The Lazarus Moment

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller

by

J. Robert Kennedy

From the Back Cover

FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY

AIR FORCE ONE IS DOWN

BUT THEIR FIGHT TO SURVIVE HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN!

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy delivers another action-packed thriller in The Lazarus Moment.

When Air Force One crashes in the jungles of Africa, it is up to America’s elite Delta Force to save the survivors not only from rebels hell-bent on capturing the President, but Mother Nature herself.

From South Africa to Moscow, from Washington to Dubai, J. Robert Kennedy delivers an action-packed adventure torn from today’s headlines, leading readers on a roller coaster ride of adrenaline, certain to leave you breathless. A deftly-crafted novel, in true Kennedy style, The Lazarus Moment is an exciting, stunning tale with laughter, romance, heartbreak and hope, along with breakneck action, as only he can deliver.

About J. Robert Kennedy

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller lists since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."

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Books by J. Robert Kennedy

The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Sins of the Titanic

Saint Peter's Soldiers

The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Black Widow

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

Table of Contents

The Novel

Acknowledgements

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About the Author

Also by the Author

For a true hero, Xiang Liujua, one of the many parents who have sacrificed themselves to save their children.

“Our concern with hacking into our planes, our concern with terrorism, dates back to the early development days of the 380. Ever since then we've taken particular precautions to make our aircraft as safe as possible. If you ask me today, I'm fairly confident that our aircraft are secure from hacking.”

Airbus Group CEO Tom Enders

June 2015

Preface

Air Force One is arguably the most important aircraft in the world, certainly one of the most famous. Air Force One is actually a designation for whatever plane happens to be carrying the President of the United States. There are two Boeing 747-200s in the fleet that carry the President, built in 1986 for Ronald Reagan.

They are overdue for replacement.

Security is tight on this plane for obvious reasons, and the electronics on board are cutting edge, even if the plane itself isn’t. Though that can’t be said for the replacement aircraft ordered that might be in service before the end of the next President’s term should they be reelected.

That plane will have all the state of the art equipment we’ve come to expect.

And we’ve come to be concerned about.

With constant reports of devices being hacked and software errors causing planes to crash or nearly crash, should we be concerned that the most powerful man in the world will soon be flying on an aircraft that could be vulnerable?

Should we be concerned that the existing aircraft has been continually upgraded, perhaps introducing some of these potential risks?

We are constantly assured by those who apparently know better than us that these systems are safe because they are isolated. Someone on their laptop using the airplane’s Wi-Fi service can’t crash the plane.

Yet as with any security system, it is only as good as the people behind it.

And perhaps America should ask itself what would happen when the very person meant to protect the President from those who would do him harm is no longer on his side.

For if Air Force One is hacked, not only are those on board at risk, but so is the entire world.

When justice is demanded.

Over Mozambique

“Pull up! For the love of God, pull up!”

Lt. Commander Joseph “Texas” Cartwright flipped his F/A-18E Super Hornet on its side, giving him a clear view of the horror unfolding below. He was less than a thousand feet off the deck, the jungles of Mozambique whipping past below, though none of the natural, unspoiled beauty registered.

Instead, his eyes focused on the white and blue 747 still losing altitude below him. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. What, nobody except those on board knew. Hand signals from the pilot and co-pilot indicated full power failure and they had been gliding her toward the ground as they fought for control.

They knew they were going to crash.

They knew they were going to die.

For there was no place to land—no runway, no road, no clear area to bring the behemoth to the ground.

Just dense, unforgiving jungle.

The fuel spilling out the back suddenly stopped, the dump in preparation for the crash obviously complete.

Even if they get their engines back, it’s no use.

The plane continued to drop, the pilot suddenly banking slightly to the left, as if trying to adjust where they would hit.

Does he see something?

Texas scanned ahead yet could see nothing but jungle.

Then the tops of the trees hitting the wings just before the fuselage disappeared below the treetops.

A massive fireball suddenly erupted, a black and orange ball of hate bursting above the trees, reaching out at the sky in a hellish fury as almost one hundred souls met their end in what he could only imagine being the most terrifying experience anyone could go through—knowing you were going to die for almost half an hour.

He straightened his plane and activated his comm, his chest tight with the knowledge his nation had just suffered a tragic loss, and he was the bearer of that horrible news.

“Castlekeep, this is Eagle One, Air Force One is down, I repeat, Air Force One is down!”

Outside Donetsk, Ukraine

Russian separatist controlled sector

Six months earlier

Igor Khomenko peered through his binoculars across the Donets River. The government positions known, his men pound them with everything they had, but something new was at play. Their opponent’s targeting was too good.

Way too good.

And he was pretty sure why. He had just returned from a briefing in Kursk, just across the border in Russia, their allies providing his forces with valuable, continuous intel that gave his side a distinct edge. Mother Russia had been preparing for this conflict for years, and when the plan had been activated, everything had been in place from the get go, which had allowed his forces to quickly seize much of Eastern Ukraine.

Russian troops—volunteers on holidays of course—had been instrumental in gaining control, thousands sent across, fully equipped, in uniforms with no insignia, prepared months before the assault. Weapons and supplies had been smuggled into position in the weeks before, leaving the government forces completely unprepared.

It had been almost too easy.

As expected, the government forces had retreated then formed up their lines, launching half-hearted counterattacks that his forces had been able to repel on most occasions, and when things looked dire, Russia would provide more heavy equipment, munitions and men.

They would never lose this fight.

Not with the Russian Bear to urge them on.

It had only been a matter of time before the West woke up to the threat. Defensive weapons were already arriving along with trainers and observers, though none of that would help the Ukrainians. It was unfortunate some idiot had shot down the Malaysian airliner. It had resulted in the Russians pulling back much of their sophisticated weaponry. He wasn’t concerned; it just meant the war would last a little longer.

But eventually the Donetsk People’s Republic would be established, recognized by Moscow, and regardless of what the impotent UN or Western European nations said, it would be permanent.

Moscow would never allow the territory to be retaken.

Especially after they absorbed it into the Russian Federation.

He had met the Russian President on several occasions. He was a great man, a strong man, a man who knew what needed to be done, a man who feared no one, least of all the United States. They both knew the Americans had no stomach for war, not after Afghanistan and Iraq, and not over something as insignificant as the Ukraine. There was no oil here, no resource wealth, no minorities to protect.

Ukraine had nothing but a troubled history.

A shell slammed into a position nearby, the ground shaking, plaster cracking overhead, covering him and the men in his headquarters in a fine dust.

“Christ, General, that was close!”

Khomenko turned to his second-in-command, Alexander Orlov, as he slowly rose. “It’s nothing.”

It’s nothing.

That’s what he kept telling his men.

But something more was going on. The briefing from Moscow had indicated some advanced artillery had been smuggled into the Ukraine in recent days, stolen from Iraq several years ago. The black market was teeming with weaponry, advanced weaponry.

You just needed to know who to call.

And a bankroll.

Moscow was their financier, and now the West was funding the Ukraine’s efforts, including a lot of private financing, Ukrainian diaspora sending money to Kiev in an effort to save their former homeland. And it was being put to good use, Kiev buying the weapons the West refused to give them.

Including artillery that could actually hit the broadside of a barn.

Several of their positions had been hit today with near pinpoint accuracy.

But this was war.

This was the front line.

People died.

Friends died.

Family died.

His parents had been killed in the first weeks of the conflict, they refusing to leave the family home of more than sixty years. It had been shelled, the two found dead in their bed, holding each other tight. The horror of their final moments sometimes caused him to lose himself, but they were old and they died together.

As Russians in a new Russia.

His father had been fiercely pro-Russian, hating every minute he lived in the Ukraine after it had split from the Soviet Union. His grandfather had settled here almost seventy years ago, farmed the land since, handing it to his son, and eventually to his grandson.

But Igor Khomenko was no farmer.

He had always known he was destined for greater things, and had instead turned to politics.

Union politics.

The filthy capitalist ways of the West were taking over his country, and labor was paying the price. He had made it his life’s work to fight back, to force the foreign interests to respect the local workforce, demanding better deals for his brothers and sisters in the union.

He had quickly risen through the leadership ranks to eventually head one of the largest labor unions in the Eastern Ukraine.

And when civil war had broken out, it was him the people turned to.

It was a cause he had been born for.

Now, over a year later, he was a general in the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya, fighting for his homeland, a homeland he was willing to die for should it be necessary.

Another shell slammed into a building nearby.

“Do you think they know where we are?”

Khomenko looked at Orlov and shook his head. “They’re guessing. We’ve only been here since yesterday; they have no idea where we are.”

“But they’ve hit three of our forward positions already this morning.”

“Exactly. Our forward positions. They can see them across the river, just like we can see theirs. They’ve just been lucky with their targeting.” He lifted his thermos, pouring himself a coffee, the brew prepared by his wife before he had headed to the front just hours ago.

He took a sip, offering the thermos to Orlov.

Orlov shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got my own.” He tapped a flask tucked away in his breast pocket. Khomenko chuckled, Orlov’s penchant for vodka making him truly Russian.

Khomenko held out his plastic cup. “Warm it up for me, will you?”

Orlov grinned, pulling out the flask and unscrewing the top. A couple of ounces glugged into Khomenko’s cup before the man took a swig and returned the flask to safekeeping. Khomenko swirled the cup, mixing the two liquids together then took a belt.

“Now that’s what I call coffee.”

Several of his men chuckled, the tenseness of the moment forgotten briefly. He looked at them. Some had been soldiers in the Armed Forces of the Ukraine, some laborers like him. None had ever expected to go to war, especially against their fellow countrymen. He didn’t hate his enemy. On the contrary, many had once been his friends.

And that was the problem with a civil war. It pitted neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother.

Husband against wife.

His wife hated his involvement. She didn’t care who won, as long as it was over soon.

“Look at all we’ve lost! All this fighting, all this death, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing!”

He peered through his binoculars across the river, the memory of his wife’s familiar argument fresh, repeated again just last night. She was right. From all reasonable measures, they were worse off than they had been two years ago. They were hungrier, dirtier, poorer. They had lost family and friends. The factory he had worked at was shuttered, his wife’s cleaning jobs a thing of the past—no one could afford her services anymore.

They scraped by because of who he was.

They could live better, of that there was no doubt, yet he refused to take more than was offered his men. They never went truly hungry, they always had a roof over their head, and he kept them warm and clothed.

They had the basics.

But nothing more.

A jet screamed overhead, the sound of small arms fire opening up outside causing him to shake his head.

“Cease fire, you’ll give away our position!”

The Ukrainian Air Force wasn’t much of a threat, though occasionally they sent a sortie out on a bombing or strafing run, though usually it was just recon. An explosion rumbled in the distance behind them.

“Kiev is bold today.”

Khomenko nodded. “It’s too bad we don’t have those SAMs anymore. They wouldn’t dare put anything in the air.”

“True, but I haven’t seen them hit a target yet on the first try.” Orlov turned to the men, a smile on his face. “They’d be better off just dropping the damned planes on us!”

Laughter filled the cramped space, Khomenko smiling slightly. The bravado from Orlov was common in war, insulting the enemy’s abilities a way of military life. It built comradery and confidence.

And it was quite often true.

But the problem with their enemy’s bad aim was it far too often meant innocents died.

He frowned, wondering who was hit today.

A shell slammed into the courtyard in front of the building. He ducked, as did the others, debris blasting through the open windows, the glass broken long ago.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, a round of acknowledgements responding. He waved to one of the men. “Check on the men outside.”

“Yes, sir!”

He turned to the room. “Start packing everything up, they’ve obviously located our position.”

A flurry of activity was triggered, maps and reports quickly rolled up and stuffed into boxes, communications equipment and weapons broken down and packed away.

Another shell slammed into the courtyard, this one a little closer, a chunk of the wall cracking badly, the morning sun forcing its way through.

“Time to evacuate!” He spun his hand in a circle then pointed at the rear exit. “Let’s go!”

The men grabbed everything they could carry, surging toward the narrow door as a young man squeezed past them, looking about the room, his eyes settling on Khomenko.

He snapped to attention, a shaky salute offered.

Khomenko returned the salute as he ushered his men toward the exit. “What is it, Corporal?”

“Sir, I regret to inform you—” The man went pale, swaying slightly, fear plastered on his face. Khomenko reached out and grabbed the young man’s shoulder, a knot forming in his stomach.

“What is it? What message do you have for me?”

The man said nothing, instead staring into Khomenko’s eyes, the reluctance clear.

He shook him.

“Snap out of it!”

The man suddenly nodded, firming up his stance. “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir! Sir, I regret to inform you that a bomb dropped by a Ukrainian jet hit your apartment building. Your wife and child were trapped inside and are believed—”

The room shook as a shell slammed into the outer wall, the explosion pulverizing the concrete into dust as they were all tossed across the room. Screams filled the confined space, one particularly loud, Khomenko wishing the man would shut the hell up. He was about to order him to do so when he realized it was coming from him.

He looked down at the source of the excruciating pain and saw a large piece of shrapnel embedded in his thigh, the bloody pulp of his upper leg like nothing he had ever seen, his war rarely giving him the up-close view those truly on the front lines experienced all too frequently.

“General!” Orlov pushed himself to his feet, the man covered in dust and what appeared to be minor cuts and bruises. Khomenko tried to speak but couldn’t, instead blacking out as someone tried to lift him to his feet before another shell finished them.

Though if he could speak, he would be shouting for them to leave him, there nothing left to live for now that his wife and daughter were dead.

James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, The White House

Washington, DC

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

“Is this in response to the growing reports of Russian offensive weapons being used?”

White House Press Secretary Terri Talevich turned slightly to make eye contact with the CBS reporter who had asked the question. She had known going into today’s press briefing that the questions would be fast and furious, the announcement provocative. She didn’t envy the President. World leaders were certain to be making phone calls today, especially his Russian counterpart. Anything involving Russia sent the vultures in front of her into a frenzy, a rabid pack of wolves tearing at the meat of any story that might lead to more violence to fill their pages and screens.

Sometimes I hate this job.

She couldn’t really blame them. It was their job, though she felt the press today were no longer about the news, but about the commentary. Everyone had their political slant, tainted their reporting with their own opinions, sometimes so much so that it was impossible to know what was the truth and what was what the reporter wanted to be the truth.

Yet one thing would never change.

The press loved a good story.

And they loved the new Russia.

Because they loved a good villain.

And they were tired of terrorists. The newly resurgent Russia, the newly belligerent Russia, made for good press whenever their leader did something aggressive or bombastic. In America, he’d be laughed out of office; in Russia, they wrote songs about him.

At least I hope he’d be laughed out of office.

“Clint, as you know, the White House has made its position clear. Russia must honor its commitments to remain out of the Ukrainian conflict except for humanitarian purposes. Offensive weapons hardly qualify as humanitarian aid.”

“But it’s clear that they aren’t keeping to their agreement. Is the President’s announcement to lift restrictions on foreign capital transfers to Ukrainian controlled accounts a response to that problem?”

Of course it is.

“I’m not clear on what you mean?”

Clint Rogers, a fixture on the White House scene for two decades, smiled at her. “Come on, Terri, you know what I mean. Is President Starling inviting private citizens and organizations to provide funding for black market weapons purchases?”

Bingo!

“Of course not. The President remains committed to a peaceful resolution to the civil war. To that end, he has repeatedly insisted that the Russians honor their commitment to remain neutral in the conflict, and that only humanitarian aid and defensive weapons be permitted to enter the conflict zone. The lifting of these restrictions is merely to allow the money to flow more freely to the victims of this conflict. The current structure of trying to control the money by funneling it all through recognized aid agencies was proving cumbersome, and in the end was harming those it was trying to help by delaying much needed supplies. By removing these roadblocks, aid money should flow to those in need quicker.”

“So the President isn’t concerned money will instead flow to illegal arms traders.”

“Of course the President is concerned, which is why our intelligence resources will be monitoring the situation closely.”

“What about Russian troops fighting in the Ukraine?” asked Richard Jenner of CNN. “If money from private American citizens is used to purchase weapons that are then used to kill Russian soldiers, isn’t the President risking a widening of the conflict?”

“Not at all. As the Russian President has said repeatedly, there are no Russian troops involved in the conflict, therefore there is no chance of Russian troops being killed. If Russia were to inform us that one of their soldiers was killed by a weapon purchased through private funds, they would have to admit that their troops are indeed involved in the conflict. And of course we all know that isn’t true.”

Laughter rolled through the room.

“One follow up question. Does this signal a softening of the White House position that they will not arm the Ukrainians?”

“No, this is a humanitarian gesture, not a military one.”

“Will the President be speaking to the Russian President in person about this change in policy?”

“There might be an opportunity at the climate change summit in South Africa, but nothing is scheduled before that.” She snapped her folder shut, signaling an end to the press conference. “Thank you, everyone, have a good day.”

Terri briskly walked from the podium and out of sight of the cameras.

One of her staffers smiled. “That went well.”

“Yup. Can’t wait to see who calls him first.”

“My money is on the German Chancellor, but the office pool seems to be favoring the Russian President.”

Terri nodded as she strode toward her office.

“I’m willing to bet he never calls.”

Though he’ll probably do another of his rambling press conferences where he blames everyone but himself for Russia’s problems.

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

Igor Khomenko looked up from his chair as Arseny Dudnik entered the room. He waved him over with his free arm, his other arm resting carefully on the chair, an IV inserted, a bag of Oxaliplatin slowly dripping death into him.

The only question was whether it would win, or the cancer.

Unfortunately he already knew the answer.

Dudnik shook his hand and pulled up a chair after drawing the curtain around them. “How are you, my friend?”

Khomenko shrugged, his now certain future, or lack thereof, no longer as frightening or disappointing as it had been months before when he had found out the shocking news. “This is my final round, but they’re not optimistic.”

Dudnik pursed his lips then exhaled loudly. “I thought the diagnosis was already certain.”

Khomenko chuckled. He should have known Dudnik would know exactly what was going on. After all, the man was FSB, Federal Security Service, the renamed though not reformed KGB. Dudnik had been responsible for providing him with his regular intelligence briefings, though since the attack that had seen him wounded, then diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he hadn’t seen any of his men.

He was a walking dead man.

Though he had an incentive to keep going for as long as he could. And he hoped that Dudnik might be just the man to help fulfill his dying wish.

“Then you must know why I elected for the treatment.”

Dudnik leaned back in his chair. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say it was some desperate attempt to prolong a pathetic life.” He jabbed the air with a finger. “But I do know you, and I think you’re sticking around because you want to do something before you die.”

Khomenko smiled. “You do know me.”

“What is it you want?”

“You heard President Starling’s announcement?”

Dudnik nodded. “Of course. It’s really no surprise. The policy changed almost a year ago, they’re just announcing it now. Somebody probably found out they weren’t prosecuting anyone they caught funding weapons purchases.”

“And the artillery that was used against my men?”

“Funded by a Ukrainian friendship group in San Diego. They passed the money on to Kiev who purchased the system on the black market.” He leaned forward. “You might find it humorous to know it was actually a Russian system.”

“Hilarious.”

Dudnik shrugged, sitting back. “I guess the sense of humor is the first thing to go.”

Khomenko ignored him. “And the pilot that killed my family?”

“Your men found him and killed him along with his family. Two boys and a girl. And a very pretty wife who I don’t think enjoyed her final hours.”

“Good.” Khomenko felt no pity, no remorse. They all deserved to die.

An eye for an eye.

His family was dead, and so was their killer’s. They were even. Yet the score wasn’t settled.

Not yet.

He looked at Dudnik. “Now that the world knows the taps have been opened to Ukraine, money will begin to pour in and more of my men, more innocent Russians, will die.”

“Of course. I have no doubt President Starling is fully aware of that, and as we both know, he couldn’t care less that Russians are dying because of his decision. Americans hate Russians. Always have, always will.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Of course.”

Khomenko pushed himself up slightly on his elbows. “President Starling has blood on his hands. Russian blood.”

“He denies that he does, since there are no Russian troops in Ukraine.”

“Russian blood flows beyond borders. It covers the landscape of my homeland, whether that American bastard wants to admit it or not. He is responsible for the death of my men. He is responsible for the death of my family.”

Rage filled his stomach as the images of his wife and daughter flooded back. After being evacuated to safety and given some battlefield treatment, he had insisted on returning to his home, only to find the unrecognizable bodies of all that he had left in the world lying on the street, their corpses already salvaged by the rescue team, laid out for the cameras with dozens of others, the relatives left to guess which of the fallen belonged to them.

Seeing them was a decision he had regretted ever since.

I should never have seen them like that.

His last memories would have been the hugs and kisses exchanged earlier that morning as he headed to the front for what was supposed to be a routine day of staring through binoculars at the enemy, neither side exchanging anything more than the occasional rifle shot.

Never would he have dreamed those would be the last moments they would share together.

I would have told her I loved her.

He felt a lump form in his throat as his tortured memory of merely grunting at her “be careful, love you” goodbye.

Instead, due to his insistence, his last memory was her shattered corpse, his daughter’s crushed body, their home destroyed by a pilot too terrified to take the time to find a military target, instead dropping it on the biggest structure he could find.

His wasn’t the only family destroyed that day.

“President Starling killed my family, and will kill many more.”

“You could look at it that way.”

“I see no other way to look at it.”

Dudnik said nothing.

“I only have a few months to live.”

“I know.”

“And only a few weeks before I’ll be too weak to do anything.”

“I know.”

“I want revenge.”

“The pilot is dead, his family is dead. What more do you want?”

“I want him dead.”

Dudnik leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Who?”

“President Starling.”

Dudnik drew a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He held the breath then let it out slowly before looking at Khomenko, his expression dead serious. “That could start a war.”

“Bullshit. Americans are cowards, they’d never risk it.”

Dudnik leaned forward, shaking his head. “Don’t underestimate America’s love for their President. If you kill him, and they trace it back to you, they will kill you.”

Khomenko snorted. “I have nothing left to live for so what do I care? He motioned for Dudnik to come closer. Dudnik shuffled his chair forward. “I don’t have much time left to punish the man responsible. Will you help me?”

Dudnik lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Killing the American President isn’t easy otherwise everyone would be doing it.”

“I didn’t expect it would be. But I’m sure FSB has developed some scenarios should it become necessary.”

“Of course. But anything you do can’t trace back to Russia. It would lead to war, a war neither side wants, but one side would be obligated to start.”

“I have men loyal to me who will take care of everything. I just need to know how to do it. How do we breach his security perimeter?”

Dudnik glanced over each shoulder, then leaned in closer. “I was on a team that developed a scenario just last year that if it worked, would leave no evidence that could be traced back to us.”

Khomenko felt his heart race, the monitor beside him betraying his excitement. “Then why haven’t you done it?”

“Because we’re not insane!” hissed Dudnik. “If something does go wrong, it could be traced back to us.”

“But if my men do it, then you have nothing to fear.”

Dudnik frowned. “I doubt that. I would suggest we have little to fear. And if your people execute the plan, and it was somehow traced back to us, I’m sure a few sacrificial lambs would be handed over to the Americans and life would move on in short order.”

“A rogue operation.”

“Exactly. The Americans wouldn’t risk war for a renegade action. Dossiers on all your men would be handed over, showing how and why you did what you did. Russia will be protected at all costs.”

“Assuming we fail. And we won’t.”

Dudnik tapped his chin. “You know, if the President were to die, it might leave enough of a power vacuum for the Ukrainian situation to be dealt with once and for all.”

Khomenko smiled. “Even more reason to proceed, then.” He glanced at the plastic bag over his shoulder, still half-full, there no worry of a nurse looking in on him for some time. “What is your scenario?”

“You need to get someone on board Air Force One.”

Khomenko’s eyes widened. “How the hell do I do that?”

“That’s one of the problems with the scenario. For us to execute it we would have to activate a sleeper agent from within the American Air Force.”

“Can you?”

Dudnik shook his head. “No, Moscow would never do that. Too much of a risk in tracing back to us, and those assets are incredibly valuable.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Coercion. You need leverage over someone on board with the proper access. Use this against them, and you’ve got your inside man.”

“What if he changes his mind?”

“Then the plan fails.”

Khomenko closed his eyes as the scenario played out. He needed someone on board Air Force One to execute whatever the plan was that Dudnik had developed, yet he couldn’t take the risk of them getting cold feet at the last minute.

He needed a backup.

He smiled. “The news said President Starling is going to South Africa.”

Dudnik nodded. “Why?”

“I know exactly how to get someone on that flight.”

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

Igor Khomenko walked down the stark corridor of the hospital that had been his home for months. The Russian government was indirectly footing the bill for his care, care that would inevitably be a waste of money.

But not if I succeed.

Dudnik had filled him in on the rest of the scenario, and it was audacious. America always thought their greatest edge was technology, but this time it would lead to their downfall. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity, though impossible to execute without an inside man.

He stopped in front of one of the private rooms, its door closed.

Sucking in a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in!”

He opened the door and poked his head inside, his thigh protesting at the unexpected maneuver. Though he was technically recovered from his shrapnel wound, the muscle damage was permanent, and he had opted not to bother with the physiotherapy offered after he had discovered his cancer diagnosis.

He was now regretting that decision.

“Hey, Thulas, it’s me.”

“Igor! Come in, come in!”

Khomenko smiled and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Thulas Zokwana was the first black man he had ever met, and he wasn’t at all what he was expecting, though he had to admit all of his preconceptions were based upon American movies. Zokwana was South African. A simple man with a simple life, a man he had come to know over the months and now even considered a friend.

Something he could never have imagined six months ago.

Though they had both been through the hell of cancer treatments in a foreign land, at least Khomenko had the comfort of speaking Russian like everyone else here, but poor Zokwana, who spoke several languages, didn’t know a word of it.

But they both spoke English.

Over the months, a bond had formed and not a day went by where they didn’t spend at least an hour together speaking of their homes and their families.

It had been good therapy.

It had kept him sane.

But they both shared the same fate.

Zokwana was dying, just as he was.

And just as Khomenko’s family had meant everything to him, so did Zokwana’s, and it was his constant concern they would be left with nothing, he a poor man with little to show for a life of hardship.

Khomenko pulled up a chair by the window Zokwana was sitting in front of, the afternoon sun pouring in, warming the chill out of the sterile room.

“How are you today?”

Zokwana shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”

“Are you still heading home tomorrow?”

Zokwana brightened. “Yes. It seems like I’ve been gone for years.”

“I know how you feel. I guess you’re looking forward to seeing your family. Have you told them?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s news you have to deliver in person.”

