W. Griffin - By Order of the President

Scattered throughout the cargo bay, sitting on whatever they could find to sit on except the uncomfortable aluminum-pipe-and-nylon-sheeting standard seats, were thirty Gray Fox special operators-six officers, twelve senior enlisted men, and the twelve Little Bird pilots. One of the pilots was a captain, one a lieutenant, and the others chief warrant officers, two of whom were CWO-5s whose pay was only slightly less than that of a lieutenant colonel. All the pilots, in addition to being carefully selected and highly trained Army aviators with a minimum of a thousand hours in the air as pilot in command, were also fully trained and qualified as Special Forces soldiers. Their mission, once they had delivered the Gray Fox team to the ground, was to switch roles from helicopter pilots to what everybody called "shooters."

There were also a half-dozen mechanics whose primary function was the folding of Little Bird rotor blades, loading the Little Birds onto the C-17, and then unloading them, unfolding the rotor blades, and making sure they were safe to fly when the C-17 touched down. There were also two avionics technicians to make sure everything electronic on the Little Birds was functioning properly and two armorers to handle the weaponry. The technicians, too, were all fully qualified Special Forces soldiers, and when the Little Birds had taken off they, too, would switch to being shooters and establish a perimeter guard around the Globemaster.

Just about everybody was drinking a Coke or a 7UP or munching on an ice-cream bar on a stick or wolfing down a hot dog heated in one of two microwave ovens that were carried along routinely even if they didn't appear on any list of equipment.

The base exchange at Hurlburt had had a good day. General McNab would not have been at all surprised if some of the plastic coolers from the exchange held six, maybe eight, cases of beer on ice. He hadn't asked or looked, nor was he worried. His people were pros; they wouldn't take a sip until the job was done.

And three-quarters of the way down the cargo bay, on the only upholstered chair in the bay, a Gray Fox special operator sat before a fold-down shelf that held one of onetime sergeant Aloysius Francis Casey's latest communications devices.

He had just stuffed perhaps a third of a chili-and-onion dog in his mouth when he saw General McNab walking toward him. He started to chew furiously as he started to stand up.

McNab signaled for him to keep his seat and waited for him to finish chewing.

"I understand we're having a little communications problem, Sergeant Kensington," General McNab said.

"Yes, sir?" Kensington replied, momentarily confused at first, then following.

"Everything but imagery is down, I understand?"

Sergeant Kensington turned to the control panel and flipped switches. Green LEDs went out as he did so.

"Yes, sir, nothings green but imagery."

"Well, you never can really predict when these things are going to work and when they're not, can you?"

"No, sir, you never really can."

McNab touched his shoulder, smiled at him, and walked forward in the cargo bay. He caught the eye of one of the CWO-5s, a massive-well over six feet and two hundred pounds-black man named Shine, whose bald skull reflected light and was thus logically known to his peers as "Shiny Shine," and motioned him over.

"A no-bullshit-the-general answer, Shine," McNab said. "Once I give you the coordinates, how long will it take you to program the computers?"

"Sir, that's done. We can be in the air in no more than ten minutes after the door opens."

"You never listen to me, Shine. That's probably why you're not a general."

"We're not going to Suriname, General?"

"I didn't say that, Shine."

"Come on, boss, I have to know. I've got a bag full of CDs of approaches to South American airfields. Maybe one of them's what you need. If so, all I'll need is fifteen minutes to reprogram. Otherwise it'll take me an hour, maybe a little more."

"You got anything in your bag for Costa Rica, by chance?"

"I don't know, boss. I'll have to check."

"Why don't you do that? And let me know."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep it as quiet as you can."

"When they see me going in the bag, they'll know something is up."

"Let them worry; it'll keep them on their toes."

"You're a badass, General," Mr. Shine said, smiling. "With all possible respect, sir."

McNab walked farther forward in the cargo bay, opened one of the white plastic coolers, took out a hot dog, a roll, put the hot dog in the roll, spread it heavily with chili and chopped onions, and put it into one of the microwave ovens.

[FOUR]

The Oval Office

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1120 10 June 2005

"His plate is pretty full," the chief of staff to the president of the United States said to the secretary of homeland security. "Is this going to take long?"

Matthew Hall gave the appearance of someone who was annoyed, had been about to say something unpleasant, but had changed his mind and instead said something else.

"Is Natalie Cohen in there?" he asked. "If she's not, send for her."

He then opened the door to the Oval Office and went in, denying the chief of staff his privilege of going in first to announce him.

The president was sitting in one of two upholstered chairs facing a coffee table. Secretary of Defense Frederick K. Beiderman was sitting on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. The president looked up from pouring coffee.

"Speak of the devil," the president said. "How did things go in Philadelphia? Do we have one highly pissed off mayor on our hands?"

"We're probably going to have one, Mr. President," Hall said.

"You couldn't convince him that the problem is under control?"

"With some difficulty, sir, I think I did. The problem is: the problem is that the problem is not under control."

"There's been a problem neutralizing the airplane in Suriname? I didn't think they'd even had time to get there."

"The airplane in Suriname is not the 727 the terrorists have, Mr. President," Hall said.

"What?" the president asked, incredulously.

"Tell that to the DCI," Beiderman said. "He even has a visual from a CIA agent down there."

"I intend to tell the DCI, Fred," Hall said, pointedly. "But I thought the president should hear it first."

"Where are you getting your information, Matt? From the Russian?"

"From the Russian, yes, sir. Via Major Castillo. But there's more, sir."

"What more?"

"We've made: I don't know why I said 'we.' I had nothing to do with it. When I heard this first from Castillo, frankly I was as dubious as you, Mr. President, but, then, when I heard everything I became a convert."

"What 'everything'?" the president asked, impatiently.

"The Philadelphia police-with the at first somewhat reluctant help of the FBI-have identified the people who stole the airplane. Pevsner said they were Somalians and they are. They were in Philadelphia as mullahs and the counterterrorism people there took their pictures and made a positive ID:"

"Made a positive ID of who?" Dr. Natalie Cohen asked, entering the room. "I presume I'm invited to this meeting?"

"You're invited but you're probably not going to like it," the president said.

"Mr. President," Hall continued, "I've got Major Miller and a Philadelphia police counterterrorism officer, Sergeant Schneider, with me. I think maybe if you heard all this from them, it would be better than:"

"Bring them on," the president ordered, impatiently, then asked, "The same Major Miller?"

"Yes, sir. He's been in Philadelphia:"