him away from Mercedes and the Peruvians. But he needed her. The show was all he had left to fund his research, and she was his only line of credit.

Conrad said, “I suppose it’s not enough for me to suggest that aliens who could travel across the stars probably didn’t need airstrips?”

“No.”

Conrad sighed. It was hard enough for him to contend with the sands of time, foreign governments and goofball theories in his quest for the origins of human civilization without ancient astronauts eroding what little respect he had left in the academic community.

At one time Conrad was a groundbreaking, postmodern archeologist. His deconstructionist philosophy was that ancient ruins weren’t nearly so important as the information they conveyed about their builders. Such a stand ran against the self-righteous trend toward “preservation” in archeology, which in Conrad’s mind was code for “tourism” and the dollars it brought. He became a maverick in the press, a source of bitter jealousy among his peers, and a thorn in the side of Near East and South American countries who laid claims to the world’s greatest archeological treasures.

Then one day he unearthed dozens of Israelite dwellings from the 12th century B.C. near Luxor in Egypt that offered the first physical proof for the biblical account of the Exodus. But the official position of the Egyptian government was that their ancient forefathers never used Hebrew slaves to build the pyramids. Moreover, only the Egyptian government had the right to announce discoveries to the media. Conrad didn’t discuss his find with them before talking to the press, thus violating a contract that every archeologist working in Egypt had to sign before starting a dig. The head of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities called him “a stupid, lazy jerk” and banned him forever from Egypt.

Suddenly, the tables had turned and Conrad the iconoclast had become Conrad the preservationist, demanding international protection for his “slave city.” By the time Egypt allowed camera crews to the site, however, the crumbling foundations of the Israelite dwellings had been bulldozed into oblivion to make way for a military installation. There was nothing left to preserve, only a story nobody believed and a reputation in tatters.

Now he was worse off than ever. Stripped of his stature. Strapped for cas. In the arms of Mercedes and her crazy reality TV show that peddled entertainment, not archeology, to the masses. He couldn’t go back to Egypt, and soon the same would be said of Peru and Bolivia and a growing number of other countries. Only the hard discovery of humanity’s “Mother Culture” could rescue him from ancient astronauts and this purgatory of cheap documentaries and even cheaper flings.

Concern clouded Mercedes’ face. “We could blow a whole day just getting a crew up here for your stand-up,” she said, brooding for a moment before her face suddenly brightened. “Much better to stick with an aerial from the Cessna and a voice-over.”

Conrad said, “That kind of defeats the purpose, Mercedes.”

She shot him a quizzical glance. “What are you talking about?”

“I see it’s time we perform a sacred ritual,” he told her, taking her hand. “One that will unleash a revelation.”

Conrad dropped to his knees, pulling her down next to him. Mercedes’ eyes widened in expectation. “Do as I do, and behold a great mystery.”

Mercedes leaned next to him.

“Dig your fingers into the dirt.”

They slowly dug their fingers through the hot, black volcanic pebbles into the cool and moist yellow clay beneath.

“This in your script?” she asked. “It’s good.”

“Just rub the clay between your fingers.”

She did, and then lifted a small clump to her nostrils and smelled it as if to experience some cosmic epiphany.

“There you go,” he told her.

A look of confusion crossed her face. “That’s it?”

“Don’t you see?” he asked. “This ground is too soft for the landing of wheeled aircraft.” He smiled at her in triumph. “So much for your fantasies of ancient astronauts.”

He should have known his simple, scientific test wouldn’t go over well with her. Her eyes turned into steely blue slits of rage. He had seen the transformation before. That’s how she got to where she was in TV, that and her father’s money.

“The show needs you, Conrad,” she said. “You think differently than others. And you’ve got credentials. Or had them anyway. You’re a 21st century astro-archeologist, or whatever the hell you are. Don’t piss it away. I want to keep you on. But I’m under pressure to deliver ratings. So if you don’t play ball, I’ll get some toothy celebrity who plays an archeologist on TV to take your place.”

“Meaning?”

“Give the freaks who are watching what they want.”

“Ancient astronauts?”

A serene smile broke across her baby face as she adopted a fawning, adoring gaze. He groaned inwardly.

“Professor Yeats,” she gushed, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the m

Unable to extract himself, or come up for air, he kissed her back contemptuously, feeling her body respond to his own self-hatred. Obviously what the French dramatist Moliere said about playwrights applied to archeologists as well. He was the prostitute here. He started out doing it for himself, then for a few friends and universities. Hell, he might as well get paid for it.

Suddenly the wind picked up and Mercedes’ ponytail slapped him across the face. A gleaming metallic object hovered in the sky. He shaded his eyes and recognized the shape of a Black Hawk military chopper fitted with sidemounted machine guns.