Khomenko’s head bobbed as he watched a bee hop between the flowers outside. “True. How do you think she’ll take it?”

“She’s strong, but I know she’ll be devastated.”

“Of course.”

“I just worry about her and the kids. We have nothing, and I’m afraid I used up all my collateral to get these treatments.”

And it was that collateral Khomenko was counting on.

For Zokwana was no ordinary South African.

He was the cousin of its president.

The family was huge, as were many in South Africa, so the wealth hadn’t spread to his portion of the clan, though when he had become sick, he had reached out and in a goodwill gesture, was provided with treatment, but quietly, out of the country, the president not wanting anyone to know he had helped a relative obtain expensive medical treatment.

Unfortunately it had failed, and Zokwana was not long for this world.

“What if I told you I had a way for your entire family to be taken care of? Forever.”

Zokwana stared at him, his eyes narrowing. “I would ask you to share this wonderful revelation with me.”

Khomenko smiled, Zokwana’s English at times interesting. He wondered if his own would sound just as strange to an American. He quickly explained what would be needed of his friend, then waited as Zokwana contemplated the offer. He finally spoke.

“I sacrifice myself now, sacrifice my final days with my family, but in doing so, I save them all.”

Khomenko nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve been promised a significant amount of money to reward your wife and children for their sacrifice. Once the job is done, you need never worry about them again.”

A tear rolled down Zokwana’s cheek, his eyes glassing over as a pained expression took hold. “When?”

“Three weeks.”

Zokwana gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his chair. “Three weeks,” he whispered. “Three weeks.”

“Three weeks to say goodbye. Cherish them. I had none.”

Zokwana reached out and squeezed Khomenko’s hand, a move that a year ago would have probably resulted in a punch to the face. But not today. He squeezed back. “You are right, of course. Three weeks is an eternity. But they mustn’t know.” He smiled. “I won’t tell them I’m dying. I don’t want our last days together to be sad, I want them to be happy.”

Khomenko smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. Let them think you died like the others, a victim of a terrible accident. Then my people will deliver your wife the money. We’ll tell her you had purchased life insurance when you were here.”

Zokwana’s smile broadened and he wiped away the tears staining his cheeks. “That’s perfect.” He sighed. “I’ve known I was going to die for some time now, but I never dreamed it would be like this.”

Khomenko looked at his friend. “Are you having doubts?”

Zokwana shook his head. “No, I’d rather die on my feet any day than waste away in a bed alone.”

Khomenko rose, extending his hand. Zokwana stood, clasping it in both of his.

“To dying on our feet.”

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Two weeks before the Air Force One crash

“Have you found the target yet?”

Dudnik nodded, handing a file folder to Khomenko. “His name is Senior Airman Cameron Lennox. He’s twenty-six years old, has a wife and daughter and a baby on the way. He’s been serving on Air Force One for six months and is scheduled to be part of the crew for the South African flight.”

“And he has access?”

“Absolutely. He’s one of the two techs.”

Khomenko smiled as he leafed through the rather thorough file. “He’s young.”

“He’s perfect because of it.”

Khomenko nodded. “Agreed.”

“When will you execute the plan?”

“The day the President leaves for South Africa.”

“Very well.” Dudnik leaned forward, pointing at the file. “Are you sure you still want to do this? If it gets traced back to you, or more generally, to Ukrainian freedom fighters, America might enter the war.”

“They already entered. The moment they allowed their citizens to fund the very weapons that murdered my family, they entered the war.” He shook the file. “It’s time for us to retaliate!”

“You might lose all you have gained.”

Khomenko inhaled. The possibility had occurred to him already. America might decide it was best to move twenty thousand soldiers in and secure Eastern Ukraine under the guise of the war on terror.

But his homeland had one thing that Iraq and Afghanistan never had.

A benefactor.

He looked at Dudnik.

“If they do, then Mother Russia will protect us.”

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Two days before the Air Force One crash

“So you’re proceeding?”

“It’s already in motion.”

Arseny Dudnik sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not sure this is a wise move.”

“Then you shouldn’t have provided me with the file.”

“A man is allowed to regret his decisions, isn’t he?”

Khomenko smiled. “Of course. I’ve made a few that I regret.”

“In war we all regret things.”

“And that’s what you need to remember. This is war.”

Dudnik shook his head. “No, this is revenge.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’d like to think so.”

It was Khomenko’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps, once, I felt the same way. But my homeland is at war, and things are being made worse by the decisions made by this man. If he’s eliminated, all those whose blood stains his hands will rest in peace knowing their executioner has been himself executed.”

“I still think your own loss is tainting your view of things.” Khomenko was about to object when Dudnik raised a hand, stopping him. “But, I completely understand your desire. Hell, if it were me, I’d probably want to do the same thing. I just don’t know if I’d have the balls for it.”

“It helps when they no longer work.”

Dudnik laughed, tossing his head back. “Too much information, my friend, too much!” He looked at Khomenko, the smile slowly fading. “I consider you a friend, you know that?”

Khomenko nodded. “As do I. You’ve helped my people immensely.”

Dudnik shook his head slightly. “No, forget the war. I deal with a dozen men like you day in and day out. But you are the only one to have invited me into your home, the only one I felt compelled to invite into my own home. I have met your wife and daughter, and I grieve with you at your loss. If it were any of the other commanders I deal with, your desires would have been left unfulfilled. Only because it is you do I do this.” He paused, his eyes glassing over a bit before he rapidly blinked them clear. “We shared many a meal and many a drink over the past year. Your wife and daughter always made me feel like your home was mine. I feel as if I’ve lost a sister and a niece.” He leaned closer. “Your loss is my loss. You, my friend, are fortunate. You only have a few months left to feel that pain. I have a lifetime, and will honor their memory for as long as I have breath.” He reached into his pocket. “Which is why I give you this.” He handed over a memory stick.

“Is this it?” asked Khomenko, his heart beginning to race.

Dudnik nodded. “Yes. Give this to your Airman Lennox. All he needs to do is insert it into any terminal connected to the isolated avionics network on the aircraft, bypass the security protocols, then remove the device. Everything else is automatic.”

Khomenko waved the stick between his fingers. “And you’re sure this will work?”

Dudnik shrugged. “Our tech division says it will. We have an old 747-200 that’s been modified to match what we believe to be Air Force One’s configuration, including the latest upgrades that were just completed. In fact, it was those modifications that made all this possible.”

Khomenko smiled. “You have to love progress.”

“It’s their Achilles heel.” He motioned toward the memory stick with his chin. “If something should happen, you never got that from me.”

“How did you get it?”

“A very large bribe, paid for through my discretionary fund. Fortunately for you, my friend, I have millions of Rubles to spend on the Ukrainian situation. I’ve earmarked enough for your operation and the payment to your friend’s family. Everything will be taken care of, assuming you succeed.”

“And if they catch you?”

“The money has already been moved. There’s no stopping the plan now.”

Khomenko smiled, holding up the memory stick. “What does it do?”

“Let’s just say that once Air Force One takes off, it will never land again.”

Madison Cove, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

One day before the Air Force One crash

Cecilia glanced at her watch.

You’re late.

She sighed.

Again.

She patted her stomach, there no hiding the baby bump now. Four more months of getting fatter and puffier and slower and fatter.

You said ‘fatter’ twice.

She turned to her side, shoving her hips forward, exaggerating her bump.

Then shrugged.

So what? Pregnant is beautiful.

At least that’s what her husband kept telling her, and she actually believed him. He hadn’t lost interest in her during her first pregnancy, and he certainly hadn’t lost interest in her yet.

She flushed at the thought of last night’s romp. He was leaving for a week, his job sending him across the country and around the world on a far too frequent basis. Yet that was the military life, and she didn’t mind it. She had grown up in a military family so knew the sacrifices that were made, but also knew how amazing a community it was. When you were posted, dropped into a community where you might know no one, you were always welcomed with open arms, the soldier treated like a brother or sister by his unit, their spouse the same. And the kids were surrounded by others who had been through the same thing too many times.

She credited the military with her ability to make friends quickly. It was a gift forced upon her. She had lived in six different places as a child, too often arriving late in the school year, though it had never mattered. The other military kids would embrace her and before the end of her first week, she’d always have a new best friend.

And the same was true now.

Some of the wives weren’t from military families and they sometimes found it difficult, and she always made an extra effort with them. Nobody arrived at a new base without someone showing up on their doorstep the first day to welcome them.

Because they were family.

She loved the military and all it had done for her family. Her father was still serving, he and her mother currently stationed in Okinawa. She would have loved to be there. She had met Cameron at college in California where her dad had last been stationed. It had been love at first sight.

Maybe second sight.

She smiled as she remembered how awkward he had been that first day, asking her out for coffee after class. It wasn’t until their second date, an actual dinner date, that he had confessed he was in the ROTC program, the Air Force paying for his education in exchange for four years of service after.

That was when she knew he was the one.

They married straight out of college, just before his first posting, and little Janice had been born less than a year later.

And now whoever you are.

She stared at her stomach then shrugged.

Embrace it!

She touched up her lipstick then headed down the hall, poking her head into Janice’s room. “Are you ready?”

The little four-year-old nodded, looking anything but ready.

The doorbell rang.

She frowned.

“Who could that be?”

“I’ll get it!”

Little feet pounded on the parquet floors as Cecilia rushed after her. “Don’t open the door, honey, let Mommy do it.”

Janice stopped short of the door, turning toward her mother. The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” She hated when people were impatient. She had half a mind to not answer, but she was already late for the meet-and-greet.

It’s probably Betty wanting a ride.

Betty was her neighbor.

Her chronically late neighbor.

She opened the door, surprised to see two men in suits standing on the doorstep. Immediately her heart raced.

Something’s happened to Cameron!

She looked again.

There was no chaplain. And they weren’t wearing uniforms.

He’s okay.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Cecilia Lennox?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Something sprayed in her face and her world went black.

Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

One day before the Air Force One crash

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson laughed at his best friend and second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme. “You drew the short straw.”

“I always draw the short straw.”

“Then you shouldn’t let me hold them.”

“You mean you’ve been cheating all these years?”

“Nobody’s that unlucky.”

Red’s face screwed up as he eyeballed his friend. “Bullshit. You’re the most honest guy I know. There’s no way you’ve been cheating.”

Dawson shrugged. “Then I guess you’re the unluckiest bastard ever.”

Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung poked the air with a finger. “My money’s on that. Have you ever been to Vegas with Red? He puts it on red, it comes up black. Puts it on black, comes up red. Keeps putting it on red, black has a streak like you’ve never seen. He switches. It’s red.”

Red nodded. “That’s why my wife won’t let me play poker with you guys anymore, she’s afraid I’ll lose the car.”

“We play for nickels,” boomed Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James, his impossibly deep voice filling the room. “I think it’s safe.”

“Have you seen his car?” asked Niner. “If that thing’s worth more than a buck-ninety-five I’ll renounce my Korean family.” He turned to Atlas. “They’re starving, you know, so clearly I must really believe his car’s a piece of shit.”

“You’re South Korean,” groaned Sergeant Jerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson. “And you’re not even that! You were born two hundred miles from where I was for Pete’s sake!”

“Did you read that in your school paper, Jimmy Olsen?”

Jimmy flushed, his moniker earned when someone had discovered he had been editor of his school paper. “I can tell you one thing, there was a hell of a lot more truth in that rag than what’s coming out of your mouth.”

“So you think the car is worth more than a buck-ninety-five?”

“Can we please stop talking about my car? I like my car.”

Niner nodded toward Red’s normally bald scalp, orange stubble showing. “Look, the poor man can’t even afford razor blades for his head.”

Red pulled his bowie knife. “I use this. It’s also good for castration.”

Niner snapped his knees together, covering his boys. “So what do you think your car’s worth?”

“More than a moment’s silence from you, that I can assure you.” He examined himself in the blade’s reflection then ran his hand over his head. “I feel like I’m out of uniform.”

“Something bothering you?” asked Dawson, his friend usually religious about keeping his head shaved.

Red shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about growing it back.”

Everyone froze. Niner broke the silence. “You shittin’ us?”

“No.” Red sighed. “We were watching something on the news the other day about white supremacists. Bryson pointed and said they looked like me then asked if I was a racist.”

“Want me to talk to him?” asked Atlas. “I’m black and you’ve treated me with nothing but respect. You’re the least racist man I know.”

Red smiled slightly. “Thanks, buddy, that means a lot. But it just got me thinking about how impressionable young kids are. The last thing I want is my son thinking his dad’s a racist.”

Dawson leaned forward. “He’d never think that, not if he knew what the word truly meant.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He rubbed his hand over his head again. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“You better,” said Niner, nodding toward the orange stubble. “You’d stand out like a damned airport beacon with that head of hair in the desert.”

Dawson laughed with the others, Red shaking his head. “I still have my knife out.”

Niner nodded toward his boys. “And I’m still covering them until you don’t.” He twisted his legs to the left, putting the side of his hips between his jewels and the knife. He motioned toward Red’s head. “Didn’t you start shaving that thing because you were going bald at twenty-five?”

Red really flushed this time. “I’m going to take care of it now.”

Dawson glanced at his watch. “No time. Take care of it on the plane, you’re wheels up in fifteen.”

Red rose, grabbing his gear. “I wish it had left fifteen minutes ago, then I wouldn’t have had to listen to this scintillating conversation.”

“You’ll miss me,” said Niner, blowing a kiss.

Red flipped the knife in his hand.

Niner covered up again.

Red gave an exaggerated sigh as Jimmy, Jagger and Wings grabbed their gear. “The life of a Delta Operator never ends.”

“And you’d have it no other way.”

“Sad, but true.” He turned to the others. “Have fun, boys, we’ll see you in Kenya.”

“Don’t get eaten.”

Red eyed Niner. “You do know they’ve got lions here, too.”

Niner looked about the room. “In here?”

Red grinned at Dawson. “I’m glad he’s on your team. I don’t think he’d survive on mine.”

Dawson slapped him on the back as he headed out the door, the rest of Red’s team following. He sat back down and pulled out his phone, firing off a text message to his girlfriend, Maggie Harris. She had been shot recently in Paris though was recovering nicely. Her biggest concern now was the fact half her head had been shaved, her gorgeous curls gone. Red’s wife Shirley had trimmed the rest short for her and was keeping it that way until the side of her head that had been operated on caught up.

He had nearly lost her that day, and he had thanked God every day since for sparing her.

His life was dangerous. All their lives were dangerous. They were Special Forces, America’s elite; some would say the best in the world. As a member of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, commonly known as Delta Force, he had been on ops around the world and around his country, Delta the only military unit permitted to operate on American soil at the sole discretion of the President.

It was a privilege they all understood the significance of.

Yet today they weren’t battling terrorists, they were on a babysitting mission. His team, Bravo Team, had been called in to supplement the normally already tight security that travelled with the President. With this trip taking him to Africa, it was felt a little extra “muscle” was warranted, and with the Russians making noises about the Ukraine policy shift, anything was possible.

Though he’d rather be arranging a meeting with Allah for some fundamentalists, he did have to admit travelling on Air Force One was a thrill. It wasn’t his first time, and he was sure it wouldn’t be his last in the airplane, though to call Air Force One an airplane was almost an insult. It was a flying building with offices, meeting rooms and three decks of luxury and technology, encased in a reinforced fuselage designed to withstand an EMP pulse from a nuclear detonation, and operate as its own satellite in the case of war.

The President could quite easily run the entire country from the confines of the aircraft.

It was a technological marvel, built by Boeing, customized to the hilt, and operated by the proud men and women of the United States Air Force.

Yet despite all that, he couldn’t wait for this mission to be over. There was almost no chance of action, and he was itching to kick some ass.

He eyed Niner, debating a sparring session, though even that wasn’t possible, training discouraged on these missions as a fresh black eye never made a good impression. The President and his handlers didn’t want the world to know they were along, it perhaps conveying the wrong message to their hosts.

We don’t trust you to keep him safe.

It was the truth. After all, they were in the country that had allowed a sign language interpreter who didn’t know how to sign within feet of the most powerful leaders of the world during Nelson Mandela’s memorial service.

Security clearly wasn’t their strong suit.

Three more days, then home, then off to some shithole.

He smiled slightly.

Can’t wait!

His phone vibrated.

Love you miss you too!

His smile widened.

Sheraton Pretoria Hotel, Pretoria, South Africa

One day before the Air Force One crash

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox moaned, struggling to open his eyes, the lids feeling like they had bricks hanging from them. He was in a fog, his head pounding, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He felt hung over.

Yet that wasn’t possible.

He never drank on duty, and when Air Force One was deployed, he was always on duty.

He forced his eyes open. He was in his hotel room. Or was he? It seemed different somehow. Someone cleared their throat to his right and his head spun toward the noise.

He immediately regretted it, closing his eyes as his head throbbed in protest.

Somebody said something. It sounded Russian.

Oh shit!

He opened his eyes again. Slowly.

“Senior Airman Cameron Lennox?”

Lennox nodded, the thick accent clearly Russian or Eastern European. “Who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance. Who you are is. You are one of the tech specialists on Air Force One.”

His chest tightened, his headache forgotten.

This can’t be good.

He said nothing.

The man smiled.

He looks sick.

“No matter, we know exactly who you are, what your assignment is, what your duties are”—the man paused, swiping his finger across the trackpad of a laptop sitting beside him on a small round table—“and we know who your family is.”

An image of his wife and daughter appeared on the laptop and he felt bile fill his mouth. He tried to stand but found his hands bound behind his back, the pain in his shoulders from the unnatural position suddenly explained.

What happened to me?

The last thing he remembered was sitting down to eat the room service he had ordered. Cheeseburger and fries with extra ketchup on the side. And a Coke.

They must have spiked my drink!

He glanced around the room and suddenly realized it wasn’t his. None of his stuff was anywhere to be seen.

Which would explain why his roommate wasn’t there.

Jerry should be looking for me. They’ll tear the place apart. Just hold out for a little longer.

“I’ll kill you if you touch them.”

The man smiled. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.” He repositioned the mouse pointer and clicked, the image now a video showing his wife and daughter sitting on a bed in a room he didn’t recognize.

And they looked terrified.

“What have you done?” His voice was barely a whisper as his eyes widened.

“We have your wife and daughter. They are safe for as long as you do as you are told. Should you not do what you are told, should you tell anyone what is happening, they will die, slowly, painfully, your daughter first so your wife can watch her suffer.”

Lennox leaned over and vomited for the first time in years, the harsh acid burning his throat and mouth as he leaned to the side, trying not to get any on himself. Bile dripped from his mouth as he fought for control.

He spit.

Get a grip! They’re not dead yet!

Or are they?

“How do I know they’re alive?”

“You don’t trust me?”

Lennox gave the man a look.

He smiled.

“I wouldn’t either.” The man launched Skype, the video, looping, replaced with a shot of the same room, his daughter now asleep on his wife’s lap, she sitting up in the bed, her back against the wall, her cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes barely open.

She looks exhausted.

“Can she hear me?”

His wife’s eyes shot open.

“Cam, is that you?”

A lump formed in his throat as his eyes filled with tears. “Yes, hon, it’s me. Are you okay?”

“No! We’ve been kidnaped!”

“I know, hon, I know. Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head, it clear she couldn’t see him, only hear him, her eyes searching the room, settling on what he assumed was a camera. “No, no we’re okay.”

The man clicked a button, killing the conversation.

“Satisfied?”

Lennox shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Well, it will have to do. They are alive and unharmed, for now. If you do what we ask, then they will be set free. If you do not…well, you know what will happen to them.”

Lennox closed his eyes, praying for guidance.

He received none.

“What do you want?”

The man produced what appeared to be a standard USB memory stick and held it up. “Tomorrow, when you board Air Force One, you will insert this memory stick into a computer attached to the avionics network, bypass any security protocols, then remove it.”

“What is it, a virus?”

“That is of no concern to you.”

“To hell it isn’t. That network is isolated from the main data networks used by the passengers, but it’s tied into all the flight controls and communications equipment.” Lennox’s eyes shot wide as he realized what it must be. “You’re planting a virus to monitor the President’s communications!”

The man smiled slightly, shrugging. “See, no harm.”

“But it’ll be discovered.” Lennox bit his tongue, cursing himself for revealing the fact the virus wouldn’t last long.”

Let them think they’re accomplishing something, so long as Cecilia and Janice are okay.

“Let us worry about that,” said the man, tapping the laptop. “You worry about your family.”

Lennox nodded. What was the harm? He would plant the virus, they might get some classified intel, they might not. It would still be encrypted, so they might actually get nothing, and the first time the system scanned itself, the virus would be caught and either eliminated or quarantined so there would be no further breach.

“And if I do this—”

“When.

“Fine, when I do this, you will release my family?”

“You have my word.”

“And how will I know?”

“They will have instructions to call you.”

“But they have no way of reaching me unless it’s an emergency!”

“You don’t think their kidnapping and release would qualify?”

Of course, you idiot!

The man was right. The Air Force would immediately get in touch with him. And once he knew they were safe, he’d simply tell them what he did and the system would be cleaned.

No harm done.

His family safe.

And hopefully this bastard, and whomever he was working for, could be tracked down and brought to justice.

“Do we have an agreement?”

Lennox nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” The man leaned forward. “And Airman?”

“Yes?”

“If you fail, we will know. And your family will die.”

FSB Headquarters, The Lubyanka Building, Moscow, Russia

Day of the Air Force One crash

Arseny Dudnik reread the news report, his eyes wide in shock. It was a report from South Africa, filed overnight, about a cultural festival featuring traditional music and dancing.

Attended by the First Family.

For the love of all that is holy!

The report from FSB had indicated the President would be travelling alone, not with his wife and daughter. If he had known, he never would have agreed to supply Khomenko with the virus.

Never.

It was one thing to kill a president.

It was another thing to kill his family.

America might not clamor for war if their leader was assassinated. Presidents had died before, and life went on.

But kill his wife and teenage daughter?

They’d demand answers.

Then blood.

We can’t risk it being traced back here!

He immediately dialed Khomenko’s cellphone, it answered on the second ring.

“It’s me, can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“You have to abort.”

“Why?”

“His wife and daughter are travelling with him.”

“So?”

“So? If you kill his family, they won’t stop until they find out who did it, then they’ll demand justice!”

“They didn’t care that my family died, so why should I care?”

Dudnik exhaled loudly in exasperation. “Listen, Igor, we can’t do this. Moscow will find out, they’ll kill us all, and they’ll stop any payments to your friend’s family.”

“That isn’t my concern. You committed to a course of action, my friend, and we must see it through.”

“No matter the cost?”

“No matter the cost.”

Dudnik gripped the edge of his desk, leaning over it, his phone pressed hard against his ear. “Listen, Igor, I’m ordering you to abort.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Arseny, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s already too late. The plan is in motion. There is no stopping it.”

Dudnik ended the call, quickly dialing the only person he could think of. Someone who was just as likely to kill him as help him.

His ex-wife.

“Hello, Katya, it’s me, Arseny.”

“What do you want?”

Uh oh, not a good day apparently.

“I have a problem. Rather, we have a problem.”

“How do we have a problem? We haven’t spoken in eight months.”

“Not we as in us. We as in Russia.”

“I’m listening.”

The Union Buildings, Pretoria, South Africa

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson watched President Jacob Starling shake President Surty’s hand as they both faced the camera, the official photographer snapping several shots as traditional gifts were exchanged. The conference yesterday had wrapped up with an impressive cultural display that extended well into the evening, Dawson and his team not partaking, instead providing supplemental security until they were back at the hotel, the Secret Service taking over completely.

It had been straight into the rack after Red’s team left for Kenya to scout out the next location. So far the mission had been routine, no problems, a few environmentalist protesters there for the summit, but other than that, uneventful. He had been to a lot of these conferences over the years and always wondered why so much money was wasted on them. Almost always the negotiations had been completed behind closed doors by other people, the heads of state merely showing up to either sign the deal, or make the public think they were very close, significant progress made, a deal imminent.

Even when they knew well ahead of time that it was complete BS.

Like yesterday.

Nothing was really accomplished, just a bunch of photo ops with the leaders reiterating the positions they already had going into the conference.

Yet it was of no importance to him. His job was to keep the man alive, not productive.

“I thank you once again for agreeing to take my cousin with you. Thulas is a good, strong man. Since he has fought and beaten cancer, he wants to spread his message of hope across Africa. Perhaps one day we will have the experimental treatment centers like your country enjoys.”

“It’s a laudable goal, Mr. President, and the American people are happy to help. I look forward to meeting Mr. Zokwana in person.”

Dawson had already tuned out the conversation, activating his comm. It wouldn’t be the first time a president had invited someone along last minute, though it was rare for it to happen on foreign soil. “Control, Bravo Zero-One. Have we vetted a Mr. Zokwana, over?”

“Negative, Zero-One. Why?”

“I just overheard the President mentioning that we’d be taking him with us to Kenya, over.”

“Do we have any details?”

“Negative, but we better start running a background check, out.”

Dawson exchanged glances with Niner and Atlas, both rolling their eyes slightly. No matter how much security you put around someone, it was all for not if they ignored it.

And how to you say no to the President?

Nkandla, South Africa

It had been a good three weeks. A great three weeks. Thulas Zokwana had missed his family terribly the six months he had been in Moscow, but as he had heard someone once say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it was true. He loved his wife and children more so today than he ever had. Perhaps it was the knowledge he was dying that had intensified his feelings, though whatever it was, he relished every moment with them.

Yet it all was about to end.

And he didn’t want it to.

Of course he didn’t want it to. He loved them, they were his everything. Despite being dirt poor, they were happy together. Life was a constant struggle to survive, though it was the same way for everyone around them. His exposure to Moscow had been an eye opener into how good things could be, living in a clean room with a comfortable bed and access to clean water and regular hot meals.

It had almost spoiled him.

Though no bed was uncomfortable with his sweet, sweet Zoe lying in it.

His desire for her had overcome his weakness and they had made love that first night back. It had been wonderful, exciting, almost like the first time as they rediscovered each other’s bodies. He had to apologize for not having his stamina anymore, though she didn’t care, she just wanted to be held by him, to feel close to him.

When she had first stepped through the doorway to see him arriving in a cab, she had cried, tears of happiness though he was sure tears of worry as well. He looked terrible, and each day a little worse. He had convinced her that it was just a side effect of the medicines and over time he’d get better, and he hoped she believed him, though he wasn’t sure.

She knew him so well.

“What’s wrong, my love?”

