W. Griffin - By Order of the President

She put out her hand.

"Anybody got a match?"

Secretary Hall laid a somewhat battered Zippo in Dr. Cohen's palm.

[SIX]

Aboard USAF C-17 036788

17.210 degrees North Latitude

82.680 degrees West Longitude

Above the Atlantic Ocean

1158 10 June

"How very interesting," Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said and handed the message back to the Sergeant Kensington, who was manning the control panel. "I think you better put this in there."

He pointed to the burn bag tied to Kensington's shelf, which was actually a small canvas bag holding three thermite grenades-two for the radio, one for messages-in case it became necessary to destroy either or both to keep them from falling into the wrong hands.

Kensington did so, then looked at McNab, who made a "push 'em up" gesture with this fingers. Kensington turned to the control panel and started flipping switches.

"Coming up: all green, sir," Kensington said.

"I wonder where Miller got that stationery?" McNab asked.

"Knowing the major, sir, no telling," Sergeant Kensington said.

"We did not get any images, right?"

"No, sir, we didn't. The image link must have been down, too."

"See if you can get General Naylor on here for me, will you, please?" McNab asked.

"McNab, sir. We had a little communications problem so I thought I had better check in with you, sir."

"Where are you, General?"

"We just came out of the Gulf into the Atlantic, sir. The pilot estimates we have about four hours to go. That would put us:"

"There's been a change of orders, General."

"Yes, sir?"

"The president directs that you divert to Costa Rica."

"Costa Rica?"

"Either to Tomas Guardia International, on the west coast, or Juan Santamaria, which serves San Jose-your choice-there to prepare to neutralize the airplane we're looking for."

"I thought it was in Suriname, sir."

"That was apparently faulty intel, General."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you see where this is going to pose any problems, General?"

"No, sir. I can probably be on the ground at either field in, say, a little over an hour."

"Let me know when you get close to the coast," Naylor ordered. "We're trying to get you permission to enter their airspace. If that doesn't come through, you'll have to practice some sort of deception."

"Yes, sir. I understand. I'll think of something."

"Your further orders, again from the president, General, are to neutralize this airplane as quietly as possible."

"Yes, sir, I understand. Neutralize as quietly as possible."

"We'll be in touch."

"Sir, are you in a position to tell me where the airplane we're looking for in Costa Rica is? Specifically, I mean?"

"Not at this time. When I have that information, you'll get it. The CIA is working on it and they are in the process of moving satellites."

"Yes, sir. Well, if the CIA's working on it, then we'll certainly know for sure where the airplane is, won't we, sir?"

"Naylor out."

[SEVEN]

Office of the Commanding General

United States Central Command

MacDill Air Force Base

Tampa, Florida

1215 10 June 2005

General Albert McFadden, USAF, walked without knocking into the office of General Allan Naylor, USA, and stood before his desk for twenty seconds before Naylor sensed-or chose to acknowledge-his presence.

" 'The best-laid plans of mice and men'-you ever hear that, Allan?" McFadden asked.

"What went wrong now?" Naylor asked.

"I was just talking with Larry Fremont," McFadden said. "He's been on the phone to the CIA guy in San Jose, Costa Rica:"

"And?"

"The CIA guy says the way the Costa Rican Foreign Ministry is going to handle our ambassador's request for permission to enter their airspace is to stall for at least a couple of days."

"We expected something like that," Naylor said. "So we land without, do what has to be done, and let the State Department pick up the pieces."

"So I would interpret that to mean you believe the CIA?"

"That's a loaded question, Al."

"You want to shoot crap, Allan? How about taking another chance on the CIA?"

"What are you talking about? You sound like you know something."

McFadden laid a small map on Naylor's desk.

"What am I looking at?"

"That's the Golfo de Nicoya."

"Okay. There's nothing on the map but dirt roads and water."

"Larry's guy says there is a sandy beach about forty miles from Tomas Guardia International, and maybe fifty from Juan Santamaria, that'll take the C-17, and there's nothing around it for miles except fishing villages."

"That's too good to be true," Naylor said. "How does Larry's guy know?"

"Larry's guy says he heard that they were moving drugs through the area, went there 'while sportfishing,' checked it out, measured it, did compression tests, found some aircraft tire tracks-he doesn't know what kind of aircraft but not large ones-and thinks it'll take a C-17 , based on what he read in an Air Force Manual about C-17 tire loadings."

"How much credence does he place in his guy?"

"That's a little problem. This guy is like the one in Suriname."

"What does that mean?"

"Think of him as a second lieutenant with the varnish still on his gold bars. What the agency does with their graduates is send them someplace where nothing is happening, where they get to practice being a spy and working under diplomatic cover."

"Oh, Christ!"

"Larry said to tell you this guy sounds like an eager beaver."

"As in, 'There's nothing faster than a second lieutenant rushing to officers call'?"

"I think Larry was being complimentary," McFadden said. "I think he liked what he heard on the phone."

"Where is Larry?"

"He's trying to see if Langley has anything on this beach. He said I should tell you I have everything he knows, and he thought his time would be better spent seeing what else he could come up with."

"The admiral called the DIA and they had nothing on suitable landing areas in Costa Rica," Naylor said.

"Do we tell McNab or not?"

Naylor put his hands together so quickly that there was a loud pop.

"General McNab is not at the moment one of my favorite people," Naylor said. "And when I say, 'Yeah, we have to tell him,' I have that in mind. The decision to use, or not use, this beach has to be his. If it won't take the C-17, there will be a lot of dead people, and the 727 doesn't get neutralized."

Naylor stood up and walked across his office toward the Phone Booth.

[EIGHT]

Tomas Guardia International Airport

Liberia, Costa Rica

1310 10 June 2005

"I'll be a sonofabitch, there it is!" Castillo said as the Learjet taxied down a taxi-way at another small but grandly named airfield.

There was a Boeing 727 aircraft, connected to both a tug and a generator, sitting on the tarmac in front of a concrete-block building with a sign on it reading, in Spanish: central American aerial freight forwarding.

There were red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer and along the fuselage that looked to be freshly painted.

"There is a 727 with the right paint scheme and registration numbers. We won't know if it's ours until we have a look inside," Colonel Torine said.

"You're right," Castillo agreed. "But I think we should tell MacDill this one's here."

"You're calling the shots," Colonel Torine said.

"Tell the tower you want to box the compass, Fernando," Castillo ordered.

"I'd rather stay."

"We've been all over that," Castillo said.

There had been no in-flight advisories on their way from Cozumel to Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose advising them where the 727 could be found in Costa Rica, and when Castillo had called the two numbers Pevsner had given him both of the people answering said that he must have the wrong number, they knew of no Karl Gossinger.