Mercedes followed his gaze and frowned. “What is it?”

“Trouble.”

Conrad reached behind her and pulled out a Glock 9mm automatic pistol from her backpack. Mercedes’ eyes grew wide and said, “You sent me through customs with that?”

“Nah, I bought it in Lima the other day.” He pulled out a loaded clip from his belt pack and rammed it into the butt of the pistol. He tucked the gun behind his belt. “I’ll do the talking.”

Mercedes, speechless, nodded.

The chopper descended, the wind from its blades kicking up red dust as it touched down. The door slid open, and six U.S. Special Forces soldiers in green field uniforms stepped down onto the summit and secured the area before a lanky young officer in a blue USAF flightsuit clanked down the metal steps to the ground and walked up to Conrad.

“Doctor Yeats?” the officer said.

Conrad looked the officer over. He appeared to be about his own age, a slim, easy-going man Conrad had seen somewhere before. He also wore a single black leather glove on his left hand. “Who wants to know?”

“NASA, sir. I’m Commander Lundstrom. I work for your father, General Yeats.”

Conrad stiffened. “What does he want?”

“The general needs your opinion on a matter of vital interest to the national security.”

“I’m sure he does, Commander, but the national interest and my own are two different things.”

“Not this time, Doctor Yeats. I understand you’re persona non grata at the University of Arizona. And in case you hadn’t noticed, an armed goon squad is climbing up that cliff. You can come with me, or you could spend a few weeks in a Peruvian jail cell.”

“So you’re saying I can either see my father or go to jail? I’ll have to think about it.”

“Think about this,” Lundstrom said. “Your little friend here might not want to bail you out of jail when she discovers you’ve been using her to smuggle a stolen Egyptian artifact into the country so you can pawn it off to a wanted South American drug lord.”

“Another lie coming out of Luxor. Where did I allegedly find this artifact?”

“The Egyptians say you looted it from the National Museum of Baghdad when the city fell to invading American forces during the Iraq war. They got the Iraqis to confirm it. At least that’s what’re telling the Peruvians, Bolivians and anybody else who will listen.”

Conrad tried to muffle his rage at the Egyptians even as he calculated the chances of Mercedes letting him rot in prison. He concluded she’d probably let the guards have a few whacks at him before bailing him out.

“Very nice,” Conrad told Lundstrom. “But all the same I’m going to have to pass up this wonderful opportunity.” Conrad offered his hand to wish Lundstrom a hearty goodbye.

But the commander didn’t budge. “There’s more, Doctor Yeats,” he said. “We’ve found what you’ve spent your whole life looking for.”

Conrad looked him in the eye. “My biological parents?”

“Next best thing. You’ll be briefed when we get there.”

“’There’ almost got me killed last time, Commander. Look, why don’t you find somebody else?”

“We tried.” Lundstrom paused, letting the reality sink in that Conrad wasn’t at the top of anybody’s list these days. “But apparently Dr. Serghetti has already been retained by another organization to investigate this matter.”

“Serena?”

Lundstrom nodded.

Conrad’s mind raced through a number of scenarios, all of them entirely unpleasant and utterly thrilling at the same time. Just hearing her name made him come alive. And the thought that he and Serena and his father and the distinct worlds each of them inhabited would for the first time collide made him wonder if the space-time continuum could handle it or if the universe itself would explode.

“This isn’t going to end well, Commander, is it?”

“Probably not. But General Yeats is waiting.”

“Give me a minute.”

Conrad turned and walked back to Mercedes, who had been watching the exchange with a furrowed brow, and kissed her. “I’m sorry, baby. But I’m going to have to go.”

“Go?” she said. “Go where?”

“To visit a real ancient astronaut.”

Conrad reached into her pack again and took out a gold Nineteenth Dynasty Egyptian statuette of Ramses II, who was pharaoh during the alleged Exodus. He had found it in the slave city, and it was the one thing left in his life that proved he wasn’t insane. He gave it to Mercedes.

“Now you never knew where this came from, just in case the nice gentlemen coming over the ledge ask you when they escort you back to Lima.”

Mercedes’ mouth dropped as Conrad and Lundstrom climbed into the Black Hawk. The door shut and the military chopper lifted up and away.

Conrad looked down at the shrinking plateau. By the time he remembered to wave good-bye to Mercedes, the militia men had reached the summit and the chopper was over the side of a mountain.

Conrad turned to Lundstrom. “So what on earth does my father want with me

“It’s where on earth,” said Lundstrom, throwing him a white polar “freezer” suit. “Catch.”