He gazed down at her, her big brown eyes so clear he could lose himself for an eternity in them. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You don’t have to go. This conference in Kenya sounds like too much. You’re still weak, you should rest, rebuild your strength and go next year.”

He shook his head. He would love for her to know the truth, to know what he was about to do for her and the children, though he also knew the very idea would horrify her. He was about to participate in a terrible thing, a horrible thing, something that would probably condemn him for eternity, though it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. His family would be taken care of for the rest of their lives and he was dead anyway. And if he kept his secret, he would die a hero in their eyes, a tragic victim of circumstance, on his way to help others.

Tears filled his eyes. “I love you.”

She smiled at him then leaned in, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his chest. “I love you too. That’s why I don’t want you to go.”

He chuckled. “It’s only for a week. And besides, if I do this, it makes me look good, and maybe my cousin can get me a good job and we can move.”

“I’m happy anywhere as long as it’s with you.”

“A pretty dress, then?”

She squeezed him. “That might be nice.” She pushed back and gazed up at him. “I still think there’s something you’re not telling me. Are you sure you’re okay?”

A lump formed in his throat and he resisted looking away, instead closing his eyes and kissing her as he held her tight.

A horn honked outside, the cab having arrived.

Quick hugs to the crowd of children and a final kiss to his wife left his heart heavy as he climbed into the cab, his overnight bag loaded in the trunk by his oldest son. He waved to his wife, standing in the doorway of their humble home, the children running beside the cab, shouting their goodbyes, slowly losing ground to the accelerating vehicle.

Then with a quick turn to the right, they were out of sight.

Never to be seen again.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he fingered the memory stick in his pocket.

What I do today, I do for my family’s tomorrow.

Jackson Square, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

“I’m really surprised Cecilia didn’t make it.”

The women gathered around the living room all nodded in agreement at Pam Wimbush’s comment. Everyone who had RSVP’d was there, even a couple who had yet to learn what RSVP meant. She never understood that. Was it ignorance, laziness, or idiocy? If an invitation asks you to RSVP, then you call to let them know you’re coming, that way the host can properly plan for how many people she needs to entertain. The right numbers of chairs are available, refreshments and food, goody bags, whatever. To just show up as if your presence was a delight for all those who did RSVP, was just plain inconsiderate.

She glanced at Christa and Tanya.

I think they actually are idiots.

Their host, Karen Joseph, had whispered that Christa had actually tried to pronounce RSVP when she had handed her the invitation two weeks before.

“Risvip.”

They had both laughed.

“Cecilia never misses these things,” agreed Christa. “And I love her seven layer dip!”

Tanya’s head bobbed. “Oh, it’s to die for! I tried to make it once but gave up and just stirred it all together. Still tasted great, but looked like hell!”

Several giggled.

Karen didn’t.

Neither did Pam.

“Did she call you to say she’d be late, Karen?”

Karen shook her head. “No.” She rose. “I’m going to give her a quick shout, make sure everything’s okay.” Karen disappeared as the conversation returned to the upcoming birth of Pam’s child, her baby shower just wrapping up.

“Is this your third?” asked Christa.

Pam nodded. “Yes, another girl.”

Squeals.

“Chip was hoping for a boy, but he’s so good with the girls I’m not worried.”

“I guess you’ll just have to try again.”

Pam patted her stomach and groaned. “I don’t think my poor body can take another. I think three’s enough. If he wants a boy he’ll have to coach Little League.” She looked up at Karen as she returned. “Well?”

Karen shook her head. “No answer, it just goes to voicemail. I tried her cellphone as well, it just rings and rings.”

“Very strange.”

“Mrs. Wimbush, all your gifts are in your car.”

Pam turned and smiled at Karen’s son. “Thanks, Brett, I appreciate that.”

Brett nodded then looked at his mom. “Can I go now?”

All the women exchanged knowing smiles.

“Yes, dear, just be back before dinner.”

“Okay.”

Brett tore from the house before he was tasked with something else.

“Help me up!”

Pam extended a hand and Karen stepped forward, pulling her to her feet. Pam placed her hand on the small of her back. “Ooh, I can’t wait until she’s out of me.”

Everyone else rose, hugs and kisses exchanged, several volunteering to stay behind and help clean up. Normally Pam would be first in line, but this was her day, and besides, she had a stop to make before heading home. Escaping the chatter, she struggled into her SUV then made the quick hop over to Cecilia’s house, surprised to find the car still in the driveway.

That’s odd.

She climbed out and rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

She rang it again and knocked.

Again nothing.

She pulled out her cellphone and dialed Cecilia’s cell.

She could hear the distinctive Sencha ringtone of her friend’s iPhone.

She’s here!

She had to be. Cecilia never let her cellphone out of her sight, especially when Cameron was away—she never wanted to risk missing a call.

Something’s wrong.

She rang the doorbell several more times, hammering on the door, dialing both phone numbers again.

And still nothing.

She dialed 9-1-1.

Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia

“She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you. It’s all in your head.” Chris Leroux smiled at his girlfriend Sherrie White, giving her a quick hug, Sherrie not too receptive, her arms just dangling at her sides like limp noodles. “Listen, if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.”

“Then she’ll hate me even more.”

“You’ve got quite the imagination.”

“You don’t see it because she’s your mother. She thinks I’m stealing her little boy away from her.”

He pulled back slightly, looking down at her. “Well, you kinda are. You’re the first girlfriend I’ve ever had so she’s not used to it.”

“Well, I barely remember what it’s like to have a mother and yours is kinda freaking me out.”

Leroux sighed. “Maybe you shouldn’t come.”

Sherrie shook her head, finally returning the hug. “No, I’ll go. It’s only three days, and when’s the next time we’re going to get a chance to visit them?”

“It’s so nice not having a security team watching us twenty-four-seven. I finally feel like I’ve got my life back.”

“Yeah, well don’t be so sure. I’m stunned the Director agreed to pull the detail so soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still got one on you.”

Leroux frowned, thinking about it. Since they had managed to turn the tables on The Assembly, he had felt completely safe. In his mind, they wouldn’t dare do anything now that they knew who some of them were, and the threat he had been living under, and by extension Sherrie, was gone. Perhaps it was naïve, and he was certain the expression on Director Morrison’s face was implying just that, but he had agreed.

Perhaps a little too readily.

“Maybe you’re right.” He shrugged. “I don’t care. If I don’t know they’re there, then I’m not going to worry about it. All I know is that for the first time in over two years I left dishes in the sink without worrying about being judged when they did their security sweep.

Sherrie grinned. “You didn’t just leave dishes in the sink, you left them all over the counters and pretty much every surface that wasn’t covered by pizza boxes.”

“Hey, I cleaned it up when you got back.”

She patted his cheek. “Yes you did, dear, but you lived in it for a week.” He flushed slightly as she let him go, heading for the bedroom, her hips wagging back and forth. “Coming?”

“Huh?”

“Well, we’re going to your folks’ place for three days. Do you remember what happened last time? Or didn’t, should I say?”

He looked up slightly, remembering their first and only visit together, the big introduction visit. His mom had been a little surprised when Sherrie had put her bag in his room.

“Oh, I made up the guest bedroom for you, dear.”

“Umm, oh, okay.”

And the awkward weekend had begun, his father quickly putting an end to the bedroom assignments when he heard about them at dinner. “They live together, dear, you don’t think they’re bumpin’ uglies already? They’re kids, let them have fun.”

Leroux wasn’t sure what shade of red he was, though he was pretty sure it was close to Sherrie’s.

They had shared a bed though nothing had happened in it no matter how much he had wanted to break the dry spell that had been his teenage years. But this time he was determined to have a little somethin’-somethin’ happen, though he knew he’d probably chicken out.

So get your ass in there!

He grinned, Little Chris already in agreement.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out, frowning.

“Hello?”

He heard Sherrie groan from the bedroom, she knowing there was only one reason he’d answer the phone when sex was on the menu.

Work.

But it was no ordinary work.

He was CIA.

And so was she.

And the job always had to come first.

“We’ve got a priority tasking, boss. Want the details now or when you get in?”

“Assemble the rest of the team and get started. I’ll be there in half an hour.” Another groan from the bedroom. “Make that forty-five minutes.”

“Woo hoo!”

Dudnik Residence, Moscow, Russia

Katya Dudnik inhaled slowly, steeling herself for what she was certain would be an exasperating encounter. To say she despised her ex-husband would be an understatement. She hated him. He was a self-centered egotistical pig and an impotent drunk.

Who could never handle the fact she had been more successful in the FSB than he had.

They had divorced only two years ago, and she had made it a point to avoid him, a colleague assigning him to the Ukrainian situation that had him out of Moscow very frequently. Fortunately they hadn’t had any kids together otherwise she might feel a little guilty about what she had to do.

She knocked on the apartment door, an apartment she had lived in for many years.

A lump threatened to form in her throat.

There were some good times.

They had been in love once. You didn’t get married if you weren’t in love and not pregnant. But his drinking had become so bad he had changed. The first time he had raised a hand she had taken him down, her FSB training allowing her to easily overcome a stumbling drunk.

Then she had left.

The door opened and Arseny stared at her, surprised.

“I thought we were meeting at your office this afternoon?”

She held out her hand. “May I?”

He smiled. “Of course.” He stepped aside and she entered the apartment. Except for the level of disarray and dirt, it hadn’t changed much.

“You should really get yourself a maid.”

He shrugged. “Or you could come back to me.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”

He rubbed his upper arms. “This is hell. And it’s cold.”

She shivered. “Why don’t you have the heat on?”

“I’m never here, and it’s too expensive. I’ve got blankets.”

“And vodka.”

He frowned. “Don’t start.”

“Of course.” She pursed her lips, looking for a place to sit. There was none she’d risk herself on. She looked at her ex-husband. He seemed ten years older. And worried. She decided to get it over with. “Who authorized you to do this?”

“I see, no pleasantries.”

“You expected some?”

“A roll in the hay for old time’s sake?”

She nodded toward his crotch. “Is that thing working again?”

He grunted, dropping into his favorite chair, dirty dishes, empty bottles and newspapers littering the surrounding area.

A cockroach scurried under the couch.

I hate this place.

“Nobody authorized it.”

“So you took it upon yourself to initiate an operation that could result in the death of the President of the United States.”

He shrugged. “I was doing a favor for a friend. I didn’t actually expect him to go through with it.” He pointed a lazy finger at her. “And nothing says it’ll work.”

“If they manage to upload the virus, there’s every indication it will work.”

Dudnik shrugged.

“If the President dies, they won’t stop until they find those responsible. It could trace back to us and lead to war!”

“I’m not concerned. There’s no way it could trace back to us.”

“If you’re not concerned, then why are you trying to stop him?”

“Because the First Family is on the plane. I never would have given him the virus if I had known the President’s wife and daughter were going to be on the plane.”

“Why the concern? You’re willing to kill almost a hundred innocent people, what’s two more?”

“It’s a kid!”

“I never thought you cared about kids.”

Dudnik looked away. “That’s only because we couldn’t have them, and I didn’t want you thinking I was disappointed.”

This caught Katya off guard. It was the first time he had mentioned children since they had discovered she couldn’t have any. She had been terribly disappointed, but he wasn’t, instead shrugging his shoulders and saying he never really wanted them anyway.

Then he had reached for the bottle.

Could it have been children all along?

“You never said anything.” Her voice was gentler, probably as gentle as it had been since things started to go wrong between them.

He shrugged again, stealing a quick glance. “I didn’t want you to feel bad and blame yourself.”

She wanted to reach out, to comfort the man she once loved, but she resisted the urge. She knew what she had to do, and reestablishing an emotional bond now would be a mistake.

She took in a deep breath. “That’s the past. Now back to the present. Who knows about this operation?”

“Me, you, Khomenko and his friend, Thulas Zokwana. And some of Khomenko’s men, obviously.”

“Does anyone know the source of the virus?”

“No, only Khomenko. He assured me he’d tell no one its source.”

“And you can trust him?”

Dudnik nodded. “Yes. He’s a man of honor, a man of his word. And he only has a few months left to live with no one to live for. Even if they catch him, there’s nothing they could do to make him talk.”

“They could torture him.”

“That would only hasten his death.” Dudnik shook his head. “He won’t talk.”

“Which means the only way they can trace it back to us is through his connection to you.”

Dudnik frowned at her. “I suppose so.”

“If we kill him first, then there’s no risk of that. Can he be reached?”

Dudnik shook his head. “I’ve been trying, but after the first call when I ordered him to abort, he hasn’t answered.”

She sighed, turning her back on him as she stepped toward the door, unbuttoning her jacket. “We can’t risk this backfiring. It must be stopped.”

“I don’t know how. That’s why I called you.”

“You did the right thing.” She turned to face him as she reached inside her jacket. “For once.”

She drew her weapon and fired two shots into his chest, the look of shock on his face one she would never forget.

A tear rolled down her cheek in memory of the good times.

So long ago.

Now how do we warn the Americans without admitting involvement?

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

CIA Senior Analyst Chris Leroux poured over the data his team was gathering, the emergency tasking to run a background check on one Thulas Zokwana a priority that he was certain was going to keep them there far too long. He had already postponed the visit with his parents, delighting his girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White. They had been disappointed yet understanding, it not the first time plans had been cancelled due to his job.

Worse was cancelling plans on Sherrie. He always hated doing it, he knowing how it made him feel when she was forced to do the same. Something in the back of his mind always thought she wanted to spend less time with him, to end things.

Your insecurity is what’s going to end this.

She was way out of his league, or at least that’s how he had always felt. She was gorgeous, at least in his eyes—and Dylan’s!—and the first real girlfriend he had ever had. He was a loner, geek, nerd, dork—whatever the kids were calling it these days. She was beautiful, vibrant, outgoing, confident.

All the things he wasn’t.

It wasn’t that he was ugly, though he would never describe himself as handsome. He was slim but not skinny, blessed with genes that just allowed him to eat whatever he wanted and not gain, though also not to be just skin and bones. He appeared athletic yet was anything but.

The real difference was their personalities. If the old adage of opposites attract needed any proof, it was them, though with her help and encouragement, and his boss giving him an unwanted promotion that resulted in a team of almost ten, he was coming out of his shell.

Slowly.

He found more and more often he would forget who he was, sometimes catching himself giving orders, directing his staff during a crisis, that he’d shock himself when he realized it was his voice barking the orders.

“I told you you could do it.”

His boss, National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison’s words always brought him comfort. Morrison was as big a champion of him as Sherrie was, and he found his team was frequently getting the tough assignments where real digging was needed, or a rapid response.

Like today.

The President had taken it upon himself to invite a guest aboard Air Force One without telling anyone. It apparently happened from time-to-time, though this was the first time Leroux had been involved.

So far the guest was coming up clean, though that could just be because they had nothing on him besides a name. They were running it against every database they had and were tapping South African sources where they could.

Yet so far, all they had was a name and address, and a photo they thought might be him.

“This is interesting.”

Leroux looked over at one of his team, Marc Therrien. “What?”

“He’s related to the South African President.”

“We knew that, didn’t we?” Leroux quickly glanced at the notes he had made. “Yeah, the agent who reported it said he was his cousin.”

“Sorry, boss, a little tired, I forgot.” Therrien took a long drag on a Red Bull.

Leroux’s mouth watered. He had kicked his long time addiction to the stuff at Sherrie’s insistence, yet he had to admit there were times, especially mid-yawn, where he’d kill to have just a sip of the caffeine infused drink.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, tearing his eyes away.

“Whoa.”

The entire team paused, looking at Therrien.

“What?”

“You’ll never guess where he just came back from.”

Leroux felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Where?”

“Moscow.”

Madison Cove, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Pam Wimbush watched as the Military Police officer stepped up to the door and knocked. It had taken less than ten minutes for them to arrive, and it was probably closer to five, her body fueled with adrenaline that seemed to make everything feel longer.

“You don’t think I tried that?” she snapped, immediately regretting it. “Sorry, I’m just worried.”

“I’ll get you to step back, ma’am,” said the second MP. He noticed her stomach. “Umm, maybe you should sit in your car, let us handle this.”

She nodded, stepping back, with no intention of getting in her car.

The first MP slammed on the door with his fist. “Military Police, please open the door!”

Nothing.

He looked at his partner. “What do you think?”

“We’ve gotta know. Open ’er up.”

The MP broke the glass with the back of his flashlight then reached inside, unlocking the door. He pushed it open, stepping inside. “Military Police! Is anyone here?” The two officers stepped inside, listening for any sign of life, as Pam crept through the door behind them.

She gasped.

The MPs turned. “What?”

She pointed to a table in the hallway, Cecilia’s purse sitting on it. “That’s her purse. She’d never leave without her purse.” She stared at the officers. “Something’s wrong. I know it.”

The first MP pointed at her. “Wait here.”

Her feet froze, yet her eyes roamed, looking for any clue as to what might have happened to her friend. She could hear the MPs calling out as they searched the house, one of them heading into the basement only to return a minute later.

“Nobody’s here,” said the first MP. He turned to Pam. “You’re certain she’s missing?”

Pam nodded emphatically. “She was supposed to be at my baby shower today but she didn’t show, and I made some calls while I was waiting for you and she missed a meet-and-greet yesterday with her daughter.”

“How old is the child?”

“Four.”

“Where’s her husband?”

“He’s in South Africa, I think, with the President. He works on Air Force One.”

Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox emptied his pockets and placed everything in the dull gray plastic tray. It was routine, everyone having to go through the scanner, no matter how high your clearance level.

Except the President of course.

His finger swept over the memory key in his right front pocket. He had been told it wouldn’t trigger any alarm and if it were discovered, simply to claim he had forgotten he had it.

It’s filled with movies to kill time with.

“You don’t have a pacemaker or any other implanted device?”

Lennox glanced at the guard, a man he knew well. The question was asked with half a grin. “Huh?” He had forgotten that new security protocols had been implemented for this trip and his heart suddenly leapt into his throat.

“The new scanner wipes everything electronic. New protocol to combat bugs.”

“He’s okay!” laughed Senior Airman Jerry Cornel, shoving him from behind. Lennox stumbled through the scanner, almost yelping in panic, his hand gripping the memory key in his pocket.

“You’re clear,” said the agent, handing him the tray with his things. He nodded, saying nothing, his head down as he filled his pockets. His upper lip was coated in sweat, the cool morning breeze only sending a chill through his entire body. He rushed toward the stairs rolled up to the rear of the highly customized Boeing 747-200, the model so unique it was actually classified as a VC-25A.

He climbed the stairs, nodding to the flight attendants, their crisp Air Force uniforms always a surprise to the first timers. He stared back at the crowd gathered behind security tape, a ring of Secret Service and local police keeping the crowds at bay as the President and his family went through the standard goodbyes.

Yet he wasn’t looking at them.

He was searching the crowd, looking for the man who had kidnapped him, unsure of what to do, now that the memory stick had been wiped clean.

They’re going to kill my family.

He felt sick.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“What was he doing in Moscow?”

“Cancer treatment,” replied Marc Therrien. “Apparently he was at the Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute in Moscow for almost six months.”

Leroux tapped his lips, thinking. “Sounds expensive.” The ties between Russia and South Africa were strong, so a South African citizen travelling there for specialized cancer treatment didn’t surprise him, though why Zokwana wouldn’t have sought treatment in his own country was a question that needed to be answered. He turned to Therrien. “See if you can get your hands on those hospital records. I want to know what he was treated for, what the outcome was, and why he was treated there and not at home.”

Somebody tapped on the office divider, Leroux sitting in the center of a cluster of cubicles that housed his staff. He pushed himself to his feet at the sight of his boss, Leif Morrison. Morrison waved him down. “You weren’t in your office, thought I’d find you here.”

“All the op centers are in use and nobody would let me book a meeting room for twelve hours.”

Morrison chuckled. “No, I doubt they would.” Somebody shoved a chair toward him and he sat. “What have you got?”

“Thulas Zokwana. South African national born in Nkandla on April 25th, 1966, wife and five kids.” Leroux tapped his tablet, bringing up a photo then flipping it around for Morrison to see. “We’re pretty sure this is him. This is from a driver’s license photo.”

“How’d you get that?”

Randy Child snickered. “Hacked their DMV.”

Morrison held up a hand. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to tell my boss. Any red flags yet?”

Leroux nodded. “Yeah, he was treated for cancer in Moscow recently.”

Morrison’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Moscow?”

“Yup. Six months, apparently.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“That’s what the boss said,” laughed Child. Child suddenly blushed, eyes cast to the ground. “Umm, I mean my boss.” He panicked. “I mean, not that you’re not my boss, I mean—”

Morrison raised a hand, saving the poor kid. “I got it.” He turned to Leroux. “Do we know why Moscow, and where the funds came from?”

“Not yet, but we’re digging.”

“Keep digging. I don’t trust anything that might link back to the Russians.”

Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

Thulas Zokwana smiled broadly as he shook President Starling’s hand. The man was impressive, taller than he had imagined with a strong grip. One that put his weakened one to shame. He had always been proud of his handshake, it always firm, confident and dry, though after the past six months, he was a shadow of his former self. His wife had barely recognized him, crying when he had arrived. He knew she was happy to see him though the fear in her eyes was obvious.

And he knew she didn’t believe him when he told her he was free of the cancer that had riddled his body. His treatment had been experimental and only available in Russia and China, it not yet approved in the West or in his country. The doctor in Cape Town had said he would be dead within weeks without it, and even then, the likelihood of survival was slim to none.

He hadn’t mentioned that part to his wife.

Or his cousin when he had reached out.

President Surty had surprised him by agreeing to a meeting. He had always thought him an asshole, though he thought that way about anyone who was more successful than he was, which unfortunately was almost everyone he knew.

Zokwana knew he wasn’t a smart man. He could barely read, his math was non-existent, and he had never been much for skilled labor. But he was strong. Ask him to move a pile of wood from one spot to another and he’d put his back into it and get the job done without complaint.

Unfortunately, there were millions of men like that.

Men far younger than him.

He had always kept busy and always kept food on the table, though not much of a roof over their heads. The shantytowns where they lived were miserable, things not improving at all since apartheid had been swept away. The promises echoed hollow now, though he hoped one day his children might do better than their father.

At least they can read and do their math.

“I understand you’re a cancer survivor.”

Zokwana nodded, tuning back into the conversations, his cousin rattling off the story of how he had used a special program he had created to send disadvantaged people abroad for complex health issues their own system couldn’t handle. It had turned into a quick pitch for funding that the American President politely nodded at before returning his attention to the man whose hand he was shaking.

“I am, Mr. President. I just returned home a few weeks ago.”

“And you’re off already!”

Zokwana bowed slightly. “I am. I felt it my duty to try to raise awareness of how the initiative started by my cousin—I mean President Surty—could save lives. A friend told me that Kenya is thinking of starting its own program and felt I might be able to persuade them with my story.”

“It’s an honorable effort, I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Zokwana bowed again then joined the line clearing security.

“Please place all metal objects in the tray.” Zokwana emptied his pockets. “Do you have any medical implants?” asked the guard.

Zokwana shook his head. “No.”

“Please proceed.” The man waved him toward the scanner and he stepped through, filling his pockets on the other side. He was ushered toward the plane and climbed the stairs, winded by the time he reached the top. He stood in awe at the sight.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” said a young woman, her smile wide and from all outward appearances, genuine.

“Th-thank you,” he managed, his mouth agape as he took in the opulence. It was unlike any plane he had ever seen, though it was only the third plane he had ever been inside. The planes that had taken him to and from Moscow had everyone crammed in like goats, but not this one.

It’s a hundred times the size of my home!

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out as he was led toward the seating area. He read the text and frowned.

This isn’t good.

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox had had no choice but to contact the men involved. The memory stick had been wiped, that much he had been able to confirm. They said they would know if he didn’t do as told and he couldn’t risk them killing Cecilia and Janice by doing nothing.

He had sent them a text.

And the reply had shocked him.

Go to the main deck. Guest seating area.

He climbed the stairs, two at a time, his palms sweaty, his shirt soaked, sweat dripping off his earlobes.

He felt like shit, sick from worry.

“Airman, are you feeling okay?”

Lennox nearly pissed his pants as he grabbed the railing, bringing himself to an immediate halt. “Umm, yes, Mr. President.”

“You look like hell, son.”

“I guess the local cuisine didn’t agree with me, sir.”

President Starling leaned in, lowering his voice. “Pepto-Bismol helped me to sleep last night. I think sometimes our American stomachs are a little too delicate.”

Lennox forced a smile on his face. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Listen, you try to take it easy and I’ll have the galley rustle up a good old American cheeseburger and fries for you.”

“That’s not necessary, Mr. President. I’ll be fine.”

Starling slapped him on the back. “Your choice, son, but now that I’ve said it, I think I’m in the mood for one. You just let the chef know if you change your mind.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

Starling continued on, his wife and daughter smiling politely at him as he stood against the wall, giving them room, not that there were many cramped quarters aboard. He headed for the guest seating area and stepped to the side as a black man who looked as bad as he felt stepped in front of him.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom?”

Lennox pointed. “Over there, sir.”

The man took his hand, shaking it. Lennox’s eyes popped wide as he felt something pressed into his palm as the man leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Remember your family.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Got something, boss.”

“What is it?” echoed Leroux and Morrison, Leroux blushing, Morrison deferring with a wave of his hand.

Child grinned, then thought better of it. “Newspaper article from six months ago. Looks like South African President Surty was interviewed about a new program that sent citizens outside of the country for medical treatments that were beyond the South African system’s capabilities. Mostly experimental stuff. Last ditch stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“Is Zokwana mentioned?”

“Yes. He was challenged as to why a member of his family was part of the program.”

“And his response?” asked Morrison.

“He said that his cousin was dying and this was his only hope. He questioned the reporter why a member of his family should be discriminated against merely because he is related, then ended the interview.”

“He’s got a point,” said Therrien. “I mean, if he’s eligible, then why not?”

“Not our concern,” said Morrison. “So who pays for this?”

“The government pays the travel and accommodations, and usually the treatment is donated by various institutions around the world. In this case the entire medical bill was foot by Moscow.”

Therrien grunted. “Generous of them.”

“The Russians are always trying to make themselves look good on the international stage,” said Leroux.

“Then they should stop invading people,” muttered Therrien.

Morrison chuckled. “I see your staff are as blunt as you are sometimes.”

Leroux flushed. He usually wasn’t blunt, if anything, he was too tactful. Unless frustrated. If enough idiocy was displayed, his filter would sometimes fail and what he was truly thinking would slip out.

