Jim DeFelice - Threat Level Black

Howe suggested a pair of F/A-22Vs as long-range, stealthy escorts. While an excellent idea in theory, there were only three Velociraptors in existence and all were currently involved in a suspended NADT test program in Montana; obtaining the planes and making sure they were ready would take more than a week. A squadron of regular F/A-22s were envisioned as standby escorts, operating off the coast and only getting involved if needed. The planners believed-and Howe agreed-that the Berkut would have a better chance of reaching its target area and returning undetected if it flew alone; even if it was seen, the initial reaction would be that it was a Russian aircraft, and radio transmissions could be made to reinforce that. The Raptors, while stealthy, were not quite invisible, and some of the long-range radars the North Koreans used had a reasonable chance of finding them.

“We know it’s a long shot,” said Tyler. “The question is, is it possible?”

Howe folded his arms, realizing that the real question wasn’t whether it could be done or not: It could be. The question was whether he would do it. There were no other American pilots familiar with the plane. It would take several weeks to find another pilot and then train him to fly the aircraft.

“I can do it,” he said. “When do we go?”

Tyler smiled. “Choice isn’t ours, Colonel. We have to take the plan over to the White House in an hour and a half.”

“Well, let’s work out the details, then,” said Howe, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

The evidence fit on a single sheet of lined yellow paper: two calls from a cell phone in New York City to New York addresses, and an e-mail message that, when decrypted, read: Friends in NY Thursday. Both the cell phone and the e-mail account had been paid with a credit card associated with a member of a terrorist group called Caliph’s Sons, one of nearly a hundred on the CIA and FBI watch lists. The check used to pay for the credit card was drawn on a bank account that had paid for another e-mail account, this one with two messages about the potency of E-bombs. The messages were in clear text but were vaguely worded, with no indication that the sender or recipient had access to such a weapon. There was as yet no connection to North Korea.

As for Caliph’s Sons, little was known about the group beyond its name and the fact that one of its members had blown himself up accidentally in Queens six months before, and that the same man had used the Internet to find out information about high-power microwave (HPM) bombs: weapons that attacked gigahertz-band frequencies, commonly known as E-bombs.

“So, what do you think?” asked Macklin.

“You got the case nailed here, Michael, I have to say.”

“Come on, Fisher. Be serious.”

Fisher looked over at Macklin. The task force had set up its headquarters in Scramdale-on-Hudson, roughly twenty minutes by train from midtown Manhattan. The compound had been seized from a drug dealer some months before; it included a six-car garage, heated swimming pool, and access to the Hudson River over the nearby railroad tracks, no doubt convenient for disposing of troublesome business associates. The heart of the operation was a low-slung contemporary house with more bathrooms than bedrooms. Most of its furniture was still in the house, including the 1970s-style waterbed in the master bedroom suite. Apparently the dealers had had a thing about animal skins: The couch and chairs in the living room were made of stretched tiger fur, a bearskin rug sat between them, and what looked like a gutted ocelot gazed from the wall opposite the fireplace. If the drug charges didn’t hold, the U.S. attorney could easily obtain a conviction for poaching.

“Maybe a sauna will help you think,” suggested Macklin. “Want me to stoke it up?”

“As a general rule, I try to sweat as little as possible, especially when I’m working.” Fisher stood up and walked over to the massive fieldstone fireplace, squatting down to sit on the slate ledge in front of the hearth. He shook a Camel out and contemplated it, considering the alignment of the tobacco.

“You’ve staked out the places where the calls were received?” he asked.

“Around the clock.”

“You couldn’t run down the address on the e-mail?”

“Only that it was sent from overseas.”

Fisher turned the cigarette over in his hand. Who was the first person to figure out that you could use a machine to pack tobacco? he wondered. Truly he had made a valuable contribution to the human race, and yet, he had been forgotten.

The way of the world.

“This reminds me of that case we had in Detroit that time,” said Macklin. “Where we tapped the phone to find that kidnapped girl. Remember? We tracked those two bozos who were AWOL from the Army?”

Fisher lit up. “The mother killed the girl, Michael. How is this like that?”

“It just reminds me of that.”

“Let’s go see where that cell call was made from.”

“I told you, it’s, like, a ten-block radius at least,” said Macklin.

“Good. There ought to be a decent place to get coffee in there somewhere.”

The FBI sent the new e-mail directly to Blitz, and he was just reading it when Hunter called to tell him about it. Blitz thanked him, then sat back at his desk, pondering the meaning of the short message.

Clearly, the scientist was getting antsy. Clearly, he had to be retrieved. But even Blitz was starting to worry now about the state of the country he was in. The latest estimate reported several army units in open rebellion.

Blitz had seen the Pentagon proposals for the operation. The planners clearly favored Force One, which called for an MC-130s to land at the airfield and secure it while another dropped several A teams into the camp a few miles away. There they would retrieve the scientist, by force if necessary.

The alternative, called Tacit Ivan, was admittedly more imaginative and was much more likely to remain secret. It was, however, even more risky, calling for a jet with minimal weapons to fly to the air base while the Korean scientist proceeded there on his own. The only man available to fly the plane, it appeared, was Colonel William Howe.

Reason enough in Blitz’s mind to kill it.

“President is calling for you,” said Mozelle, appearing over Blitz’s computer. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room already.”

Blitz looked up at his assistant. She had a strained look on her face.

“What?” he asked.

“That tie really doesn’t go with that jacket,” she said.

Tyler felt sweat creeping down the joints of his fingers to his palms as he stood against the wall in the Oval Office.

I’m nervous, he thought to himself. Wow.

And he was. Tyler had seen combat both with the Rangers and Special Forces. As far as he could remember, his hands had never sweat on him.

That was different somehow-which was odd really, because no matter what happened here, he wasn’t going to get shot at, let alone killed.

On the other hand, that was the President of the United States sitting a few feet away, joking with the secretary of defense about college basketball.

The President of the United States.

Tyler looked around the room, trying to memorize the scene: It was part of history, and he was right in the middle of it.

He was also the only black man in the room, he realized.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Blitz, coming in. The national security advisor seemed to wear a perpetual frown above his thin goatee; occasionally he tried to smile, which made his expression appear ten times grimmer.