He encouraged it with his staff.

“If we ignore the ulterior motives, and just look at the program for what it appears to be on the surface, then it seems innocent enough.”

Morrison nodded. “Agreed. And his status? Is he cured?”

Sonya Tong rolled into view from her cubicle, one of Leroux’s top young analysts who also had a little crush on the barely older Leroux. “Not according to the hospital records. He’s terminal.”

“Really?” Leroux looked at Morrison, surprised. He snapped his fingers, closing his eyes as he tried to remember the original report. “Wasn’t the purpose of his visit to share his success story with others?”

“That’s how I remember it,” agreed Morrison.

Leroux flipped through his tablet, stopping at the original communique. “Yeah, here it is, he’s going to Kenya to talk about how his treatment had been a success. Apparently the Kenyan’s are looking to start their own program.”

“How long does he have left?” asked Morrison.

“Weeks.”

Leroux’s chest tightened. “And he has a family.”

“Wife, five kids.”

Leroux tapped his lips. “Why does a man with three weeks left to live get on an airplane to Kenya claiming he’s cured? Wouldn’t he want to spend his final days with his family?”

“I know I would,” said Morrison as he leaned back in his chair. “What’s your gut telling you, Chris?”

Leroux looked at his boss.

“That something isn’t right.”

Lower Deck Server Compartment, Air Force One

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox sat at his terminal as the plane took off. He had chosen a terminal deep in the tech center of the aircraft. The plane itself might be old, but the equipment inside was state of the art. With 85 phones, 19 televisions and 240 miles of wiring, it had the most modern communications capabilities in the air; a flying military headquarters capable of letting the President run a country in time of war. It was equipped with anti-missile countermeasures, mid-air refueling capabilities, and was even shielded from the effects of an electromagnetic pulse should a nuclear weapon detonate in the vicinity.

It was the most classified, heavily protected airliner in the world.

And it could still be hacked.

There’s no protection if the hacker is on the inside and knows the codes.

He was the man that was supposed to protect the systems from what he was about to do.

He reached into his pocket, removing the new memory stick the South African man had given him, the surreptitious delivery shocking him deeply.

I guess he’s how they’ll know whether or not I’ve done the job.

Though he wasn’t sure how the man could know. Regardless of what the virus might do, the networks he had access to were completely isolated from anything in the cabin where the passengers were. There was no Wi-Fi to tap, no cable to plug into. There was no way the man could know if he had done the job.

Maybe someone on the ground will know then tell him?

It was possible. It was his theory they were tapping the communications. It wouldn’t last long, the system automatically scanning for any type of intrusion every fifteen minutes. During that period the virus might transmit a large volume of data, though even that might be detected.

By someone like him.

He stared down the racks of equipment at Senior Airman Jerry Cornel, typing away at his keyboard.

Now or never.

He inserted the key, a message immediately popping on his display warning him of the new hardware. He entered the override code. The system immediately activated the device, it common practice to use USB devices to patch the software, it one of his duties. And there had been quite a few patches lately after the latest upgrade. The entire plane had been given a major overhaul, the replacement aircraft not due to be in the air for the better part of a decade. She was an old bird, reliable, but so out of date it needed a few tweaks now and then, and sometimes major work.

This was only her second flight, the kinks being worked out now minor.

The screen flashed as something ran for a moment, then the memory stick ejected itself, the system displaying a message it was safe to remove.

He did, shoving it back into his pocket.

And wondered what the hell he had just done.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Here’s something.”

Leroux and Morrison turned to Sonya Tong. “What?”

“Well, I figured I’d broaden the search a bit so I ran all the patients who were at the hospital at the same time as Zokwana. There were quite a few hits against our databases, there a lot of senior people who go there, but one was red flagged for recent activity.”

“Who?”

“Igor Khomenko. He was at the hospital for almost the entire time Zokwana was. Same ward, same type of cancer, both terminal.”

Morrison looked at her. “So? Who is he?”

“He’s a general in the Donetsk People's Republic.”

“Russian separatists!” hissed Morrison. “Go on.”

“He was wounded six months ago, taken to hospital for treatment in Russia, which was when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He was transferred to the Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute and was discharged on the same day as Zokwana.”

“Interesting.”

Leroux nodded. “Could be a coincidence, but you know me, I don’t like them.” He nodded toward Tong. “What else do we know?”

“Transcripts of some of his conversations seem to suggest he blames the US for killing his family, apparently they died the same day he was wounded—bomb dropped from a Ukrainian Air Force jet.” Tong’s eyes widened. “Sir, according to this, he specifically blames the President and has sworn revenge!”

Morrison snapped his fingers. “That’s our guy. We need to know what involvement he had with Zokwana.”

“Shit, boss, I’ve got something!”

Leroux swiveled in his chair to face Child. “What?”

“I’ve got a wire transfer from a known FSB account to Igor Khomenko in the amount of two million Euros less than a week ago. We picked it up as part of our monitoring of Ukrainian separatist activities.”

“Okay, he’s up to something and the Russians are involved.” Leroux’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s the money now?”

“Still trying to get access to the account. It might take some time.”

“Do whatever it takes.”

Child nodded, returning to his computer.

Leroux turned to Morrison. “I think you better make a call.”

Morrison rose. “So do I.”

Conference Room, Air Force One

Approaching Mozambique Airspace

37,000 feet

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson shook his head. “Are they sure it’s foul play?”

Secret Service Agent in Charge McNeely shook his head. “Negative. We just got the alert because of his current assignment. The MPs are still at the house.”

Dawson blew air between his lips. His radar was already pinging with concerns over their last minute passenger, a man who looked to him like death warmed over, rather than a man free of cancer. It wasn’t for him to judge, though, it the President’s prerogative to invite whomever he wanted. But now a report had just arrived that the family of one of the Air Force members staffing the plane was missing and foul play was suspected. Whenever something like this happened it was always a concern, though when it was a member of the military dealing directly with the President, it raised all kinds of red flags.

“What evidence is there?”

“Mrs. Lennox didn’t show up for a baby shower and missed a meet-and-greet with her daughter the night before. Her purse and cellphone were found in the house, and a neighbor reported seeing a black SUV in the driveway the day before that they didn’t recognize.”

“So they might have been missing for over twenty-four hours.”

McNeely nodded. “Which means they might be halfway around the world by now.”

“More likely close by.”

“Agreed.”

“But more than enough time to have made contact with the Airman if it were a ransom situation.”

“Again agreed.”

“Any evidence he’s been contacted?”

McNeely shook his head. “Not yet. Homeland is pulling his cellphone records and beyond a room service call to his hotel room, there’s no record of any calls.”

“What’s his roommate have to say?”

“He’s sitting next to Airman Lennox so we haven’t been able to question him yet.”

Dawson didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing. A man’s family is taken for only three reasons that he could think of. One, a random act having nothing to do with the specific family; two, a specific act of violence, perhaps revenge with no end game other than harming or killing the family; or three, as leverage over another member of the family.

His money was on number three.

“What does he have access to?”

“Everything.”

Dawson cursed. “I recommend we isolate him immediately. If they’ve already made contact with him, there’s no telling what he might do. The President’s life could be at risk.”

McNeely’s shoulders squared. “You’re right, delaying is too risky. I’ll go down, make it look like a routine security sweep, then pull him away from his terminal.” He nodded toward two of his men. “You two come in when you hear me yell. Our aim is to keep him away from that keyboard before he has a chance to do anything.”

Dawson stepped toward McNeely, lowering his voice. “I’d like to volunteer my men. We’ve got a little more experience in this area.”

McNeely looked at the two men he had chosen, one of them shrugging his shoulders. “Okay with me, boss, we both know who these guys are.”

“I don’t mind piss in my cornflakes,” said the other, everyone chuckling.

“Okay. But just two of you. I’ll still go in, it will look less suspicious.”

“Roger that.” Dawson motioned for Niner to join him.

“Whassup?”

“Time to get to work.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Chief, priority call for you.”

Morrison hadn’t even left the cubicles before Marc Therrien flagged him down, holding up a phone. He debated taking the held up phone or heading back to his office.

Priority call.

He pointed to Leroux’s enclosed office. “I’ll take it in Chris’ office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Morrison strode toward Leroux’s office then closed the door, dropping into the high back chair behind the desk. He lifted the receiver and hit the blinking Line 1 light. “Morrison here.”

“Director, is this line secure?”

He didn’t recognize the voice, though the accent was unmistakable.

Russian.

He hit a button on the phone, checking the status. “On this end, yes.”

“Good. This is Katya Dudnik. We met in London once, a couple of years ago.”

Morrison searched his memory then smiled as he remembered the unhappy couple of FSB officers he had met at a reception after a security conference dealing with Islamic terrorism. The sight of the husband and wife duo had been enough to make him thankful his wife had never wanted to work for the CIA.

I wonder if Chris and Sherrie will make it.

“Yes, Mrs. Dudnik, I remember you. How are you?”

“Please, Director, call me Katya, I can’t stand the sound of my last name.”

Morrison detected trouble in paradise. It didn’t surprise him, the man was a drunk and an embarrassment. He had looked up the file when he returned home just out of curiosity. It wasn’t impressive, though hers was. “Katya. How can I help you?”

“I have troubling information that I felt you should be made aware of.”

Morrison felt his stomach tighten as he fished out his phone, quickly sending a text to Leroux.

Get in here

“What is it?”

“You of course remember my ex-husband?”

Ex. I called that one.

“Of course.”

“It has come to my attention that he initiated an operation, completely unauthorized, that may target your president.”

The door opened and Leroux stepped inside, his eyes questioning Morrison. He covered his mouthpiece. “Get me Air Force One, now!”

Leroux’s eyes widened then he disappeared.

Morrison removed his hand. “Go on.”

“My husband, through his own volition, transferred a sizeable amount of money to a Ukrainian freedom fighter named Igor Khomenko. This man blames your President for the death of his family.”

“Continue.”

“We have reason to believe that he intends to crash Air Force One.”

Morrison leapt from the chair, sending it smashing against the wall. “I need specifics. How?”

“My ex-husband provided Mr. Khomenko with a virus capable of infecting Air Force One’s computer system and crashing the aircraft. He has apparently kidnapped the family of one of your Air Force personnel and already delivered the virus. You need to ground Air Force One before it’s too late.”

“Jesus Christ! How long have you known this?”

“Several hours.”

“And you waited this long?”

“This was the first opp—”

“Forget it. I’ll call you back. Don’t you dare leave your desk!” He hung up the phone and Leroux rushed back inside. “Line Two!”

Morrison hit the button. “This is National Clandestine Services Chief Morrison. There is a verified threat to Air Force One. You need to land immediately!”

Lower Deck Server Compartment, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

37,000 feet

Lennox ran a routine scan of the comm system and found nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn’t sure what to expect. They had been in the air for quite some time and nothing had happened yet, at least nothing that he had noticed. If the virus were indeed simply monitoring and relaying communications, there might actually be nothing for him to see.

And he shouldn’t be looking.

Yet he couldn’t help it.

What he had done was gnawing at his gut and he was sick with guilt. He had to do it, he knew that, otherwise his family would die. Yet he also knew he shouldn’t have done it. What made his family’s lives any more important than the lives that could be lost should the stolen classified information harm Americans or their allies?

He glanced over at Cornel, wanting to tell him what he had done. He’d come clean, tell them everything, and maybe they could find his family before they were harmed.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe!

What if they couldn’t? He’d never be able to live with himself if anything happened to Cecilia or Janice.

Tell him!

It was the right thing to do. It was what he had to do. He opened his mouth to speak then snapped it shut when Agent in Charge McNeely entered the server room.

He didn’t like the way the man was looking at him.

He knows!

The smile was forced. Fake.

It’s time to come clean.

He pushed back from the terminal and stood, raising his hands. Cornel swiveled in his chair and stared at him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Step aside, Airman.” Cornel swung to see McNeely approaching, one hand on his weapon. Cornel cursed and leapt to his feet, quickly squeezing past the Secret Service agent.

Lennox nodded toward the gun. “That won’t be necessary. I surrender.” His shoulders slumped in relief knowing the truth was now out and the virus could be detected and deactivated. It hadn’t been very long and depending on how it worked, perhaps no data had been compromised yet.

Two other men advanced quickly toward him. He recognized them as special assignments, probably Delta or some other branch of men who could kick his ass with one finger. McNeely grabbed him by the arm and jerked him forward, pushing it up behind his back. Handcuffs were quickly clasped around his wrists and he was patted down before being led out of the server compartment and into a meeting room, out of sight.

“What did you do?” asked McNeely, the room quickly filling with security personnel.

He tried to reach into his pocket but couldn’t. “In my right front pocket there’s a memory stick.”

McNeely tossed the handcuff keys to one of the Delta guys. “Uncuff him.”

The man rounded the table and removed the cuffs, sliding them and the keys across the table to McNeely. Lennox rubbed his wrists then reached into his pocket, pulling out the memory stick. The Delta operator took it, handing it to McNeely.

“What’s on it?”

Lennox shook his head. “I don’t know. They just told me to insert it, bypass the security protocols, then remove it. I’ve been monitoring the systems and nothing’s happened so far.”

McNeely handed the memory stick over to Cornel. “Examine it on an isolated computer.” Cornel nodded and disappeared from the room. McNeely turned back to Lennox. “Why did you do it?”

“They said they’d kill my family.”

“Who said?”

“Some man. I was drugged, the food I ordered, I think. I woke up late last night in another room at the same hotel. They showed me video of my wife and kid, then let me talk to them for a minute. They told me to plant the virus or they’d kill them.”

McNeely pursed his lips, shaking his head. “You should have come to me.”

Lennox’s chin sagged to his chest. “I know, but they said they’d kill them, and they said they’d know if I did.”

“How would they know?”

“They’ve got a man on board.”

“Sir, you’ve gotta hear this!” All eyes turned to the doorway where a man was holding out a cordless phone.

“What is it?”

“They said there’s been a threat and we have to land immediately!”

Suddenly all the lights turned out and the distinctive sound of engines winding down was heard in the stunned silence.

Until the screams.

Lennox finally realized that this had nothing at all to do with monitoring communications.

And everything to do with killing the President of the United States.

Cockpit, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

36,000 feet and dropping

Colonel Mitch Lacroix grabbed the yoke, his heart slamming into his chest as he struggled to maintain control. Everything was dead. Everything. All their newly installed gadgets were blank and his engines were dying behind him.

They were essentially a million pound glider.

“What the hell happened?” he shouted as alarms suddenly sounded, his co-pilot switching to the auxiliaries and backup power, a few displays glowing again but showing no data.

“Looks like we lost everything,” replied Lt. Colonel Rich Pliner as he flipped switches and toggles back and forth with limited success.

“Reboot the system.”

“I tried that, there’s nothing there.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing there?”

“It’s like something wiped it. It’s just a damned blinking cursor!”

Lacroix activated the emergency frequency. “This is Air Force One, we are declaring an emergency. We have lost—”

“It’s no use, Mitch, it’s dead.”

“Shit!” Lacroix turned to the flight engineer, Chief Master Sergeant Michael Hawkins. “Get down there and find out what the hell is going on!”

“Yes, sir!”

Hawkins unbuckled and quickly disappeared, the sounds of screams from the cabin heard as the cockpit door opened.

“Leave that open, I want to be able to hear what’s going on behind me!”

“Yes, sir!”

Lacroix turned to Pliner. “We’re going to have to dead stick this thing. Find me a place to land.”

“Nav computer is down.”

“Then get out the charts!”

“Yes, sir!”

Someone burst into the cockpit. “Captain, what’s going on?”

Lacroix stole a glance over his shoulder to see the President’s body man standing there, terror written all over his pale, sweating face.

“We’ve lost all power and communications. Make sure everyone and everything are strapped in and down. We’re going to try to find a place to land but it could be rough.”

“You can land it without engines?”

“This isn’t a car, we’re not going to drop from the sky. As long as I can maintain lift, we should be able to glide her in. The problem is we’re over the damned jungle. Finding a spot to land could be tough.”

“You mean we could die?”

Lacroix’s head spun toward the man.

“Nobody’s dying today, not under my watch! Now tell everyone to remain calm and prepare for an emergency landing!”

“O-okay.”

The man disappeared and Pliner gave Lacroix a look. “Did you really just say that?”

Lacroix shrugged. “Seemed like a movie moment.”

“So we’re dead?”

“You tell me. Anything on the charts?”

Pliner shook his head.

“Then we’re dead.”

Main Deck, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

25,000 feet and dropping

Thulas Zokwana sat calmly, his eyes closed as he prayed for forgiveness for what he had done. He had no regrets except that his family would be left alone. If Khomenko was true to his word, however, they would never want for anything. If that meant being condemned to eternal damnation for his small part, then so be it.

He could live with that.

Clearly the others weren’t at peace with their impending doom. Screams, sobs and whimpers surrounded him, though not as many as he thought. Orders were being barked, gear being stowed, passengers strapped in, safety procedures being announced. Even the President had made a brief appearance appealing for calm then leading everyone in prayer.

It had been moving, even for him.

He stared out the window and could see the jungle below growing closer and closer. The virus had apparently been coded to activate at this very part of their trip. With no power, the plane could easily glide a hundred miles, though with nowhere to land, it wouldn’t matter.

They were crash landing no matter what happened, and hard, tree covered ground would be unforgiving.

The job would be done.

And his family would receive their payday.

“There he is!”

Zokwana opened his eyes and smiled as several Secret Service agents raced down the aisle toward him.

I guess he talked.

It was actually a bit of a surprise. Why Lennox would talk made no sense, it pointless to confess to what he had done at this point. There was nothing that could be done, and there had only been minutes.

Could they have found out before?

He couldn’t see how, though anything was possible. He shrugged and stood. It didn’t matter now. Even if they were to torture him for information, they had no way to transmit it, and his pain would only last for several more minutes.

“Come with us, now!” said the first man, his weapon aimed squarely at Zokwana’s chest.

Zokwana’s smile broadened. “There’s nothing you can do to save yourselves now.”

The man grabbed him, fastening Zokwana’s hands with cuffs. “Then you’ll die with the rest of us.”

Zokwana snorted.

“I’m already dead.”

Lower Deck Server Compartment, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

23,000 feet and dropping

Cornel hammered at the laptop’s keyboard. He had jacked into the server to try and access the solid state drives holding the system’s operating system and data files, though as of yet had found nothing beyond the core operating system.

Everything else has been completely wiped!

As was the memory stick Lennox had used to sabotage everything.

He cursed his former friend but shoved the anger aside as he realized it was just a waste of time. There was only one thing he could do to try and get things back up and running. Reinstall the software.

Which would take hours and they only had minutes.

He rushed past the other techs and up the stairs, bursting into the room where Lennox was still sitting, being interrogated. “He wiped most of the system.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Secret Service Agent in Charge.

Cornel didn’t have time to explain, instead searching for something the man might understand. “Imagine someone reset your iPhone. The operating system is still there, but none of the apps are. We use apps to control everything from comms to nav computers to engines. Those apps aren’t there.”

“Can you reinstall them?”

“Yeah, but it will take hours.” He turned to Lennox. “Why the hell did you do it?” Lennox looked crestfallen, shaking his head slowly as if he truly regretted what he had done, yet Cornel had zero sympathy for the man. He turned to Agent in Charge McNeely. “There’s no way I can fix it, there’s not enough time.”

“Then we’re dead.”

Cornel felt bile fill his mouth as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He was right. They were dead. They were all dead, he having heard the update from the pilot that there was nowhere to land. He glared at Lennox.

All because of that bastard.

“We don’t need to reinstall everything.”

The look of revelation on Lennox’s face angered Cornel even more, the man far too happy for the situation. He felt his hands clench.

Then he realized what Lennox meant.

“Holy shit! I never thought of that!”

Lennox rose from his chair. “Let me help you, please!”

“What? What’s going on?” asked McNeely.

Cornel turned from Lennox, he now sharing in the excitement, to McNeely. “We don’t need to reinstall everything. Just the things that matter. It’ll take time but we might be able to get enough key systems going that we can get the engines back on.”

Hope washed over the faces in the room. “Then don’t just stand there, do it!”

He pointed at Lennox. “I need him, it’ll go twice as fast.”

“No ’effin’ way, he stays here.”

“Please, let me help. I swear I never would have done it if I had known. I thought they just wanted to tap the comms.”

McNeely chewed his cheek for a moment then nodded. “Go.” He turned to one of the security team. “I want a gun on him at all times. If he does anything to interfere, shoot him. Dead.”

“Yes, sir!”

Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Kenya

“Sorry, sir, repeat that?”

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme raised a hand, quieting everyone in the room. He was sure he had heard Colonel Clancy incorrectly, though in his heart he knew he didn’t. “Did you say Air Force One is going down?”

Everyone turned toward him.

“Yes. The fighter escort reports they’ve lost all comms with the aircraft and it’s losing altitude. They’ve got a visual on the pilot and he’s signaled there’s no power.”

Red swirled his hand over his head and his team immediately began to pack their gear, he covering the mouthpiece. “Get the flight crew!” He removed his hand. “Is there a safe place to land?”

“Negative. It’s all jungle. If they can’t get their engines back, they will crash.”

“Jesus Christ! Where are they?”

“Over Mozambique.”

“Our briefing indicated that there’s rebel activity in that country. That could be a problem.”

“Agreed, but Sergeant, this won’t be a rescue operation, this will be a recovery.”

Red felt his chest tighten as a wave of dismay raced through his body, the thoughts of his friends dying almost overwhelming.

“I understand. What do you need from us?”

“Get your team together, just in case.”

“We’re ready now, Colonel.”

“Then get your asses in the air.”

Cockpit, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

10,000 feet and dropping

“Something just happened!”

Colonel Mitch Lacroix stole a glance at the controls, the source of the excitement from his co-pilot. Controls were lit up, panels that were once dead beginning to show information. “Restart the engines!”

“I’m already on it, but there’s nothing. All I’ve got is engine status, but no control.”

“Shit!”

“I’ve got our altitude. We’re at ten thousand feet and dropping fast. We’ve got less than ten minutes.”

Lacroix cursed, looking at the now functioning fuel gauge. “Have you found a landing spot?”

“Negative, nothing. It’s all goddamned jungle for as far as the eye can damned well see, no airports, no roads, no nothing.”

“So we’re screwed,” muttered Lacroix. He glanced at the gauge again. “If we hit we’re going to go up like Hiroshima. Dump the fuel.”

Pliner hesitated a moment. “Once we do that, there’s no going back, even if we get the engines back. We had sixty-two tons, we’ve burned fifteen of that. In less than ten minutes we’ll be dry.”

“Exactly. If we hit with all that fuel we’re a fireball. We need to start dumping now if we have any hope.”

Pliner exhaled loudly, a frown creasing his face. He nodded. “You’re right.” He leaned forward, looking out the windows. “Where’s our escort?”

Lacroix leaned forward, looking to the port side. “I’ve got one here, he’s clear.”

“Mine too. Dumping fuel.”

Lacroix made the sign of the cross.

“May God have mercy on our souls.”

Main Deck, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

6,000 feet and dropping

Senior Airman Jane Harrison straddled the aisle, her feet firmly in place, one hand gripping a seatback as she surveyed the clearly terrified passengers, mostly press and presidential staff. She didn’t blame them. She was terrified too, though she had been trained to deal with these situations, and no matter what was going to happen, there was no way she was going to her death failing in her duty.

“Can I have your attention, please!” Several heads turned, others kept talking in a panic. There was no working intercom, so everything had to be done without the benefit of technology, repeated several times. She repeated her plea.

“Everyone shut up and listen to the lady!”

Jane smiled at the man, the crowd silenced. “Thank you! I need everyone to secure all your belongings otherwise they could become projectiles and injure someone. Once your belongings are secured, strap yourself into your seat. Just as we’re about to land, I’ll signal for you to assume your crash positions. Bend over at the waist and put your head between your knees, placing your hands over your head or hooking them under your knees.” Several people assumed the position immediately.

Good. It will keep them from causing trouble.

“When the plane comes to a complete halt, emergency lighting will guide you toward your nearest exit. Note where they are now.” She pointed to each exit, heads swiveling, those in the crash position rising slightly to take note. “A member of your flight crew will open the emergency doors, but in the event they aren’t open, follow the instructions on the doors to open them yourselves. The emergency slides will deploy automatically. Slide down, one at a time, then get as far away from the plane as you can to avoid being injured should there be an explosion.”

Somebody yelped.

Get a grip, there’s going to be explosions.

“If you are injured, identify yourself so someone can assist you. Follow these instructions and you will survive.” She paused, all attention now firmly focused on her. “You have two minutes to secure your belongings, then I want everyone strapped in.”

A flurry of activity erupted as she turned, heading for her own chair. She sat down, looking over at Airman Jennifer Ross. Jennifer smiled weakly at her. “Do you really think we’re going to make it?”

Jane frowned, shaking her head.

“Not a chance.”

Lower Deck Server Compartment, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

4,000 feet and dropping

Lennox’s fingers flew over the keyboard, he working several terminals at once, as was Cornel. They were making progress, of that there was no doubt, though there were so many systems that had to be installed in order to get the engines to function there just wasn’t enough time.

We’re not going to make it.

His fingers paused for a moment as he pictured his wife and daughter in the hands of the monsters that were about to succeed in murdering almost one hundred souls.

Tears filled his eyes.

I’m so sorry!

He glanced over his shoulder at the South African, the security team holding him at the entrance, McNeely shouting at him, demanding he tell them how to fix the aircraft.

It was a waste of time.

Even if the man knew, which he was sure he didn’t, there just wasn’t enough time left to do anything about it.

“Hey, get back to work!”

He glanced over at Cornel, wiping his eyes clear. “There’s not enough time.”

“Keep working!”

“We’re going to die!”

“Keep working! We’re almost there!”

There was a shout at the far end and Lennox’s head whipped toward the sound. His jaw dropped as he saw the South African charging toward him, his eyes filled with desperation and fear, as if their succeeding meant more than him just failing.

Two shots rang out, the man stumbling then dropping, his head hitting the metal grate of the deck, his eyes staring at Lennox.

Why did you do it?

He knew why he had, but why had this man? Were his motivations as strong as his? As pure as his? Was the man doing it for politics? Religion? Family?

Cornel grabbed Lennox by the shoulder, whipping him around to face him. “Now they’ll never know you helped. Now get back to work!”

Lennox nodded, the realization that Cornel was right spurring him forward, his fingers flying faster than before. The machine to his left beeped and he slid his chair along the rail to the keyboard, his heart leaping in excitement. “It’s ready! You?”

Cornel slid down a terminal and nodded. “On three! Three… two… one… now!”

Lennox hit the button to activate the just installed software.

Restoring hope.

The distinctive whine of engines powering up resulted in cheers from the others. McNeely rushed forward. “What just happened?”

“Engines one and four are back online!” replied Cornel.

“What about the other two?”

“We don’t need them, two’s enough!” Cornel continued to work as did Lennox until he glanced at the display beside him.

“Oh shit!”

Cornel slid up beside him as Lennox pointed at the display. “What?”

“They dumped the fuel!”

Cockpit, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

1,000 feet and dropping

“Jesus! Stop the fuel dump!”

Lt. Colonel Pliner leapt for the control, flicking the switch, cutting off the dump. Colonel Lacroix glanced at the fuel gauge then back at the engine readings, one and four alive and kicking for the first time in over 25 minutes. He looked at the trees below as he began to apply more power and pull them up.

“It’s no use.”

He glanced at Pliner, the man’s voice subdued. “What do you mean?”

Pliner pointed at the fuel reading. “Less than a thousand pounds.”

Shit!

“If I hadn’t ordered the damned dump, we’d be surviving this thing.”

Pliner shook his head. “You did the right thing. There was no reason to believe the engines would ever come back, not with what the guys told us.”

“Are we gonna be okay?” asked Senior Airman Jane Harrison, her voice excited as she threw open the door, cheers echoing behind her.

Lacroix shook his head, killing her smile. “No. We’re out of fuel.”

Tears filled Jane’s eyes for a brief moment as she gripped the back of Pliner’s chair. She inhaled, nodding firmly. “I’ll let everyone know.”

“Thanks, Jane.” Lacroix reached out and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled unconvincingly, then pulled away, closing the door behind her, the jubilation of the passengers cut off, their ignorant bliss about to be as well.

“Okay, let’s find a place to land,” he said, banking her slightly to port. His expert eyes surveyed the terrain below, the thick trees offering not even a glimpse of the jungle floor. He was about to bank to starboard when he spotted something.

A smile spread across his face.

He pointed. “There!”

“Where?”

“There!”

Pliner rose from his seat and stared. “Are you nuts?”

“It’s been done.”

Pliner grinned as he opened the cockpit door to warn everyone.

“Then let’s do it.”

Lower Deck Server Compartment, Air Force One

Over Mozambique

500 feet and dropping

Dawson stared up the stairs to the cockpit, then turned to the others. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

Niner shrugged. “Always wanted to try that.”

“Bullshit,” rumbled Atlas. “Nobody in their right mind wants to try that.”

“No one ever accused me of being in my right mind.”

“That’s true.”

McNeely rushed down the aisle toward them. “What’s going on?”

Dawson turned to the man. “We’re landing on a river.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Jesus Christ!” McNeely turned toward the techs and security staff in the server compartment. “We’re landing on the water. Is there anything else you can do here?”

Cornel shook his head. “No, there’s no more time.”

“Okay, then everyone out, it’s a goddamned coffin down here.”

Dawson pushed the others by him then ceded the right to take up the rear to McNeely, rushing up the stairs after the others. A flight attendant jumped from her seat, shouting directions at them as everyone strapped in. She pushed Dawson into a seat. He glanced out the window and cursed.

The trees were so close it was if he could reach out and touch them.

“Assume crash positions!” shouted the flight attendant as she rushed back to her own seat. Dawson looked for his men, spotting Niner and Atlas across from him, Spock two rows back. They exchanged looks, looks they had exchanged before when they thought they were going to die. But they had always made it out.

Not this time.

Something hit the underside of the plane.

Someone screamed.

Setting off a panic.

Dawson bent over, hooking his hands over his head.

And thought of Maggie and the visit she’d receive from the Colonel in the next few hours, with the letter he had left for her, just in case.

You made me a better man.

Operations Center 2

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Oh my God!” cried Sonya Tong, Leroux collapsing in his chair as they all watched the footage in one of the CIA’s state of the art Operations Centers. The images, transmitted by one of the Super Hornets escorting Air Force One, were choppy, but the audio was clear.

“Castlekeep, this is Eagle One, Air Force One is down, I repeat, Air Force One is down!”

The edge of a fireball, the roiling flames and smoke in black and white no less final, appeared in the frame as they continued to listen.

“Eagle One, Castlekeep, is she intact, over?”

“This is Eagle One, I don’t know, repeat, I don’t know. I don’t have a visual on the fuselage, but I do have a fireball. I repeat, I do have a fireball, over.”

“Any sign of survivors, over?”

“Negative, I’ve got zero visual on the aircraft, only flames. Be advised, I’m bingo fuel, I repeat, I’m bingo fuel, over.”

“Roger that, Eagle One. Proceed to rendezvous control point for refueling, rescue teams are on their way, over.”

Morrison motioned to cut the audio, turning to Leroux. “Do we have any eyes in the area?”

Leroux looked at Child who shook his head. “A bird will be overhead in three minutes.” Child hesitated then continued, his voice cracking. “Is there really any point?”

“What do you mean?” asked Morrison.

“I mean, there’s no way anyone could survive that, right? They’re all dead, right?” Child’s voice rose as he spoke, panic taking over as the young man dealt with death for probably the first time. Leroux stepped over to him, doing what Morrison had done for him the first time.

He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Just focus on your job and you’ll get through this.” Child nodded and Leroux looked at the rest of his team. “And that goes for all of you. We have a job to do and what just happened doesn’t change that. Air Force One is down, the President may be dead, but the people responsible for it are still out there and it’s our job to find them, catch them, and bring them to justice.”

Child slammed a fist onto his desk, rattling the keyboard.

“Or kill them where they stand.”

RENAMO Camp, Mozambique

North of the crash site

“Did you hear that?”

Commander Afonso Domingos looked up from his ragged copy of the July 2003 issue of Car & Driver, the supercars featured in it not even under warranty anymore, not that you could actually get warranty service in this part of the world. That didn’t bother him with most cars, some of his men excellent mechanics, but his dream car, a Jaguar XKR Cabriolet in Polaris white would be foolish to own without a tow truck as a second vehicle and a Jag dealership nearby.

Yet in the jungles of Mozambique, neither was to be had, and the state of the roads, when there were any, meant four-by-fours ruled the day, not sleek sports cars no matter how well they handled on German autobahns. He couldn’t imagine travelling over 200kph in a vehicle. He was pretty sure the fastest he had ever gone was sixty, and that hadn’t lasted long before they had to piss on the engine to cool it off.

He was fighting for a better life for his people, for his family, for himself. Though that better life simply meant food, fuel and freedom, not luxury cars and flat televisions. He considered himself a noble man, though as a leader in the Mozambican National Resistance, RENAMO, he had done horrible things. They had all been necessary, either to protect his people or to deliver a message to those who would bring harm to them.

He was hailed as a hero by some, vilified as a beast by others.

Both made him proud.

Both made him feared.

He was at one of the more remote bases, visiting an area that saw little action, though being located on the Lugenda River, it was of strategic importance, the river a primary mode of travel for the area. The government had stopped trying to use it to raid them, but it paid to keep an eye on things, just in case someone in Maputo was foolhardy enough to try again.

The troops here were inexperienced but eager, and any type of action had them itching with zeal.

And a plume of smoke on the horizon was more than enough to have them all on their feet.

Domingos strode down to the shore to get a better look, the trees thick around the village. The wind was making quick work of the smoke, blowing it west, yet it was clear something was burning, and in a damp jungle with no lightning in days if not weeks, it had to be manmade.

And it was too big for a cooking fire.

A young boy named Filipe rushed up to him, his arm trailing behind him, pointing at the fire. “It was a plane!” he shouted, running into Domingos’ leg, bringing them both to a halt. “I saw it, it was a plane!”

“Big?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Aren’t they all?”

Domingos smiled, patting him on the head. “Yes, Filipe, aren’t they all.” He stared at the smoke, turning to Paris Nyusi, the commander for the town. “How far do you think?”

“About six kilometers maybe? We could be there by sundown.”

Domingos nodded. Planes flew over the area all the time, though usually so high all you could see was a speck in the sky, long thin white streams trailing behind them on some days. He had never actually seen a plane up close let alone actually been in one. His exposure to the world was almost exclusively through magazines, his collection at home impressive. He considered himself well read, well informed, and he knew enough to know that what had crashed was probably a large passenger jet with lots of people far richer than him on board. And if any had survived, and if they were American or European, they would fetch a hefty ransom.

And if none had survived, among their belongings could be some very valuable salvage.

I’d kill for a laptop with satellite Internet access.

Then maybe his magazines wouldn’t be so out of date.

He turned to Nyusi. “Take a team, get there as fast as you can. If there’re survivors, bring them back here under guard. Grab as much salvage as you can. I’m going to call for reinforcements. Even the metal from this thing could be valuable to our people.”

“Yes, Commander. And if they resist?”

“Pick one and remove their head. The others will fall in line.”

A smile spread across Nyusi’s face.

“With pleasure.”

Approaching Mozambican Airspace

Red pressed the earpiece tight, the roar of the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III almost overwhelming as he listened to the latest update from his Commanding Officer, Colonel Thomas Clancy. Jimmy, Jagger and Wings were listening in as well, everyone on the plane on pins and needles waiting for news.

“Satellite imagery shows a fire but nothing else. There’s no sign of debris or survivors, though with a fireball the size that we saw, I’d doubt anyone survived.”

“No comms?”

“Just the emergency beacon. There’s no coverage in that area except satellite. We know the plane’s comms were down, but there’s emergency gear on board.”

“What about that fighter escort? Did they spot anything?”

“Not yet, they had to leave to refuel. They’ll be back on target shortly, hopefully they’ll see something.”

The fighter escort hadn’t been scheduled, but when the President had heard the USS George H. W. Bush was off the South African coast on maneuvers, he had requested a flyby to impress the dignitaries on board, it important to show how America could project its power anywhere in the world, even the far reaches of southern Africa.

No one had ever guessed they’d arrive only minutes before the emergency.

“What about the families?” asked Red, his chest tightening. “Have you notified them yet?”

“Negative.” Clancy’s voice was subdued. Clancy was the type of CO that every service member wanted. He was fiercely loyal to his men and extremely competent. He took every loss personally, as if he had lost his own son.

And today he had lost four including Dawson, whom Red knew the Colonel was extremely close to, even more so now that his personal assistant, Maggie Harris, was dating Dawson.

“None of the families know they were on board. I’m waiting for confirmation of no survivors before I break the news. We should know soon.”

“What about the President? What’s being done?”

“We’re operating under the assumption the President is dead. The Vice President will be sworn in any time now.”

Red exchanged looks with his men, all in shock. Their country had lost yet another President, and they had lost four friends, four comrades in arms.

Four brothers.

“I never thought BD would die that way.”

“Neither did any of us,” agreed Clancy.

Red ran a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. “I always thought he’d go out in a blaze of glory, guns belching lead, bad guys dropping all around him, yelling something clever. Not mechanical failure.”

Clancy’s reply had them all in shock.

“Zero-Two, this was no mechanical failure. This was an act of terror.”

Operations Center 2

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Start tracing everything. Tap all our data sources, I don’t care about warrants, we’ll worry about that later. The President is dead and we need to know who is responsible. At this point it looks like the Russians are involved, and if that’s the case, we could be going to war in the next twenty-four hours. If we’re going to start a shooting match with the second most powerful army in the world, I want to make sure we’re doing it for the right reasons.”

Leroux was content to let Morrison bark the orders at his team, he still in shock over what they had all just witnessed. Part of him wanted to scream out in rage, another to curl up in a corner and sob. His country had been attacked, and few outside this room knew it. Almost everyone in America and the world thought Air Force One had crashed because of mechanical failure, but the moment the truth started to leak—for it would leak—they’d be scrambling for blood.

And he’d be among them.

He just wanted to make sure, like Morrison, that they drew the right blood.

It just didn’t make sense for Russia to be behind this. Yes, the FSB agent had called to warn them, but the warning was conveniently delivered too late. It was exactly how he would do it if the roles were reversed. Get out ahead of the story, ahead of the intelligence gathering, and admit involvement of one of your resources, acting alone, out of control.

Sow just enough doubt so as to avoid the retaliation.

A warning beeped, one of the monitors showing Pentagon alerts, flashing a warning. “What’s that?” he asked, turning to Cornel.

Cornel hit a few keys. “We’re going to DEFCON Four. Russian forces just went on alert. They’re recalling all troops from leave and calling up the reserves.”

“They’re preparing for war!” cried Therrien. “They must have done it! That crazy bastard’s wanted war for years!”

Leroux held up a hand, trying to calm the man. Putin was a nutbar as far as Leroux was concerned, though a strategic one. He only took on enemies he knew stood no chance. He was the schoolyard bully who only picked on the smallest kid on the playground, not the burly kickboxer.

It still didn’t make sense.

He cleared his throat as Morrison didn’t respond, instead giving him a slight look. It was his turn to be a leader. “Listen people, this is exactly why we need to do our jobs, do it well, and do it quickly. Right now there’re people outside this room jumping to the exact same conclusions we are. We need to get proof of what happened, of who did this, so our leaders can make the right decisions. If we’re going to war, then let’s go to war with the people actually responsible, not the people we think are responsible.”

He looked around at his team, all eyes on him, some younger, most older, though all having learned to respect him over the years. He was growing into this role thrust upon him by Morrison, and at this very moment, he wished Sherrie were here to see him. He actually felt like a man, a pride swelling within him as he finally realized that he actually did have the respect of these people and that they were looking to him for strength in this time of crisis.

A wave of confidence flowed through him for the first time that he could remember, the sensation intoxicating. He glanced at Morrison who seemed to have a look his father might have in a similar situation.

He was proud.

He lowered his voice slightly, relaxing his tone. “Listen, I know you’re emotional right now. You’re angry, you’re scared, hell, so am I. I’m terrified of what might happen, but I’m more terrified that it might happen because we got it wrong. Let’s focus on our jobs. We in this room are going to use every tool at our disposal to discover the truth, then provide that information to the new President so he can deal with those responsible. And if it turns out be the Russians, then so be it. We’ll kick their asses so hard, they’ll never dare mess with us again!”

Roars of approval accompanied by clapping erupted as his team burst to their feet, Morrison coming up beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Good speech.”

Leroux glanced at his boss. “A little too much?”

Morrison smiled slightly. “Maybe just a little.”

“Got caught up in the moment.”

“It was exactly what they needed.” Morrison stepped back, raising his voice. “I’m going to my office. I think we’re in good hands here.”

Leroux flushed with the implied compliment when Child waved a hand. “Got something, boss!”

Leroux stepped over to the young man’s terminal. “What is it?”

“You’re not going to believe who arrived in Pretoria yesterday.”

Leroux read the display and smiled.

“Find the bastard.”

Ecomotel, Pretoria, South Africa

Igor Khomenko downed his shot of vodka, everyone in the cramped motel room on the edge of their seat as they watched the news coverage unfold. There was no footage of the crash site yet, though the fact that every news station in the world had turned to ongoing coverage of the reports of contact being lost with Air Force One told him everything he needed to know.

It had worked.

One of his men leaned over and they exchanged a high five, the others smacking each other in manly displays of joy before a patriotic rendition of the Russian national anthem broke out. He sat quietly, closing his eyes as he remembered his beloved wife and their precious daughter.

You have been avenged.

The President was dead, the blood debt repaid. He had lost his family, and America had lost its.

They were even.

Now let America grieve as I did.

The anthem finished, the men poured another drink before sitting down, the image changing to the White House Press Briefing Room, a woman walking to the podium.

“I’m going to read a brief statement, there will be no questions. Earlier today, we lost contact with Air Force One. Reports confirmed by United States Navy jets providing escort confirm that Air Force One has crashed in Mozambique with the President and the First Family on board. At this time, there is no reason to believe anyone survived. Due to the remoteness of the region, rescue teams have yet to arrive, however an explosion at the time of the crash leaves little hope. In order to maintain order and stability in this time of crisis, Vice President Roberts was sworn in by the Chief Justice only minutes ago. President Roberts will be addressing the nation later tonight with an update on the situation. Thank you.”

The woman walked off stage as a barrage of shouted questions and camera flashes erupted. She broke down in tears before she cleared the curtains.

Screw you.

One of his men turned to him. “Did you know his family was on board?”

Khomenko nodded.

“Sometimes the innocent must die in order for the victims to be heard.”

Maggie Harris Residence

Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

Maggie Harris sat on the couch, her feet up on an ottoman, a blanket draped over her legs as she munched on some popcorn. Red’s wife Shirley was humming in the kitchen, melting some butter in the microwave for their snack.

A kernel escaped, dropping onto her chest then rolling down to her stomach. She glanced down and frowned, a little belly greeting her. She had put on some weight since the accident, or incident, and was none too pleased by it, though the doctor had said it was good for her, a sign of recovery. The love of her life, Burt “BD” Dawson—she just couldn’t picture the Big Dog moniker—didn’t seem to mind, though her mother had commented on it when they had visited last week.

“Don’t use this as an excuse to let yourself go, dear.”

Her father had admonished her, saving poor BD from the awkward moment. She knew BD was the type quick to jump to anyone’s defense if he felt they couldn’t do it for themselves, and in her weakened state, he had become very protective.

She found it cute.

He doted on her when he was around, not letting her lift a finger. It was a revelation that the man could actually follow a recipe and cook, he merely shrugging, indicating if he could field strip an MP5 with his eyes closed and fly an Apache, he should be able to cook a casserole.

“But don’t tell any of the guys. I’ve got a rep.”

She smiled at the memory as Shirley plopped onto the couch beside her, leaning over and pouring a small bowl of melted butter over the popcorn. Maggie grabbed a few freshly topped kernels and popped them into her mouth. She looked over at Shirley. “Much better.”

Shirley grinned. “Told you!”

“I blame you for making me fat.”

Shirley gave Maggie’s stomach a look. “If you’re fat, then I’m a behemoth.”

Maggie suddenly felt horrible. “You’re not fat!” And she wasn’t. Shirley had a few extra pounds on her, but so what. America’s obsession with wafer thin models and actresses wasn’t healthy, and Shirley was in perfect health even if she wasn’t a size two.

And Red certainly didn’t seem to mind her curves.

Shirley patted her own stomach bulge. “I’ve gotta hit the treadmill. When you get better, we’re both going to hit the gym. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Maggie returned her attention to the game of Wheel of Fortune playing out on the screen. “L!” It was a guilty pleasure, watching Wheel and Jeopardy, one making her feel superior to most, the other letting her realize how little she really knew. BD was surprisingly good at both. She was always amazed at how intelligent the men in the Unit were, most of them speaking several languages, all good at math and electronics. The amount of training they underwent that had nothing to do with weapons and tactics was jaw dropping.

It all kept them safe.

She had been able to communicate with him quite regularly on his current assignment, which meant he wasn’t in some hellhole under radio silence. Where he was, she had no clue, though she knew from experience he might only be twenty miles away guarding some bigwig, or five thousand miles away in a cave. But with regular texts and phone calls, she was leaning toward the twenty-mile distance, this one of the few missions where she wasn’t worried at all about him not coming home.

If he can talk, he’s not within weapons range.

It was an oversimplification, she knew, but she only truly worried when she didn’t hear from him. And the longer she didn’t, the more worried she got. The fact she had already heard from him twice today via text had her content in her own little cocoon on the couch with her friend, chowing down on a guilty pleasure while watching inane gameshows far too early in the day.

Life is good.

And it was better with BD in it.

She loved that man, more than anything. She had always been attracted to him, from the moment he had first walked into the Colonel’s office, though she hadn’t acted on it, the grapevine suggesting he was a loner who would never entertain a long-term relationship, and that was what she was looking for. She had zero interest in a hookup. She wanted something with a future and had been reluctant to act on her feelings until Shirley had caught her checking out BD’s fantastic ass at a softball game.

“See something you like?”

She had blushed, but nodded.

“You should go for it. That man doesn’t know what he wants.”

It had taken a little more prompting but she had finally made her move, shocking the hell out of the poor man, yet making him take notice of her. The rest was history.

The broadcast was suddenly interrupted, ABC’s breaking news banner replacing Pat Sajak’s smiling mug.

“That’s never good,” commented Shirley, sitting up a little straighter.

“We have breaking news at this hour. A statement from the White House has confirmed that Air Force One is missing and believed crashed after departing South Africa earlier today. We have few details at this time, however the White House is apparently operating under the assumption that there are no survivors. Vice President Roberts has already returned to Washington and met with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, apparently sworn in as the next President. Let’s join Terri Crossman with the latest.”

Maggie reached out and grabbed Shirley’s hand, squeezing it, the popcorn and Wheel forgotten as the talking heads took over, speculation rather than news filling the hours between the minutes of facts. On one side of the screen a video loop of the President’s visit to South Africa ran, jarring footage of him waving goodbye from the steps of Air Force One just hours ago, his wife and daughter flanking him.

“My God, his family too!”

Tears filled Maggie’s eyes as she thought of the terror they must have gone through, the words of the reporters lost as she and Shirley watched.

She sucked in a breath.

“Was that who I think it was?”

Shirley said nothing, her hand merely clenching tighter.

Maggie looked over at her and saw the fear in her eyes. “That was Niner, wasn’t it?”

Shirley nodded, almost reluctantly, as if not acknowledging what her eyes had seen would somehow make it untrue.

Maggie leaned forward, setting the popcorn aside as she stared at the screen, footage of the President shaking hands at a reception line the night before showing Niner in the background.

And BD.

“Oh my God!”

She felt her chest tighten and her stomach flip as her pulse pounded in her ears, her scar throbbing.

“Oh my God!” she repeated, over and over as she rocked back and forth. “Oh my God!”

Shirley still said nothing, then suddenly leapt to her feet, racing for the phone. She grabbed it, thrusting it into Maggie’s hands.

“Call the Colonel!”

Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson hurt everywhere. Everywhere. Even his eyelids hurt as he struggled to open them. Something had smacked him in the head when the plane hit, knocking him out, for how long he didn’t know.

“BD! You okay!”

Everything was still a blur, the voice distant as he heard little but the roar in his ears. As he tried to focus, his head still ringing from whatever had smoked him, he felt someone checking him for broken bones then the sensation of being hauled to his feet.

Suddenly the world roared back, replaced with the screams and cries of the living and dying, the tortured creaks and sparks as the torn open fuselage seemed to rock and jerk forward, forcing Dawson to grab hold of a nearby seat.

“You okay, BD?”

Dawson nodded at Niner. “Yeah, I’m back. You squared away?”

“You know me, I’m blessed.”

“Check on the others.”

“Already done, Atlas and Spock are good.”

Dawson searched for McNeely and spotted him unconscious, being tended to by one of the civilians. Nobody seemed to be in charge, panic the order of the day as the flight crew seemed to be missing in action. “Where’s the flight crew?” he asked.

Niner shook his head. “That section of the plane was torn open when we hit. Most of them and the Secret Service agents didn’t make it.”

Dawson paused for a brief moment, a silent prayer delivered for the fallen warriors. Then he became all business. He glanced out a window and saw they were exactly where the pilot had said he was aiming for.

A river.

And they were slowly sliding down it, to where, God only knew, but if the river was swift enough to move something this size, they couldn’t risk staying on board.

“Listen up, people!”

A few did, though not many.

“Silence!” roared Atlas, the plane and surrounding nations pausing.

“We are alive, remember that! Now we need to get off this airplane! I want everyone to put on their lifejackets and inflate them now. Help the injured and check the dead. They might just be unconscious and I don’t want anyone being left behind. We’re on a river and we’re floating. Open the emergency exits and get into the water, then swim for the shore. Once you reach the shore walk back toward the airplane, and we’ll regroup. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” belted his three men, the others merely nodding or gazing on in shock.

“Now move!”

Activity erupted, more coordinated than a minute ago, allowing Dawson to head toward the nearest emergency exit. He spotted two flight attendants still strapped into their seats, one dazed, the other bleeding from the back of her head, a large pool of blood on her shoulders. He quickly unstrapped the young Airman then checked her friend’s pulse.

“Is she okay?”

He shook his head. “No, she’s dead.”

The woman cried out, reaching for her friend but Dawson grabbed her by the shoulder. “Remember your training! These people need you!”

She looked startled then angry, then ashamed. She nodded, rising to her feet, a little unsteady at first. Dawson held her by the shoulders. “Get your lifejacket on then get these people off the plane. We’re on a river and we’re moving.”

She nodded, color starting to return to her cheeks, her eyes more focused. “Okay, I’m good. Thanks.”

Dawson slapped her on the shoulder then left her, heading for the cockpit. The door was flapping off its hinges. Inside he found the copilot moaning, blood pouring down one side of his face, the pilot dead, impaled by a branch. The flight engineer was still strapped in his seat, a look of shock on his face. Dawson shook his shoulder gently. “You okay?”

The man stared at him blankly for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I think so.”

“Check yourself for broken bones, then give me a hand.”

The man nodded, unbuckling himself then quickly checking his legs as Dawson unbuckled the copilot. He examined the wound, relieved to see it was only superficial, a branch apparently scraping his cheek badly. Other than that, the man seemed to be merely in shock.

“Colonel Pliner, are you still with me?”

Pliner’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at Dawson. “Yeah, I think so. Little woozy. What happened?”

“You guys performed a miracle landing, that’s what happened. Now how about we get you out of here so you can enjoy it?”

The man nodded and Dawson helped him to his feet. “Captain!” Pliner pushed Dawson out of the way and reached for the pilot who had saved them.

“I’m sorry, Colonel, but he’s dead.”

“Mitch!” Pliner paused for a moment, his eyes closed, a hand resting on his friend’s shoulder, then turned to Dawson. “Let’s get these people off.”

Dawson stepped toward the door then looked at both men. “You two good?” They nodded. “Okay, I’m going to make sure they’ve got the President and his family off.”

“We’ll help,” said Pliner.

“Negative.” Dawson turned to the flight engineer and pointed at Pliner. “He’s your responsibility. Get him off and help him to shore. That river looks pretty swift so don’t forget your lifejackets.”

“I’ve got him,” said the Chief Master Sergeant, Pliner’s arm draped over his shoulder. “You go get the President.”

Dawson left them alone, heading deeper into the airplane. Several emergency exits were open now, water pouring in. He spotted Niner and the others manning two of the exits along with what appeared to be the only surviving flight attendant. Rows of people, all with bright yellow lifejackets were slowly jumping into the water, too many of them injured. They had survived the crash, but he had no idea how many would survive the water.

And the roar in the distance he was hearing had him fearing the worst.

“Niner!” His friend turned. “Did the President get off?”

Niner shook his head. “No idea! I haven’t seen him!”

Dawson rushed toward the President’s suite, Niner on his heels. He could hear panicked screaming from the man’s daughter, Nancy, pounding echoing through the corridor, and he quickly saw why. A drink trolley had fallen over and was wedged between the door and the fuselage, preventing anyone inside from opening the door. They both bent over and shoved it out of the way, Niner yanking the door open.

A bundle of teenager burst out, grabbing onto Niner as if he were the only thing between her and a precipitous fall. Dawson stepped past and found the President leaning over his wife who appeared to be in some distress, holding the left side of her ribs. One staffer and an Air Force major were down, dead, hit by a dislodged table, their heads crushed.

Another was fine, holding life preservers, urging the President to put one on, the man ignoring his pleas.

“Mr. President!”

President Starling stared at Dawson, shocked at being yelled at. “My wife—”

“Is alive, but only if we get her off this plane.” He grabbed one of the lifejackets. “Now put this on and let’s get the hell out of here!”

The man nodded and a Secret Service agent helped him as Dawson quickly checked over the First Lady. Something had hit her hard on her upper left side, probably the table that had killed the two agents. She was clearly in pain, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He fitted the lifejacket over her head, tied it off, then helped her to her feet.

“Let’s go! Now!”

They exited the room, the fuselage twisting to starboard then port as it slowly scraped along the river bottom, and as they approached the nearest exit, the lines of passengers gone, the roar of the river became almost overwhelming.

Atlas and Spock were with the flight attendant, the rest of the cabin appearing empty save the dead, there thankfully few from what he could see. He handed the First Lady to Spock, one of their strongest swimmers. “Get her to shore!”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” He grabbed the woman from behind then leapt out into the water, immediately being swept out of sight. Niner took the daughter and jumped out after her mother. Dawson pushed the President toward Atlas.

“Take him!”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

Atlas bear hugged the man, much to his surprise, then dove out.

“Is everyone off?”

The flight attendant nodded. “I think so!”

“Can you swim?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s join them.”

She pushed out the door then Dawson grabbed the frame, looking down the river as the survivors bopped up and down, struggling for the shore.

And the roar continued to get louder.

He jumped.

Niner grabbed a low-lying branch, bringing them to a rapid halt, his shoulder protesting. He pulled hard on the teenage girl, her panicked screams settling for a moment.

“Make for the shore!”

She kicked hard, paddling with her one free hand, continually reaching out too soon then floundering. Niner gave her a bit of a swing and her free hand reached the shore, grabbing onto some vines.

“You good?”

She nodded and he let go of her hand, she immediately grabbing on with both to the vine, her legs still in the water. Niner scrambled to the shore then reached in and hauled her to her feet.

He took a split second to confirm they were secure then stared out at the water as the young girl grabbed him, hugging him hard, her head buried against his chest as she sobbed. He patted her on the back as he surveyed the water.

He spotted Spock struggling against the current with the First Lady. She appeared to be a dead weight, not helping at all, apparently unconscious.

Shit!

He extricated himself from the distraught teenager and dove back in, swimming hard toward Spock, the current carrying him swiftly to them. He reached out and grabbed the First Lady’s free arm then kicked hard toward the shore, the two Delta Operators able to carry the dead weight between them. Spock reached the shore first, grabbing onto a vine, halting them then swinging them toward the shore. Niner grabbed onto a vine then together they pulled the injured woman out of the water, dragging her away from the edge, laying her gently on the ground.

Her daughter was on them in seconds.

Spock pulled her gently away as Niner began first aid. “Stand back, honey, give him some room.”

Niner checked for a pulse and found none. He immediately began CPR as the daughter sobbed in Spock’s arms. Suddenly the woman coughed, water bursting from her mouth. Niner rolled her to her side as she coughed several more times, clearing the water out of her lungs, then rolled her onto her back.

Her daughter pounced, hugging her mother and sobbing, the woman weakly embracing the terrified girl.

Spock frowned at Niner, nodding toward the pair. “What do you think?”

Niner shook his head, lowering his voice. “She’s definitely got cracked ribs and she’s wheezing. Might be a collapsed lung. She needs treatment, fast.”

“Melanie! Nancy!”

They both turned to see the President rushing toward his family, Atlas behind him looking none the worse for wear. Niner stepped aside as the man’s daughter jumped up and grabbed her father, sobbing in relief.

Niner glanced at Atlas then leaned over for a look behind the man’s massive frame.

“Where’s BD?”

“He’s not with you?”

Niner shook his head.

Then bolted for the river.

Dawson was almost to the shore when he heard her scream. The flight attendant was floundering, being carried far too swiftly by the current, and far too quickly toward the roar that had to be a waterfall.

And certain death.

He turned, swimming hard toward her, quickly closing the gap. A glance behind him showed the fuselage, both wings ripped away, continuing toward them, the river even faster here. Rocks were beginning to pop up making the swim more dangerous than it already was, and he watched in horror as she smacked into one, momentarily silencing her.

She slid off the rock face and screamed again.

Thank God!

He kicked hard to avoid the rock then swept around it to find her caught in an eddy that spit her out the other side. He headed for a rock then pushed off it, avoiding the eddy and catching up to her. Grabbing the back of her lifejacket, she yelped then looked back, relief written over her face for a moment.

But they weren’t safe yet.

A wall of mist seemed to be rising in the not too far distance, the roar overwhelming.

“Kick!” he shouted as he began to drag her to the shore, their bodies continuing to be swept along. He saw a large rock ahead and pushed hard for it, the concave surface possibly providing them a place to rest for a moment. “Make for the rock!”

She nodded, determination suddenly on her face as they both kicked with renewed effort, the rock rapidly nearing as the water flowed relentlessly toward the falls ahead.

“Feet out front!” he shouted, repositioning himself and trying to pull her along with him.

They hit hard, his combat boots that may have looked ridiculous on the fashion runway, providing the cushion and grip for that split second, long enough for him to reach forward with his one free hand and break their momentum as he twisted, his back slamming against the smooth rock. He wrapped his arms around the flight attendant and took a breath as he realized it had worked.

They were now stranded about twenty feet from shore, and about a hundred feet short of the falls.

With half a million pounds of fuselage slowly, inexorably, sliding toward them.

“BD!”

Dawson looked to see Niner, Atlas and Spock onshore, waving at him.

“Hang on!” shouted Niner. “We’ll get you!”

Spock and Atlas were tearing at some vines, quickly fashioning a rope as Dawson held on to the flight attendant.

“What’s your name?”

He looked at her. “Huh?”

“Your name? I’d like to know the name of the man who saved my life.”

“Everyone calls me BD.”

“BD? What kind of name is that? What did your mom call you after the doctor smacked your little butt.”

Dawson chuckled. “Burt.”

“Now I see why you go by BD.”

“Ouch.”

She laughed, laying her head on his chest. “Thanks, Burt. I’m Jane.”

“Nice to meet you. Come here often?”

She laughed, Dawson happy to try to distract them both from the reality of their situation as his team worked frantically on the rope.

And the plane inched ever closer, the screeches and scrapes as it tore along the riverbed getting louder and louder.

Hurry up guys!

“BD!”

Dawson looked toward his team and saw Atlas swinging one end of the rope, a fairly heavy branch tied to it, about twenty feet upstream.

“Go ahead!” he shouted, Atlas immediately hurling it out as far as he could. The branch hit the water, sinking for a moment, then bobbing to the surface as the current quickly carried it toward them, Niner running with the other end along the shore.

“I’ve got it!” shouted Jane as she reached out, Dawson holding her by the belt.

She’s going to miss it!

He pushed off from the rock with one hand, the other extending, giving her another few feet of reach.

And she snagged it.

He yanked her back in, his back slapping against the rock as he grabbed the branch then the makeshift rope. He started to loop it around her waist when she topped him. “We both go.”

He shook his head. “Together we’re too heavy. You go first, then I’ll go. I’m perfectly safe here.”

She frowned but acquiesced, Dawson quickly tying the rope around her waist, hooking it under her armpits.

“Ready?”

She nodded.

“Remember, we don’t know how strong this is, so you need to pull toward the shore too. Minimize the time on the vine.”

She gave him a look. “Were you saving that?”

He laughed. “For years.” The smile wiped from his face. “Ready?”

She too became all business. “Yes.”

He waved to the shore. “Pull!”

The rope quickly became taught and Jane pushed off from the rock, immediately being swept downriver though swinging swiftly toward the shore. He could see her struggling to pull on the rope, but she kept dropping below the surface. Atlas and Niner were pulling hard as Spock, already positioned farther downriver, positioned himself to pull her ashore.

It didn’t take long for her to be swept to the edge, Spock grabbing her and hauling her to safety. He quickly untied her then threw the rope back in the river as Atlas and Niner reeled it in.

Atlas hurled the branch back out, barely ahead of the fuselage, but it got snagged on a rock and he had to pull it back in and try again.

Dawson prepped himself for the jump, the fuselage moving quickly now, the sounds of protesting metal as loud as the falls behind him. The rock he was taking refuge on would be his downfall if the plane were to hit, it about the only obstacle it had to catch on.

He tore his eyes away from the massive hunk of metal as the force of the current and the buoyancy of the airframe worked together to seal his fate, instead focusing on the branch once again making its way toward him.

It was going to go by him.

Now or never!

He pushed off from the rock, diving toward the branch, both arms outstretched. His hand hit the wood but he couldn’t grip it and for a moment he floundered as he kicked with both legs hard, holding his breath as both arms reached out for the vines.

Something touched his wrist and he immediately spun his hand, wrapping the rope around his fingers then reaching up with his free hand for a more secure hold. He could feel the tugs on the other end as his men tried to save him but there was little he could do to help besides kick, the fibers tearing into his hands as he tried to maintain a grip.

Suddenly something grabbed his lifejacket and he gasped as his face cleared the water, gulping in lungsful of air as he flopped onto the shore, Spock hauling him farther inland.

Atlas and Niner rushed up to them when a godawful sound overwhelmed Mother Nature. Dawson pushed himself up on his elbows to see the fuselage catch on the very rock he had been leaning on only moments before, the unforgiving stone tearing through the weakened metal as the entire mass twisted toward them.

“Get back!” shouted Niner, he and Spock hauling Dawson to his feet then scrambling deeper into the jungle, the tail section slamming into the shore, bringing a halt to its forward momentum.

Niner looked at the others then shouted at the plane.

“Isn’t trying to kill us once today enough!”

Entering Mozambican Airspace

“What’s the word, sir?”

“Still no communications. SAR teams from the USS George H. W. Bush are inbound but we still have no reason to believe there are any survivors. The Russians went on full alert so the Vice President was sworn in as a precaution.”

Red shook his head, cursing to himself. They had been wheels up in Nairobi before Air Force One had actually hit the ground, a dead stick landing with a 15:1 ratio from that altitude taking almost half an hour. According to the pilot, they’d be over the crash site in about an hour but there was nowhere for them to land. At the moment they might have to land at a small airstrip in the area then hoof it in which might take a couple of days.

Not acceptable.

Which meant, of course, he had an alternative.

“Do we really think the Russians are behind it?”

“Nothing would surprise me with that asshole, but no, I can’t see it. If they are, it’s a rogue element. We’re not going to war over this as long as cooler heads prevail.”

“If they are behind it, we can’t let them get away with it.”

“Agreed. But there’s better ways.”

“Exploding cigars?”

Clancy chuckled. “Castro’s still here, so that doesn’t work.”

“Too true.”

Red drew in a deep breath, thinking of his friends. “When will we know for sure about survivors?”

“Could be some time. The nearest LZ is at least a six hour hike and it’s tiny, essentially a clearing. We’re going to try and insert some troops through the trees, but they’re still at least an hour away.”

“We’re less than an hour out, sir. Let us jump in, we’ll find them.”

“Negative, you’re liable to break your necks.”

“Done it before.”

“That was for a purpose. The last thing BD and the others would want is you guys dying too.”

Red frowned. The Colonel was right. It was stupid. Yet he had to do something. “The offer is there, sir, if you need it.”

“Sit tight for now. If the situation changes, I’ll let you know.”

“Roger that.”

Maggie Harris Residence

Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

The phone rang.

The entire room froze then turned toward her, all the wives having converged on her apartment, all terrified of what they were seeing on the news. The “wives network” had reached out to each other as soon as the news had broken, their loved ones deployed, most likely with BD and Niner. She hadn’t been able to reach the Colonel, but had left several messages with her replacement.

Argh! If only I wasn’t off on sick leave!

She was the Colonel’s personal assistant. Though she wasn’t in the loop she’d at least be able to get a sense as to what was going on, yet she already knew. The fact the Colonel hadn’t returned her call meant he was busy.

Very busy.

She read the call display, it a blocked number.

She answered.

“Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s Colonel Clancy.”

“Yes, sir. You-you know why I’m calling?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Nothing at this point.”

“Please, sir, we’re all here, we just want to know. Was Bravo Team on that plane?”

There was a pause. “I can’t say anything, I’m sorry.” A burst of static from a heavy breath filled her ear. “Check your cellphone.”

The call ended and she snapped her fingers, pointing at the Blackberry charging on the kitchen counter. It was issued to her by the Unit and was considered secure. Jagger’s wife grabbed it and handed it over, Maggie quickly entering her password then bringing up a waiting text message.

1 5 7 11

“What does it say?”

“It’s four numbers,” said Shirley, leaning over and reading the text.

“But what do they mean?”

Maggie felt the world start to spin, the phone dropping into her lap as her head slumped back onto the couch.

For she knew what the numbers meant.

They were call signs.

Bravo One, Five, Seven and Eleven.

BD, Spock, Atlas and Niner.

Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Where’s the Colonel?”

McNeely, severely wounded, his leg broken in several places, shook his head, his breathing labored. “Didn’t make it. He and the flight engineer went over the falls.”

Dawson looked about. There were only two Secret Service agents with the group that had gathered, and eight Air Force personnel, all enlisted. “So there’re no officers?”

McNeely nodded toward the President. “Just the Commander-in-Chief.”

Dawson looked at McNeely. “Then you’re in charge. What are your orders?”

McNeely shook his head. “I’m in no shape to be in charge.” He motioned for Dawson to move closer then lowered his voice. “Are you who I think you are?”

Dawson smiled slightly. “Probably.”

“Good. Then you’re in charge.”

Dawson nodded. “Your call. Feel free to countermand my orders at any time.”

“I will.”

“I might have to shoot you though, if I disagree.”

McNeely laughed then winced, his eyes squeezing tight as he grabbed at his chest. “Oh shit, don’t make me laugh. I think I cracked a rib.”

“Sorry.”

McNeely raised his voice slightly so the surviving personnel could hear him. “Agent White is in charge. Follow his orders and the President’s.” McNeely winced again then passed out, Niner ripping open the man’s shirt, revealing a nasty bruise. He glanced at Dawson, shaking his head.

“This man needs a doctor.”

“Rescue teams should be here soon.”

Atlas looked around, lowering his voice. “If they think anybody survived. I’m not hearing that fighter escort.”

“Probably out of fuel,” replied Dawson. “In the pre-flight briefing McNeely said they were coming in from the USS George H. W. Bush, would hang around a few minutes for show, then bugout. They stuck around the full half hour we were in descent so they were probably on fumes.”

Spock pulled out his phone, soaked. He turned the waterproof device on. “No signal.” He shrugged. “No surprise. Where do you figure we are?”

“Middle of Mozambique would be my guess,” said Agent Prentice, one of the few men on McNeely’s team to survive.

Niner frowned, looking up at the others as he continued to tend to McNeely. “There’s trouble in this area. Anti-government rebels or something.”

Atlas shoved his own phone back in his pocket. “Niner’s right. We need comms right away.”

“First things first,” said Dawson. “We’re alive and we need to stay that way. Rescue or recovery, they’re on their way and nothing we do will speed that up. Right now we need to secure our position, make sure whoever needs medical attention is getting it, then try to establish comms.” He turned to Jane Harrison. “How many are we?”

“We did a headcount and found forty-two on this side of the river, seven on the other side.”

“Forty-nine.” Dawson frowned. “How many were we?”

“Ninety-two.”

“Jesus,” muttered Spock. He looked at Jane. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Pretty sure. Maybe some survived going over the falls, but I doubt it.”

Dawson pursed his lips then blew out a blast of air. “Okay, if there’re survivors down there, there’s nothing we can do about it. The rescue team will have to check that out. For now, let’s figure out what supplies we have and find out if anyone has a satphone. Maybe one of the reporters does.”

Jane nodded and left, canvasing the group. Dawson turned to Atlas and Spock. “Head down to the waterfall then sweep back up, make sure there’re no stragglers. Be back in fifteen.”

“Roger that.”

Atlas and Spock left, shoving through the thick underbrush, Dawson heading over to check on the President and give him an update. He found the man leaning over his wife, brushing the hair out of her face.

She looked near death.

“Mr. President?”

President Starling glanced over his shoulder at him then back at his wife. “I’ll be back,” he said gently, patting her cheek. She gave him a weak smile. He looked at their daughter. “Nancy, take care of your mother.” The young woman trembled out a nod, tears streaking her terrified face. Starling rose, stepping away from his family. He turned to Dawson. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Agent White, on special assignment.”

Starling shook his head. “No, you’re part of the Delta team I specifically requested. What’s your real name?”

Dawson smiled slightly. “Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson.”

“Okay, Sergeant Major, what’s our status?”

“Forty-nine survivors, forty-two on this side of the river, seven on the other side. We have two people critically injured including your wife, about two dozen walking wounded. We’re in the middle of Mozambique with mostly civilians, almost the entire Secret Service detail killed when the port wing tore off on impact, ripping their section of the plane out with it. The pilot, copilot and flight engineer are dead, as are all the Air Force officers. You have my team of four, eight Airmen, two Secret Service agents and a bunch of reporters and staffers at your command.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“You are.”

Starling chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

“Agent in Charge McNeely placed me in command due to his injuries.”

“He’s alive?”

Dawson nodded. “Wounded badly.”

“Will he live?”

“If he gets proper medical attention, I think so.”

Starling turned to the group gravitating toward them. All were scared, all were frightened, and all were looking to him for help, for hope. Dawson didn’t envy the man, especially when that man was also a father and a husband, his own family in peril.

Starling put an arm around Dawson’s shoulders. “People, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Everyone drew a little closer. “We’re alive, and we’re going to stay that way. We lost a lot of friends today, but we should have lost everybody. Colonel Lacroix performed a miracle, Jesus clearly at the wheel today. He landed us on a river, in the middle of a jungle, and saved more than half of us from certain death. You know what that tells me?” He paused, looking at those gathered with a gentle smile. “Somebody is looking out for us. God will get us through this.”

He chuckled. “I’m reminded of an old joke I heard. A man’s boat sinks and he’s floating in the middle of the ocean, praying to God to help him. A man in a rowboat comes by and offers him help. Our man refuses, saying God will save him. Then a sailboat arrives, and again he refuses. God will save me, he says. Finally, a huge ocean liner shows up, and again he refuses help. God will save me. The boat leaves and the man eventually drowns. He goes to Heaven and he asks God why he didn’t save him? God says, I sent you a rowboat, a sailboat and an ocean liner, what more did you want me to do?”

Nervous laughter rippled among those gathered, Dawson recalling the joke, told better years ago.

“So what’s my point? God helps those who help themselves. We’re not going to just sit here and pray for Him to save us, we’re going to use the God given tools we have at our disposal to save ourselves. Help is on the way, of that you can be assured.” He leaned forward, placing the back of his hand up to the side of his mouth, cracking a smile. “I’m kind of a big deal, in case you didn’t know.”

Genuine laughter this time, Dawson gaining a newfound respect for the man.

“So, Agent White here is in charge until we are rescued. I happen to know his background and I can assure you we are in extremely capable hands.” He glanced over at his family. “Now, today, I’m just a man, just a husband, just a father.” He turned to Dawson. “Use me as you would anyone else.”

Dawson nodded, shaking the man’s extended hand. “Mr. President, I appreciate that. The best thing you can do for us is to take care of your family.” Starling smiled, the appreciation clear by the glint in his eyes. Dawson turned to Jane. “Any satphones?”

“No, none that are working at least.”

“I was afraid of that.” He turned to the group. “Okay, first things first. Survival training. Raise your hand if you’ve ever made a fire.” A dozen hands went up including all the Airmen. He pointed at one of them. “You’re in charge of getting a fire going. Pick four people to help you. If anyone has matches or a lighter on them, hand them over to our fire chief. I want a good fire going to keep us warm but try to keep the smoke to a minimum.”

He pointed at another one of the Airmen as the fire chief selected his team and got to work, lighters being handed over. “We need food. Pick ten people. Get a pile going with all the food anyone has on them. Power bars, gum, candy, anything, then scour the area, see if there’s anything we can eat, fruit, berries, mushrooms, anything. Don’t eat anything without letting one of my team see it first, it might be poisonous.” He selected another Airman. “You’re in charge of water. That river is fresh water, so we’re good, but I don’t want people going too close. Find anything that will hold water. There might be debris from the crash. Take six people and take care of it. I want everyone hydrated, especially the wounded.”

“Anyone with medical experience?” asked Niner.

“I was a nurse,” said one of the reporters, holding up her hand. “It’s been years, but I can help.”

Another reporter stepped forward. “I took three years of med school then flunked out. Couldn’t stand the sight of blood.”

“I’m ex-army, I’ve been trained in basic first aid.”

“So was I.”

Niner grinned. “You’re all my medical team. Start collecting anything that can be used for bandages, and make sure we get the first of that water and food.”

“Okay, the rest of you I want trying to clear this area. We need to make room for the wounded so they can rest.” He smacked his hands together. “Let’s get to it!” Dawson stood back as the teams split off, almost everyone who was able to walk with something to do. A branch snapped in the jungle behind him and he spun to see Atlas and Spock walking into the area with two civilians. “Found them downstream.”

Dawson smiled at the two men, both shivering, both appearing relieved at having been found. “You two okay?”

“He’s got a sprained ankle,” said one of the new arrivals.

Dawson pointed Niner out to them. “Bring him over there, he’s our doctor for now.”

The injured one cleared his throat. “I’m the President’s physician.”

Dawson smiled. “Doc, am I ever glad to see you. We’ve got a lot of wounded.” He pointed to where the First Family was. “Check on the First Lady. She’s been injured.” He pointed to the other man. “You’re his crutch.”

The man smiled. “No problem.”

The two shuffled toward the family and Dawson whistled. Niner looked up and Dawson pointed at the new arrivals. “President’s physician!” Niner gave a thumbs up and jogged over to the man, a consult quickly under way.

“Any luck with comms?” asked Atlas.

“Negative. None of the satphones are working, they’re all wet, broken, or still on board.” Dawson paused, his eyes narrowing.

Spock smirked at Atlas. “Uh oh. I recognize that look.”

“In a minute he’ll be looking for volunteers,” agreed Atlas.

Dawson smiled. “Is the plane still there?”

“Uh huh.” Atlas answered as if he were terrified to.

Spock cleared his throat. “BD.” Dawson looked toward where the man was nodding and found President Starling walking toward them. Dawson closed the gap.

“Mr. President, what can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Major Simmons?”

“Not that I know of, who’s he?”

“He’s the officer who carries the nuclear football.”

Atlas cursed.

“That’s one hell of a piece of lost luggage.”

Operations Center 2

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“I can’t believe he’d travel on his own passport.”

Leroux had to agree with his boss. It was ballsy, though it did make sense. No one was looking for the man. If he travelled on a fake passport he ran the risk of being caught, but travel on a perfectly legitimate passport, and there was no reason for him to be flagged.

Though Leroux doubted the man would be using it to travel home.

“I think we have a very limited window of opportunity here,” said Leroux. “If I were him I’d be bugging out now if I hadn’t already.”

“Agreed,” said Morrison. “What do you recommend?”

Leroux pointed at Therrien. “See if you can trace his cellphone.”

Therrien nodded, quickly entering the number provided by Moscow, one of the monitors on the wall flipping over to a map. “Pinging it now.” A red circle appeared and the map zoomed in as the system narrowed down the cellphone towers in use. “It’s on.”

“Idiot,” muttered Child, watching the map quickly coalesce into buildings and streets. “It’s like this guy doesn’t care if he’s caught.”

“He doesn’t.”

Leroux looked at Morrison. “What do you mean?”

“He’s dying of cancer. He’s got months, maybe weeks, to live. He’s succeeded in getting his revenge, he’s got nothing left to live for.”

Leroux pursed his lips, thinking. It made sense, yet something still nagged at him. Something didn’t feel right. He tapped his chin. “If I were dying, I wouldn’t want to die in a foreign land. I’d want to die at home, with those I loved.”

“His family’s dead,” said Child.

“They’re dead, but they’re buried somewhere.” Leroux snapped his fingers at Sonya Tong. “Find out where the family is buried. That’s where he’ll be heading.”

She smiled. “Your gut?”

He nodded, then pointed at Child. “Find out if he has a return booking.”

Child shook his head. “Sorry, boss, I already checked. He doesn’t.”

Leroux smiled. “Then he’s not as dumb as he looks.”

Morrison’s eyebrows narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“It means he knew we’d trace him there, but didn’t care, because he already has a way out.”

“Which means if we don’t catch him now, we may never.”

Leroux stared at the neighborhood highlighted by the cellphone towers.

“Find every hotel, motel, hostel or apartment rental in that area. I want that bastard found before he flies the coop.”

Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson felt his chest tighten for a moment as he realized the most important briefcase on the planet was missing in hostile territory, and the man who could operate it stood next to him, unsecured.

“Where did you see him last?”

“He was with us when the plane crashed.”

“In the same room as you?”

“Yes.”

Dawson flashed back to that moment, trying to remember what he had seen.

Two dead personnel. Was one a Major?

“The only people alive in that room were you, your family and one staffer. I think I remember seeing a Major in there, dead. If that’s him, then the football must still be in there.”

“Do you think it will be safe there until the rescue team gets here?”

Dawson thought for a moment. They were in the middle of Mozambique, a country with a rebel problem. If the rebels were to find them, they could be in for a hell of a problem, the football the least of their worries. If it was still on the plane, it was probably secure for the moment, it taking a lot of balls for anyone to board it where it was now. Though if they were at all informed, the rebels might know the President travelled with it and would make every effort to recover it.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s the SOP in this situation?”

“Excuse me?”

“Standard Operating Procedure. If you were to crash and they lost all communications with you, what would they do?”

Starling smiled. “They’d probably presume I’m dead and deactivate all the codes.” He sighed. “I was worried there for a moment, but you’re right. If they lose contact with me in a situation like this they assume the codes might be compromised and deactivate them.” He frowned. “In fact, they’ve probably already sworn Jack in.” He smirked at Dawson. “Huh. Dead man walking.”

“We’re not dead yet, Mr. President.”

“Not sure if you can still call me that.”

Dawson chuckled. “Let’s err on the side of caution.”

Starling patted him on the back. “Good idea.” He turned to walk away then stopped. “Has anybody thought about the emergency satellite gear?”

Dawson shook his head. “When the virus infected the system it wiped out all our comms. The two specialists only had time to reinstall what was needed to try and get the plane flying again.” He paused, realizing he hadn’t seen Lennox or Cornel since the crash.

“Not the hardwired stuff, the portable gear.”

Dawson’s jaw dropped as he realized what the President was talking about, kicking himself for not remembering. The President—in fact, most senior members of the White House—travelled with portable secure satellite gear almost everywhere they went. It allowed them to set up secure comms wherever they might be staying, whether an embassy or a hotel.

And that gear would be stowed on board.

“Any idea where it is?”

Starling shook his head. “Sorry, son, that’s on you.”

Dawson nodded, the President returning to his family.

“We need to get that gear,” said Atlas.

Dawson grinned at him. “You volunteering?”

Spock smacked the big man on the back. “Told you he’d be looking for volunteers.”

“I was thinking of going on board to find a dry satphone, but this would be even better. It’s hardened, waterproof, bulletproof. If we can get our hands on that case, we’re pretty much guaranteed it’s going to work.”

“And the football?”

Dawson shook his head. “Like the President said, it’s just a piece of pigskin now.” He waved Jane over. “Did you see Airmen Lennox or Cornel?”

She nodded. “Yes, they’re on the other side of the river.”

“Want me to get over there, Sarge, put some cuffs on him?”

Dawson looked at Atlas then across the river at the small group gathered by the shore, Lennox and Cornel suddenly recognizable. “Negative, I don’t think he’s a problem anymore.” He headed for McNeely, the doctor and Niner still tending to him.

McNeely looked up at him. “Status?”

“I’ve got everyone busy,” said Dawson. “It’ll keep their minds off things until the rescue teams arrive. In the meantime, I want to reestablish comms. There’s a rebel situation in the area and I want to make sure they’re nowhere near us. Besides, I think the folks back home would like to know they’ve still got a President.”

“The portable comm gear, it’s still on the plane.”

Dawson smiled. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you. Where is it?”

“Aft of the President’s office, locked in a secure cabinet. There’s also weapons and ammo, body armor, you name it, it’s there.”

“What kind of security?”

“Keypad. Code of the day is seven-six-four-nine-six-enter.”

Dawson repeated the code, as did the rest of his team. Three times in his head and it was committed, memorization techniques one of the things taught to Special Forces the world over. In this case, he simplified it by reducing it to three numbers—76-49-6, then associated each number with something that would twig a memory. Carter elected in 76, San Francisco 49ers and 6 sides of the dice. Now he didn’t need to remember the numbers, just Carter, San Francisco and dice.

Much easier.

“Okay, we’re going for the comm gear. Hopefully back in less than an hour.”

“Good luck.”

Dawson smiled. “Thanks, I think we’ll need it.”

Top of the falls, Lugenda River, Mozambique

The tail section was still wedged against the riverbank, the front of the fuselage slowly tearing through the rock Dawson and Jane had taken refuge on earlier. It was now a good halfway down the body, the plane jerking forward several inches every few seconds.

There wasn’t much time.

And this was stupid.

He nodded at Atlas. “You’re our lifeline. You hang onto that rope like our lives depend on it.”

“Cuz’ they do.”

Niner gave Atlas a sideways glance. “Thanks for reminding me, jackhole.”

“Hey, I’d go, but you need a real man on the other end of this rope. Your dainty little frame would just be pulled right in.”

Niner smacked Atlas on the cheek then darted back. “This dainty little frame makes me wily, lets me float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”

“Don’t you be channeling my man Ali. He’s like my brotha from anotha motha. Yous talkin’ family, boyee.”

Niner grinned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Atlas. “Look at my man, goin’ all street on us.” He quickly spun his head around, giving the stink-eye to Atlas. “You know I’m the only one from the hood in this unit, so you best be watchin’ yourself.”

Atlas eyed him. “You’re from Florida for Christ’s sake. Don’t be makin’ like you’re from the Bronx.”

“Hey, the streets of Tallahassee were rough for a handsome Asian kid.”

Spock held up the lengthened line. “Ready when you are, BD.” He nodded toward Niner. “Any objections if we just leave him on board?”

Dawson grabbed the rope and stepped into the water. “We’ll take a vote once we get there.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” whined Niner as he took hold of the intertwined vines. “It’ll be two against one.”

Atlas’ deep voice rolled over the roaring water. “Then you better start kissing ass now, sweetheart.”

Dawson heard Niner do an ass-smack behind him as he made his way along the fuselage toward the open emergency exit where the wing used to be. Once inside, depending on conditions, it should be a straight shot down the aisle running the port side of the plane to the security room.

Please God, no surprises.

His foot slipped and he went under. He felt a pull on the rope and the others stopped his slide allowing him to recover quickly, the water still shallow but quickly getting deeper. He pushed off the river bottom, letting the current carry him as he gently kicked, the water actually not too rough, the massive fuselage providing a break.

I can just imagine the pressure on the other side.

As if in response, he heard a terrific shriek of metal tearing ahead of him, the plane jerking a good foot.

We’re running out of time!

He grabbed hold of the inflated slide dangling out the emergency exit and pulled himself up, rolling onto the floor of the main deck, taking a brief moment to catch his breath before hauling Niner then Spock in. He untied the rope and headed for the security room, Niner following him as Spock tied off the vines.

He ignored the bodies of those left behind and instead sloshed through the water, it getting deeper the farther they went, up to his knees by the time he reached the door.

He pulled.

It barely budged.

“Shit. Something’s wrong.”

Niner joined him. “What?”

Dawson pulled at the door as hard as he could, it still refusing to open. He looked at the frame then cursed, pointing at the floor. “The floor’s bent. The whole fuselage must be buckling.”

The entire plane jerked forward, sending them all scrambling for handholds.

“Okay, no time to waste. Spock, check the door on the other side.” Spock nodded and left, Dawson pointing at the hinges of the outward swinging door. “Let’s pry the pins out.”

Niner pulled his knife and dropped to his knees as Dawson pulled his own, tapping at the bottom of the hinge, the pin popping up slightly, enough for him to wedge the blade in.

Niner stood, holding his pin, grinning. “I win again.”

Dawson ignored him, pulling his bolt free then wedging the knife between the doorframe. He pried, pulling it out slightly, when the door suddenly pushed open from the inside.

Spock stood there. “Do you gentlemen have an appointment?”

“In Hell if we don’t hurry up,” replied Dawson, tossing the door aside and stepping into the small security room. One entire wall was some sort of reinforced cabinet, a keypad in the center. He quickly entered his code.

Carter. San Francisco. Dice. Enter.

The panel beeped then the doors slid apart at the center, revealing an impressive array of weapons and one metal case.

The plane shifted again.

Dawson pointed at a duffel bag hanging at the far end of the cabinet. “Spock, grab guns, ammo, whatever you think we might need if we run into rebels, then tie it to the rope. Niner, three sets of body armor for the first family. I’ve got the case.”

Spock quickly began to fill the bag, Niner grabbing the body armor hanging on the far wall. Dawson headed out of the room with the case, returning to where the rope was tied off. Almost all the slack was out of it, one more shift and it was liable to break. He put the case down and quickly untied the rope.

Suddenly the plane shifted again, hard, knocking him off his feet. He reached out as the case tumbled down the aisle toward the front, the floor beginning to tilt.

“We’re going over! Let’s go!” he shouted, Niner regaining his feet as he stumbled forward. He grabbed the rope from Dawson and shoved it through the neck holes of the body armor. Spock blocked the tumbling satellite gear and grabbed it, pushing toward his comrades as the plane tilted further. He handed the duffel bag to Dawson who passed it to Niner. Niner quickly fed the rope through the straps and stepped into the doorframe.

“We’ve gotta go!” he shouted.

“Go!” shouted Dawson and Niner nodded, tossing the duffel bag and body armor out first before wrapping his wrist around the rope and jumping out after the equipment.

The plane tilted even further. They were at an almost 45-degree angle now. Spock reached out and Dawson grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the opening he gripped with his other hand, the rope wrapped around his wrist biting into his flesh.

“Grab the rope!”

Spock pulled forward, Dawson yanking hard. Spock let go and quickly grabbed the rope, looping it around his wrist, giving Dawson a look of relief. “Christ, I thought I was—”

The plane suddenly groaned painfully then tore open at the roof, the front two-thirds of the fuselage ripping apart. Their end of the plane slammed into the riverbed, levelling off but sending them both to the floor. Dawson scrambled to his feet and positioned himself at the door when he felt the entire structure begin to be pulled over the edge of the waterfall by the still attached front.

He looked for Spock.

Spock was crawling quickly toward the case, knocked loose by the collapse. He grabbed it then turned back toward Dawson, pushing to his feet, charging forward as the plane continued to slide. Dawson reached out, stretching into the cabin as far as he could, the rope growing taught in his other hand.

“Give me your hand!”

Spock surged forward, swinging the case toward Dawson’s outstretched hand. “No, take this!”

Dawson grabbed it, Spock letting go as he grasped for the rope. He got a hand on it just as the entire plane tipped back up, knocking Dawson up and out of the plane, the case still gripped in one hand, the rope in the other. He hit the water, the wind knocked out of him for a moment, but held on, kicking his feet to get to the surface.

The plane was gone.

And so was Spock.

Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson stepped into what now was almost a clearing, a central area freed of brush and debris, a fire roaring nicely in the center, stones from the river ringing it, starting to radiate heat. The wounded were resting on beds of large leaves near the fire and a very small pile of food, mostly candy bars, sat nearby along with half a dozen bottles of water. A group of industrious volunteers was weaving baskets out of long thin leaves, presumably to gather water.

But all activity stopped when the three of them arrived.

President Starling glanced up then rose from tending to his wife.

“Weren’t there four of you?”

Dawson nodded, there no conversation since they had made it out of the water. “We lost a man. He went over the falls with the plane.”

A few sobs, a lot of gasps, and the concerned hand of his President on his shoulder brought little comfort. “I’m truly sorry to hear that. When we have time, you can tell me about him.”

Dawson looked at the man, it an interesting thing to say. Most politicians or non-combat veterans merely expressed condolences, but few expressed an interest in getting to know the departed. “Thank you, Mr. President.” He held up the case that Spock had paid so dearly for. “We retrieved the satellite gear plus some weapons, just in case.” Niner stepped forward with the body armor. “I want you and your family to put these on. We don’t want to take a chance that somebody takes a pot shot at you.”

Dawson could see in Starling’s face that he didn’t want to, but the man probably sensed that to refuse would be an insult to the memory of Spock. “Thank you, son.” He took the vests then nodded toward the case. “How long before you can get that to work.”

Dawson handed the case to Niner who immediately got busy. “If it’s functional, minutes.”

“Excellent.” Starling shook each of their hands. “Excellent work, all of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Starling returned to his family, helping his daughter put the vest on, the doctor waving off the one for the First Lady, she apparently in too fragile a state to risk moving her. Dawson turned to the crowd. “Can I get all Secret Service and Air Force personnel to come over here for a moment, please?”

The too few, scattered among the group of survivors, joined him at the edge of the clearing. “We’ve got weapons and ammo, just in case,” said Dawson, his voice slightly lowered. “This area has a known rebel problem, so it’s best to be prepared.” Atlas began handing out the handguns and magazines, the experienced personal quickly checking their weapons. “I want a perimeter set up, fifty yards out. I don’t want anything sneaking up on us.” He motioned toward Atlas. “Mr. Silver will coordinate it. We should have comms—”

“BD, I’ve got them!”

Everyone turned toward Niner, sitting cross-legged against a tree with the case in his lap, earphones with a mike on his head. Dawson rushed over, dropping down beside Niner as he handed him the headpiece. “Who’d you get?”

“I figured I’d go for the Colonel.”

Dawson smiled. “Good thinking.” The Colonel would have all the necessary contacts and wouldn’t let politics or ass covering get in the way of the truth, and the truth was what they needed right now.”

“This is Bravo Zero-One, come in, over.”

“Zero-One, Control Actual, good to hear your voice!”

“Yours too, sir.”

“What’s your status?”

“Fifty one survived the crash including the President and his family. We lost Spock trying to retrieve this comm gear. We’re secure at the moment. We’ve got several severely wounded including the First Lady. There may be survivors farther down the river, below the falls, but we have no way of knowing, it’s quite the drop.”

“How did you survive? Your fighter escort reported a fireball.”

“Colonel Lacroix landed us on a river. The fireball was probably from when the wings ripped off, so that would have been behind us.” Dawson paused. “We got damned lucky, sir.”

“You did. Rescue teams are inbound but there’s no place for them to land near your last known position. We’re triangulating your signal now—wait—okay, we’ve got your position, it’s exactly where we thought. The nearest LZ is five miles south of you. They’ll be landing there then hoofing it in to evac you. How’s the cover?”

Dawson looked up. “You can barely see daylight. It’s thick.”

“That’s what I’m being told on this end as well. It’s just not safe for the SAR team to drop in. It’s going to be quite a few hours before they can reach you, but that’s not your biggest problem.”

Dawson felt his stomach flutter. “What is our biggest problem?”

“Within minutes of your crash a large rebel force started moving south toward your position, about seventy men, lightly armed. Satellite shows they’re about four miles from your position. They’ll reach you before sundown. They also sent a boat upriver toward your position. They know you’re there and if they have any type of access to the news, they know who you are.”

“I guess we’re world news.”

“And then some. Until this moment, you were all presumed dead. Hell, they even swore in a new president.”

Dawson looked over at Starling. “Sir, if I’m hearing you correctly, our rescue team won’t reach us before the rebels.”

“It’s a footrace, Zero-One.”

“Then we’re going to have to try and improve the odds. We’ll start hiking south at best speed immediately. It’ll be slow though, we’ve got wounded that aren’t mobile and the underbrush is thick.”

“Understood. Do the best you can. I’ve been asked to inquire about the status of the football.”

“We believe it’s at the bottom of the falls, sir. It is not secure, I repeat, it is not secure.”

“Understood. The codes have already been deactivated, so let the President know if he wants to nuke anyone he’s shit out of luck.”

Dawson chuckled. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“Okay Zero-One, get your people moving and keep these comms open. I’ll try to get the Pentagon to agree to having everything coordinated through us. Shouldn’t be a problem, no one wants to be left holding the bag if this goes bad.”

“Good to hear, sir. I’d rather be dealing with people I can trust.” He paused a moment, lowering his voice slightly. “Did you notify the families yet?”

“Unfortunately the news showed some video with some of your team so the spouses thought you were all dead. I let Maggie know who was actually on board”—Dawson’s stomach flipped at the thought of what she must be going through, thinking he was dead—“but I’ll make sure they know the full truth ASAP. I shouldn’t have told her anything, I guess I’m getting soft in my old age. I should have known plane crashes don’t kill men like you.”

“Spock—”

“Is dead when I say he’s dead.”

Dawson nodded. “Understood.”

“Okay, get your people moving and call back in thirty mikes with a status update. I’m going to try to arrange a surprise for the rebel scum. Control Actual, out.”

Dawson smiled, wondering if Clancy knew he had just used a term from Return of the Jedi. He handed the headset to Niner then rose, walking over to the President. He was about to brief him when Starling held up his hand. “Unless it’s classified, let everyone hear.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Everyone gathered closer and Dawson raised his voice. “We’ve established communications with home.” There was relief and clapping from the tired survivors, hugs exchanged, though he feared the jubilation would be short lived. “A rescue team is already on its way, but the nearest LZ—landing zone—is almost five miles south of here, and the tree cover is too thick to get anyone through safely.” He paused. “That’s the good news.” Groans. “The bad news is there is a rebel encampment four miles north of here, and a group of nearly seventy is heading to the crash site. That means we can’t be here when they arrive. We need to break camp and start moving south at best speed.”

“But what about the wounded?” asked the doctor. “Some of them can’t be moved safely.”

Dawson pressed his lips together, breathing deeply as he looked at the First Lady then at McNeely. “Unfortunately we have no choice. We’ll have to carry them.” He pointed at the people that had been weaving baskets. “Can you fashion some stretchers?” He pointed to a stand of bamboo, noticing some of them were stripped, the bark apparently the long leaves he had seen used earlier.

One of them nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Great, then get to work. Atlas, Niner, help them cut down some of those. The rest of you, grab all of our supplies and be ready to head out as soon as the stretchers are finished.” He could see by the worried expressions on the faces of the civilians, even the Air Force One staff—combat not their primary role—that they needed reassurance. “Now, there’s nothing to worry about, this is just a precaution. We’ll move south as best we can, and now that the rescue team knows we’re alive, they’re going to redouble their efforts to get here quickly. As well, the Pentagon is arranging a surprise for the rebels which I’m sure will have them turning tail before you know it. Once we get word they’ve turned back, we’ll sit tight and wait for the rescue team. But for now just focus on your assignments, help those who need help, and we’ll all come out of this on the other end. Personally, I’m looking forward to steaks and ice cold beer without a damned tree in sight. So let’s get to work so I can get my steak!”

There were some laughs and he heard several other meal suggestions being swapped as the group broke up.

“You should go into politics.”

Dawson smiled at President Starling. “I’m afraid I’d shoot too many of my colleagues for idiocy, sir.”

Starling laughed, tossing his head back. “Sergeant Major, if you ever enter politics, I pray to God you’re on my side.”

Over Mozambique

Red jumped up in excitement, slapping Jagger’s back. “They’re alive!”

Jubilation erupted in the hold of the C-17, Red holding up a hand to quiet the noise. “Can you repeat that, Colonel? I didn’t get the last part.”

“We lost Spock.”

Red dropped back into his seat, cursing. He turned to the rest of his team, covering the mike. “Spock’s dead.”

Jagger hugged Wings, the two pressing their foreheads together in remembrance, Jimmy wrapping his arms over their shoulders and joining them. Red felt as if a little bit of his soul had been torn from him. Spock was one of his best friends, they were all best friends, the Unit tight. But Spock had been with him from almost the beginning of his assignment. The bond formed under combat, relying so heavily on your teammates, was deep, something most civilians never experienced.

They had lost a brother.

“What about the President?”

“The First Family is safe, but the First Lady is badly injured. It looks like they lost about forty in the crash.”

“Jesus. How can we help?”

“Is that offer to jump still on the table?”

“Absolutely.”

“There’s a rebel force about seventy strong heading for the crash site from the north. They’re about four hours out. The SAR team is about five or six out, coming in from the south. We can’t let those rebels reach the survivors first.”

“So you need a little delaying action.”

“I can’t ask you to do this, it’s seventy against four.”

Red smiled at the Colonel’s concern. “It hardly seems fair, but I promise we’ll take it easy on them.”

He could almost hear the Colonel smile.

“Good hunting, Sergeant.”

Maggie Harris Residence

Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

Maggie sat curled up on her couch, sobbing, Shirley holding her as everyone sat in shock. Niner was single and Atlas had a girlfriend who hadn’t been read in yet, so was oblivious to the fact she had lost the man in her life. Spock’s wife Joanne was being consoled by Wings’ wife Robyn, everyone in the room whose husbands hadn’t just been killed feeling a mix of relief and guilt.

Maggie was fortunate. She felt horrible for the other girlfriends who were blissfully unaware of what had just happened. She especially felt bad for Atlas’ girlfriend Vanessa. They had been dating for some time now and it was clearly serious. Atlas loved that girl to death and she clearly felt the same, BD mentioning only recently that he thought there might be wedding bells in the near future, the big man head over heels.

Maggie was the exception. Because of her job, she knew what her boyfriend did for a living, just like the wives. She desperately wanted to reach out to Vanessa though knew she couldn’t. None of them were supposed to know what they knew, the Colonel breaking the rules only because it was her.

There was a knock at the door, Jagger’s wife Angela opening it.

Maggie cried out as she saw the Colonel standing there with the Chaplain. They stepped inside as sobs filled the room, the fact he was there making their privileged information real.

He nodded at her, yet to her surprise turned to Spock’s wife Joanne. “Mrs. Lightman. I want you to know that I have not given up hope, and the only reason I am here at this time is because I made the foolish mistake of jumping to conclusions earlier, and sending that message. We received a message a short while ago. BD, Niner and Atlas are okay”—Maggie yelped in relief, clasping her hands over her mouth in shame as she realized there was a name missing from that list. “Unfortunately, at this time we believe your husband was killed. We haven’t confirmed this yet, and I don’t want you to give up hope, but I felt you deserved to know what was going on.” He looked at Maggie. “All of you.”

Maggie smiled her thanks, tears of relief pouring down her cheeks, mixed with the sorrow she felt for Joanne, the woman collapsing onto a chair, the Chaplain immediately at her side.

Clancy looked at the gathered wives. “This is a rapidly evolving situation. There will be no more communications from me on this matter, I shouldn’t have done what I did already. Just know that everything that can be done is being done. Now I have to get back to the Unit.” He turned back to Joanne. “Ma’am, you have my deepest sympathies, and I will see you again as soon as I can.”

Clancy left, the Chaplain and Angela helping Joanne to her feet as everyone expressed their condolences as the stunned woman left the apartment. When the door closed, everyone looked at each other, it clear they felt just as Maggie did.

Relieved.

And ashamed.

Ashamed at the joy they felt it wasn’t their loved one that had died.

Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

First Lady Melanie Starling gasped in pain as four men lifted her onto the makeshift stretcher, the leaves and bamboo shoots expertly woven together about to be tested. One of the Airmen had volunteered to be a guinea pig and the two stretchers for the wounded had held up nicely.

Now the question was how navigable the jungle was with a six-foot long stretcher carried between two people.

Dawson turned to see the fire doused with dirt, all the supplies gathered, the pittance they had collected able to fit in the emptied duffel bag that had carried the weapons. He pointed at Atlas and Niner. “You two scout ahead, make sure we don’t stumble upon anyone.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Both headed out, weapons drawn, Dawson turning to the gathered Secret Service and Air Force personnel. “Agents, I want you to trail the group by about one hundred yards, covering our six. If you spot anything, don’t engage. Rejoin the group and we’ll make a stand together. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Jane, she seeming to have taken natural command of the Air Force personnel, she the highest-ranking member still alive, but also good at giving orders. “Airman, you and your crew need to keep this group moving and together. We’re only as fast as our slowest person, and if we lose someone, we’re even slower. I want every single person who leaves here to arrive stateside, got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.” He turned to the group. “Okay, we’re moving out now. Those who’ve volunteered to be stretcher-bearers, don’t be heroes. If you get tired, hand off to someone else. There’s no shame in it. If you hurt yourself overdoing it, then you’re useless after that. We’re going to do this slow and steady. If you need help, ask for it. And whatever you do, don’t wander off on your own. If you get separated from the group, listen for the river and head toward it, then walk upriver, that’s the opposite direction of where it’s flowing for you landlubbers.” He raised his hand over his head, then dropped it, pointing forward. “Let’s go!”

Stretchers were lifted and the entire procession began to shuffle forward.

Dawson waited for the last person to leave the clearing, remaining with the Secret Service personnel. He checked across the river to see the small group there moving forward as well. He hoped farther upriver there might be a spot where they could cross and join the main party, though as long as they kept within sight of each other, they’d be okay.

He stared down the river one last time, then began the trek with the others.

Goodbye, old friend.

Downriver from Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Spock’s eyes fluttered open to a strange sensation. His entire body was floating, gently bobbing up and down, and for a minute, he could be forgiven for thinking he was actually home, floating in his parents’ pool, having fallen asleep.

Unfortunately reality elbowed itself in front of the comfortable memory as he realized his entire body was aching, especially his forehead. He reached up, gingerly touching the source of the pain and felt a good-sized egg.

I’m alive.

He glanced about and realized he was floating on something, a seat cushion by the looks of it. He remembered going over the falls, managing to get a grip on the doorframe just before the plane hit the bottom, then little else.

In fact, nothing else.

The sun was blaring down on him and he was dying of thirst. He spotted the shore, only feet away, and gently kicked toward the trees, the river wide enough to actually give him a view of the sky for the first time since they had crashed.

He grabbed some roots and pulled himself clear, rolling onto the jungle floor, catching his breath as he stared at the trees overhead, the cushion continuing to float away. Gently moving all his limbs, he thanked God he had nothing broken, though he was badly bruised and scraped. And his head pounded.

You’re alive, that’s all that matters.

He sat up, his head swimming slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them, focusing on a single point.

The toes of his boots.

Things settled.

Might have a concussion.

He’d have to monitor it. If he started to feel tired then he might be in trouble. He stood, using a tree trunk for support, then looked upriver. The falls were at least a couple of miles away. It was going to be one hell of a trek to catch up, but he had to do it. Right now he was certain everyone thought he was dead, and the last thing he wanted was to get to camp and find everyone already rescued and gone.

He picked up a branch, a little better than waist height, and put some pressure on it.

You’ll do.

And with his walking stick in hand, Spock, risen from the dead, began the painful walk toward his team, already planning how he’d scare the shit out of them.

Approaching Air Force One Crash Site, Over Mozambique

Red had spotted the river on the way down, guiding his chute toward the water, then cutting himself loose just above the surface. Surveying the trees overhead, he was convinced it had been a wise choice, despite them all being soaked.

We’ll dry out.

“Everyone good?”

Jagger nodded. “Yup. My balls are gonna chafe, but at least nothing’s broken.”

Mickey. “Really? Your balls are gonna chafe? Not your inner thighs?”

“You’ve seen my balls. What do you think’s gonna chafe first?”

Jimmy shook his head. “You’re the only man I know who can actually spin in the shower and smack someone beside him.”

“You love it.”

“Yes, big boy, and don’t you forget it.”

Red turned away, grinning as he took a GPS reading. “Okay, looks like we’re right where we want to be, between the survivors and the rebels. If everyone’s balls are ready, I suggest we establish comms and get a bead on our hostiles.” He pressed his earpiece. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, come in, over.”

“Bravo Zero-Two, this is Control, what’s your status, over?”

“We’re on dryland, Control, team intact. Request update on rebel position, over?”

“Sending it now.”

Red glanced at his tactical computer’s display and nodded. “Roger that, update received. Check-in in thirty mikes, out.” He pointed west, away from the river. “We’ll head inland about half a klick.”

“Booby traps?” suggested Jagger, patting a pocket containing some C4 as they began their march.

“Negative, we don’t know how many civilians use this area. This is strictly harass and evade. A delay op. We’re facing a massively superior force. Our job is to obstruct, hinder, and inflict maximum damage so they don’t reach the crash site before the rescue team does.”

“But first we’ve gotta find them,” said Jagger, pushing aside some heavy foliage.

“Seventy guys walking through the jungle in a hurry? I think we’ll hear them no problem.”

Jagger grunted. “Let’s just make sure they don’t hear us first.”

Jimmy slapped Jagger on his back. “Just make sure they don’t hear those balls clanging.”

“You can always hold ’em if you’re concerned.”

Jimmy glanced over at Red. “Sarge, I think Jagger’s hitting on me.”

“I’m going to start hitting on someone if you two don’t cut the chatter.”

“Yes’m!” squealed Jimmy.

Red stifled a laugh. They were nowhere near the enemy and their light banter would help pass the time. He figured they had about half an hour before first contact.

Then the rest of the day was going to be hell.

Landing Zone Alpha, South of Air Force Once Crash Site, Mozambique

Lt. Commander Rich Jacobson jumped to the ground and cleared the helicopter blades, quickly turning to direct the others unloading the equipment, pointing to where he wanted things. The clearing they had managed to find could barely fit a chopper, though it would do—it would just delay things until it was expanded. His job was to get the advance team on the ground and moving north as quickly as possible; his second in command, Lieutenant Maria Lopez, would be left behind to coordinate efforts here.

Lopez was last off the chopper, it immediately lifting off, the second chopper already banking toward the clearing as the first arrivals carried the equipment to the edge of the clearing and into the trees.

“Lieutenant, keep this area clear. I don’t want anything to delay a chopper being able to land. The advance team will depart in ten mikes with light equipment. We’re going to find the President and secure him until the rest of the team arrives with the supplies. I want comms up and a perimeter established just in case there’s hostiles in the area.”

“Yes, sir!”

They both paused the conversation as the second chopper landed, the rest of First Squad jumping out, already geared up. Jacobson shrugged his pack on and checked his weapon as his men gathered around him.

“This is going to be a fast, hard hike, men. We need to reach the President as quickly as we can. Over seventy hostiles are heading toward him and the survivors, and we’ve got no time to dillydally and check out the scenery, nor wait if someone twists an ankle. Keep your eyes open and watch where you’re stepping. Eyes in the sky tell us there’re no hostiles between us and them, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there that’s hungry for a late afternoon snack. This is the jungle, people. If it charges you, shoot it. Pamela Anderson isn’t going to bounce in and protest your cruelty. Our priority is the President and those survivors. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

A third chopper landed, the medical team disembarking. They’d be leaving with Second and Third Squads when they arrived. All his men had basic first aid, and two were corpsmen. They’d be able to deal with the minor stuff, though at this point it still looked like they’d be hoofing it out of the jungle and back here.

Which means we either stay and fight, or try to fall back in the dark.

He didn’t like either option, but they might not have a choice.

None of that mattered right now. All that mattered was getting there first.

“Commander, a word.”

Jacobson followed Lt. Commander Petersen, the doctor sent to accompany Second and Third Squads. “What is it, doc?”

“The latest update I’ve got is that the First Lady is severely injured, along with several others. They need immediate treatment.”

“We’ll do our best, doc, but there’s only so much my team can do until you guys arrive with the equipment.”

Peterson pointed at a duffel bag. “I’ve got everything I need in here to treat her for what I think might be wrong. Depending on how bad she is, it might be enough. If it’s really bad”—he shrugged, shaking his head—“there might be nothing anyone can do, not if we’re looking at tomorrow for getting them out.”

Jacobson lifted the bag. It was heavy. “Do my people know how to use what’s in here?”

Peterson shook his head. “I don’t think you understand me, Commander. I’m coming with you.”

Jacobson assessed the man. He looked in good shape, about ten years older than the rest of his team, but the question was what kind of shape was he really in. “We’re talking five to six hours of hard slogging, doc.”

“I grew up on volksmarches in Germany and never stopped. You don’t have to worry about me slowing you down.”

Jacobson smiled.

“Then let’s do it!”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Hey BD, you’re gonna wanna see this!”

Dawson looked past the group at Niner, waving for him to join him. He nodded and cut through the group. They were moving far too slow, at best half a mile in the past hour. The stretchers were just slowing them down too much, the bamboo at first cutting into the bearers’ skin until people started ripping sleeves off and wrapping them around their hands. This sped things up a bit, allowing the bearers to last a little longer, but the jungle was dense and unforgiving, every sound terrifying the city dwellers.

I’d kill for a machete.

They had nothing beyond their combat knives to try to cut through the particularly dense jungle, and it was clear their enemy didn’t have the same supply problem. The last update from the Colonel indicated the rebel group was moving swiftly toward them and a squad of search and rescue personnel were now inbound on foot.

It would be close.

Yet even if the dozen men on their way were to arrive first, they’d still be facing a force of almost seventy hostiles who knew this terrain a hell of a lot better than anyone on the good guys’ team.

Let’s just hope Red and the guys can thin the herd without getting trimmed themselves.

“What’ve you got?” he asked as Niner led him ahead of the group, he and Atlas still on point. The way Niner was walking quickly and with confidence suggested it wasn’t anything bad, though unless it was some secret resort in the middle of the jungle, he couldn’t see how it could be good news.

They stepped out of the trees and into a tiny clearing, sunlight pouring in from above, Atlas standing in the middle.

“So, whadaya think?”

“That you two of all people don’t need to work on your tans?”

Niner pointed at him. “Good one.” He pointed up. “See that blue stuff, that’s sky.”

“Yes, but there’s no way we can get a chopper through there.”

“No, but we could get a hoist. Maybe we can get some of the wounded out, maybe even the President.”

A smile spread across Dawson’s face. He slapped Niner on the back. “Good thinking.”

“I knew there was a reason we kept him around,” muttered Atlas.

“All this time I thought it was for my good looks.”

“Keep dreamin’ shit ball.”

Dawson looked up then back as the first of the group came into the tiny clearing. “Radio it in, see if we can get a chopper here. Make sure they’re loaded with supplies. I don’t think we’ll be able to stay here long enough to evacuate everyone, not with those rebels closing the gap.”

Niner headed off to get the satellite gear as Dawson stood beside Atlas, debating their best course of action.

“Whadaya think?” asked Atlas.

“I think we’ve got a very limited window of opportunity here, and we have to risk taking it. If the rebels are four hours away, that might be enough time to get everyone out.”

Atlas stared up. “I dunno. One at a time, through the trees, that’s probably ten minutes each minimum. Times fifty people. I’m no math genius, but I don’t think we’ve got the time.”

Dawson grunted. Atlas was right, at best they’d get six to ten people lifted out of the clearing in an hour, and that assumed no delays in getting choppers overhead. Even at ten people an hour, they’d need five hours, and the rebels were closer than that.

But if Red can delay them just a couple of hours…

“If we can get the wounded and the First Family out, then that’s good enough for me. Just getting the wounded out will easily double our speed. And if we can get some flashlights down here, we’ll be able to travel at night a hell of a lot safer.”

“True. It’s definitely worth the risk, BD, definitely worth it.”

Dawson knew Atlas was trying to make him feel better about his decision. It was risky, wasting perhaps two hours to get the wounded and VIPs out, and it could doom them all, but he was confident it was the right decision.

Assuming they can get choppers here quickly enough.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“That looks like the leader at two o’clock. Red bandana, cigarette.”

“Got him,” replied Jagger over the comm. All four of them were spread out about ten feet apart, using the trees and thick underbrush for cover as the rebel force advanced. They had made good time, but the rebels had been faster. His estimate had them no more than three hours from the crash site, if that. These guys were moving, motivated probably by a big payday.

“I’ve got the leader. Everyone takes three shots, watch your arcs, I don’t want to waste two bullets on the same man. Third shot, fall back and regroup half a klick back, understood?”

A series of acknowledgements came through his earpiece. “On three… two… one… Execute.”

Red squeezed his trigger, the round belching from the barrel of his MP5, screaming toward its target at over two thousand feet per second. He dropped. Red took out a second target to the leader’s left, then a third, just as the man started to react. On either side he heard the fast, single shots of the others, then nothing as he spun, pushing through the foliage.

The rebels opened up behind them, shouts of anger and panic, it clear from Red’s trained ear they were firing in all directions.

If we’re lucky, they’ll kill some of themselves.

He could see the others on his flanks and as the gunfire faded, he slowed up, the others joining him.

“Everyone still in one piece?”

“Yup,” replied Jimmy, “Can’t say the same for my three guys.”

“Me too. Umm…” Jagger pointed to a hole in Jimmy’s pants. “Is that new?”

Jimmy leaned over and poked a finger through what was clearly a bullet hole in his crotch. “Huh. I guess someone’s looking out for me today.” He nodded toward Jagger’s junk. “Good thing it wasn’t you, you might be one testi short.”

“Don’t you concern yourself with my boys, they’re squared away, thank you very much.”

Red chuckled. “Okay, did everyone hit their targets?”

Affirmatives.

“Then that’s twelve down.”

Jagger grunted. “So only sixtyish to go.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Spock froze. The sound of gunfire was distinctive, though distant. And his trained ear recognized a weapon that shouldn’t be there.

Those are MP5s!

The characteristic sounds of AKs far outnumbered the MP5s, and the weapon he trained on day in and day out seemed to only fire for a few seconds then stop, the AKs continuing for a couple of minutes then dwindling to nothing.

It was a gunfight, of that there was no doubt. And that meant there were two sides opposing each other, which wasn’t unusual in this part of the world, but the Mozambique Army didn’t use MP5s and there was no way a friendly force would be that far north of the crash site. If the rescue team had arrived, they’d be far south of here.

He smiled.

It’s gotta be Red.

It made sense. He had managed to get the portable comm gear into Dawson’s hands before the plane went over the falls, so they had obviously established comms and a search and rescue team would be on the way. But this area was known to have rebel activity, so if the Pentagon had detected hostiles heading for the crash site, they might dispatch a team to intercept them, and if he knew Red, he’d have already been in the air heading back to their last known position.

Which meant it was most likely members of Bravo Team engaging the hostiles since there was no way the rescue team could have arrived yet.

Those crazy bastards must have jumped in.

He smiled.

Definitely Bravo Team.

He headed toward the gunfire.

Ecomotel, Pretoria, South Africa

“Something’s happening!”

Khomenko struggled to his feet, joining his man on watch at the window. Car tires screeched outside, followed by men shouting. With a single finger, he moved the curtain aside just a centimeter.

And cursed.

It was the police.

How the hell did they find us?

“Time to make a decision, men. Fight and probably die, or surrender?”

He already knew the answer all three would give him, it just made him feel honored to be with such brave souls as they all shouted their unit’s motto.

“No surrender! No retreat!”

He smiled.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Weapons were quickly broken out, the table flipped over, the team taking cover behind it as one of them pulled the curtains aside.

They opened fire, shattering the window. Shouts and cries rolled across the sun-bleached parking lot as several of the police took rounds. He retreated to the rear of the small room, peering out the bathroom window at the back when a massive blast hit the front of the room. He stepped back into the room to see his men dead or dying, a grenade or some sort of explosive used on them, it clear the South Africans weren’t here to make any arrests.

His fighting would lead to nothing good.

And he refused to die on foreign soil.

They had been only minutes from leaving, his bag already packed. He grabbed it then opened the bathroom window, scrambling through, then dropping unceremoniously to the sunbaked ground, a burst of dust rising around him. He hobbled toward the nearby buildings, his weakened body and aching leg running off adrenaline alone.

He reached a narrow alley between two buildings and turned to see the first of the police round the back of the motel, cautiously moving toward the open bathroom window. If they had found them, then they most likely knew who he was, which meant they’d know from identifying his fallen comrades that he had escaped.

And that meant a massive manhunt.

He had to get out of the country fast.

Time for Plan B.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Niner held his knife blade out, rotating it back and forth, trying to catch the sunlight on it, the thunder of rotors overhead exciting the entire group of survivors, even the wounded were all trying to catch a glimpse of the angel in the sky.

“There she is!” shouted Niner as the Seahawk came into sight. One of the crew hanging out of the side waved, everyone waving back.

It had taken only fifteen minutes to arrive, one of the choppers heading for the original LZ retasked. Someone attached to a hoist stepped out and was quickly lowered through the trees, the line swinging as the pilot struggled to keep them steady, it like threading a needle with a twenty mile per hour head wind.

Atlas reached up and caught the man’s leg, halting his swing as he came to rest on the ground. He quickly unhooked himself then grabbed his radio before acknowledging anyone.

“I’m down, send the first set of supplies and a harness, out.” He turned to the crowd. “I’m Lieutenant McLain. Who’s in charge?”

Dawson stepped forward. “I am. Agent White. Are we ever glad to see you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Agent. We thought you were all dead. The President?”

Dawson pointed to the First Family, huddled together at the side of the small clearing, Starling already rising to join them.

The Lieutenant snapped a quick salute, Starling returning it. “Good to see you, Lieutenant.”

“You too, Mr. President. We’re here to get you and your family out, now. I understand your wife is injured.”

Starling nodded. “She is, but she’s not the worst. Agent in Charge McNeely is in worse condition than her. He goes first.”

“No, sir, you go first, then your wife and child.”

Starling shook his head. “Absolutely not. I leave when the last civilian leaves, not before.” He held up a hand, cutting off McLain. “Those are my orders, Lieutenant.”

McLain clearly looked frustrated, but bit his tongue. “Yes, Mr. President.”

Niner grabbed the bundle of supplies as they neared the ground. He and Atlas unhooked the line and it rapidly rose, the Air Force personnel quickly unbundling the loot and taking stock of what had just been delivered. Niner grabbed a couple of med kits and joined the doctor who was at McNeely’s side. The man was pale and unconscious. Dawson looked over at the First Lady who was talking quietly to her daughter.

He’s right. McNeely needs to go first.

If the object was to treat everyone as equals, then the President had made the right call. The problem was that they weren’t all equals. The President was their number one priority because he wasn’t just a man, he was the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth, and his death could result in a war that could kill thousands, even millions.

It was the wrong call.

Yet there was nothing they could do about it, he was in charge and they weren’t about to manhandle the President to get him into a chopper.

If we can get the seriously wounded people out of here, we can easily double our speed.

And that’s what would ultimately save lives.

The hoist lowered again with another load of supplies, the Air Force personnel once again removing them. McNeely was carried over on their makeshift stretcher as the Lieutenant hooked himself to the hoist, Niner and Atlas fitting the harness around McNeely, then lifted him gently, hooking him to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant waved to the operator overhead then looked at Dawson.

“I’ll be right back.”

The cable tightened then they both rose from the ground, a few people clapping in excitement as the first of their group slowly rose to safety. The feeling of excitement and relief was palpable, even Starling watching the two men rise through the narrow gap. Dawson felt himself breathe a sigh of relief as they cleared the treetops.

Gunfire suddenly erupted, the distinctive sounds of small arms fire pinging off the reinforced skin of the helicopter sent Dawson’s heart racing as the chopper banked sharply away, McNeely and the Lieutenant swinging wildly. A collective gasp rose from the group, ignored by the trained personnel.

Dawson pointed at the Air Force and Secret Service Agents. “Secure the perimeter! Let’s go old school and keep this simple. Challenge is flash, response is thunder.” He charged into the jungle, Niner and Atlas on his heels, racing toward the gunfire that suddenly stopped, the chopper apparently out of range.

He froze, raising his fist, the noise of the gunfire no longer providing them with cover. Using hand signals, he had Atlas and Niner spread out on his flanks as they slowly advanced, Dawson scanning the terrain ahead, carefully placing each foot to avoid any unwelcome noises.

Something snapped ahead of him.

Someone not being as careful as him.

He checked Atlas and Niner to confirm they had heard it too.

They had.

He crept toward the sound, using the thick trees as cover, then saw something move just ahead. He took cover behind a tree then glanced out to see two men walking toward him, AK-47s pointed at the sky, their heads tilted back as they tried to spot the chopper, the thunder of its rotors now barely audible.

I hope McNeely got out clean.

Dawson checked right and Niner had closed the gap, close enough for him to take the second man. Dawson picked up a rock and threw it over the hostiles, it clicking against a tree behind them.

They both spun.

Sealing their doom.

Dawson rushed forward, Niner to his right. He grabbed his man from behind, covering his mouth and yanking his head back, burying his knife in the man’s neck. He twisted the blade, shredding the aorta, blood pulsing down the man’s chest as Dawson pulled him into some nearby brush. Niner gave a thumbs up, his own man taken care of and hidden away.

Somebody called out, as if looking for someone.

Must be one of these two.

Another voice joined him.

Two men pushed through the brush and into sight. Dawson hurled his knife, burying it in the man’s chest as Atlas appeared from nowhere behind the second man, shoving his knife into the man’s kidney repeatedly while covering the man’s mouth with a huge paw.

Dawson rushed forward, grabbing his man before he hit the ground, and pushed the knife in deeper as he drew his Glock, pressing it against the man’s head.

“How many?”

The man stared at him, terror and confusion revealed in his wild-eyed expression.

Niner took a knee beside them, his weapon aimed at the woods as he and Atlas covered him. “Portuguese, BD.”

“That’s you, Atlas.”

Atlas hissed the question in Portuguese, the man sputtering out an answer.

“He said seven.”

Dawson looked at the blood oozing from the man’s wound. He’d be dead shortly, he bleeding out rapidly. The man was clearly suffering and there was no hope of saving him, not in the middle of the jungle. It was times like these the Geneva Convention got in the way, a mercy killing called for.

The man grasped for something around his neck and Dawson spotted the chain. He pulled it loose, a crucifix revealed. He placed it in the man’s hand, a prayer in Portuguese muttered repeatedly as he gasped his last breaths, his body shuddering, then still.

Dawson said a silent prayer, closing the man’s eyes.

Three men suddenly charged from the woods, their guns firing, sending Dawson rolling to one side, drawing his weapon. As he took a bead, he heard Atlas and Niner open fire.

I guess he told the truth.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red listened to the update coming through the comms. A rescue chopper had taken fire and was forced to abort the rescue attempt. They had successfully retrieved one of the severely wounded and lowered some supplies, but nothing more.

At least one’s out.

“Must be the group the Colonel mentioned that took the boat.”

Red nodded, agreeing with Jagger’s assessment. There was nothing they could do about them, it would be up to Dawson and the others to eliminate them. At the moment, they had much bigger problems.

Sixty some odd men coming directly for them, their bravado restored by time and moonshine.

It was time to thin the herd again.

“Okay, same as last time. Three rounds each, watch your arcs, fall back. On my mark, three… two… one… execute.”

Four shots rang out almost simultaneously, followed by four more, then another four.

And the herd was just a little bit smaller for it.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Senior Airman Jane Harrison held the terrified and far too young Nancy Starling in her free arm, her other outstretched, a Glock aimed at the trees. Gunfire echoed through the jungle, the armed personnel forming a line between the hostile action and the civilians, their weapons trained on the darkness.

The gunfire stopped.

She hadn’t heard gunfire like that outside training, and it wasn’t the same. In training you knew it was just that—training. Nothing more. You weren’t going to die. None of your friends were going to die.

This was completely different.

When the first shots had rung out Nancy had screamed, and she wasn’t alone. Jane had rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her and putting a hand over the young woman’s mouth, silencing her screams, the last thing they needed was for whoever was out there to know exactly where they were.

And she swore she peed a little.

It was humiliating.

But she was too terrified to give it much thought as her outstretched arm trembled, her weapon bobbing up and down, side to side, as she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.

The screams had stopped and she removed her hand, shushing the teenager. “It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”

She kept repeating it, not sure if was for the young girl’s benefit or her own. Either way she couldn’t stop herself, the phrase simply repeating itself like a record skipping.

She glanced over at President Starling, ducking beside his wife, his body placed between her and the gunfire, a look of concern on his face, but no fear. It made her wonder if he truly wasn’t scared, or if he was so adept at hiding his outward emotions as a politician, that it was all a cover, the man pissing his pants behind that practiced façade.

“Someone’s coming!” hissed one of the Secret Service agents.

“Flash!” shouted a voice from the woods.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thunder!” responded an agent, everyone easing up slightly as the three men emerged from the woods, blood splashed on their suits, all of them carrying machetes they hadn’t had before, it clear from their demeanor that these weren’t ordinary men, and she knew enough from her time on Air Force One that they were probably Special Forces of some type, most likely Delta.

It made her feel a little bit safer.

Nancy burst from her arms, rushing toward the Asian man and hugging him hard, the startled soldier looking at who was clearly his commander, then putting an arm on her back, patting her.

Jane smiled slightly.

I think there’s a little teenage crush happening there.

The man she had overheard the President call Dawson stepped forward, the group eager for news. “We neutralized a group of seven rebels. After interrogating one, we’re confident that was the entire group, however there could be other groups.” He glanced up then back at the cluster of Air Force personnel. “McNeely and the Lieutenant?”

“Safe,” said one of the Airmen, stepping forward, holding up a radio. “In the supplies they managed to drop, they included this. I guess you should hang on to it. We’re Dayshift, they’re Nightwatch.”

Dawson took the radio, holding it up to his mouth. “Nightwatch, this is Dayshift Zero-One, come in, over.”

“Dayshift Zero-One, this is Nightwatch, we read you, what’s your status, over?”

“Nightwatch, we’ve eliminated seven hostiles however cannot guarantee the safety of this LZ. We’re going to continue south and hopefully find another opening, if not, rendezvous with the rescue team. What’s their ETA, over?”

“Rescue team is still three hours from your location, over.”

“Roger that, Nightwatch. We’ll reestablish comms in thirty mikes, Dayshift Zero-One, out.”

Dawson clipped the radio to his belt, heading toward her as she stood, painfully aware she had a wet spot where she shouldn’t. “Okay everyone, let’s get ready to move out in five minutes!” He held out his hand to the crowd. “Water?”

Somebody handed him a bottle. He stood in front of her and took a long swig, holding it with only two fingers. He lowered the bottle then upended it with a flick of his finger, the contents spilling down the front of her shirt and pants.

“Shit! Sorry about that, it slipped.”

She was at first a little pissed that she was now covered in water until she looked down and realized her accident was no longer so obvious. She glanced up at him as he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Some of the best soldiers I know had the same problem the first time they were under fire.”

“Th-thanks,” she managed, making a show of wiping the water down her shirt then off her pants.

Who is this guy?

She suddenly found herself very attracted to him.

“What’s our supplies situation?”

“A few cases of bottled water, power bars, med kits and flashlights like you were hoping for.”

“Good, somebody was thinking when they prioritized those deliveries.” He glanced over at Nancy Starling. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s a wreck. No kid should have to go through this.”

Dawson nodded. “Unfortunately this is the daily life for far too many in this part of the world.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like.”

Dawson looked back at her. “I thank God every day I was born where I was. The hellholes I’ve seen are no place for human beings to live.”

“We’re blessed.”

He grinned, waving his arm at their situation. “We definitely are.”

She laughed, placing a hand on his arm. “How about we continue this conversation tomorrow when we’re actually rescued and eating your steak?”

“Sounds like a good idea.” He looked at the group, ready to go. “I guess we better get moving.” He flashed her a smile then stepped away to address the group, leaving her with zero indication he was at all interested.

The good ones are always taken.

O. R. Tambo International Airport, Gauteng, South Africa

Igor Khomenko stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and nodded with satisfaction. He looked completely different. He just wished he had hair to restyle, but his chemo had put an end to that. Instead, he sported a New York Fire Department ball cap, the brim curved nicely, the dark blue fading after putting it through a lot of abuse over the past several weeks. Non-prescription glasses with thick rims distracted from his eyes, gray contact lenses hid his distinctive green, and a thick, fake mustache completed his ensemble.

Along with the FSB provided United States of America passport.

Plan B was in full effect.

With one final look in the mirror, he extended the handle on his carry-on and rolled it out of the bathroom and into the terminal, hundreds of people hurrying to and from flights. Security was heavy, heavier than when he had arrived, and every television set in sight was tuned to coverage of the Air Force One crash, which suited him fine.

Heads tilted up at a screen would take no notice of him.

Using one of the automated terminals, he checked himself in, selecting no luggage, allowing him to bypass the check-in counter and head straight for security. If he could make it through there, he would probably be home free, though there was still the risk they might shut the airport down, though at this point he was certain the authorities had no reason to believe he would be foolhardy enough to go to the one place with more security than the government buildings.

They’ll never look for you in the belly of the beast.

The key was confidence.

One of the advantages of knowing you were going to die, regardless of what you did, was that you didn’t care if you were caught. He wasn’t fleeing the authorities because he wanted to remain a free man, he was heading for home because he wanted to die in Donetsk, to be buried beside his wife and child, to rest for eternity gazing out upon the land he had fought so hard for, and lost so much to, for the rest of eternity.

The lineup was long but moving well. A group of heavily armed police entered the area, spreading out, eyeballing the crowd.

People alone attract attention.

He glanced at the person behind him and noticed he was holding an American passport. “What do you think that’s all about?” he asked the man, motioning toward the additional security with a tilt of his head.

The American shook his head. “I don’t know, might be related to the President.”

Khomenko frowned. “I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Oh he’s not dead!”

Khomenko felt almost every muscle in his body contract. “What do you mean he’s not dead?”

The man held up his cellphone, a website too small for Khomenko to read flipping from portrait to landscape then back. “They just reported on CNN that over half the people survived, including the entire First Family. Isn’t that amazing?”

Khomenko’s jaw clamped shut, hard.

“You okay?”

He nodded, finally taking a breath. “Yes, I’m just shocked. Relieved, of course.” He shuffled forward. “I guess I had just resigned myself to the fact they were all dead. To find out this, well, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah, it’s quite the Lazarus Moment, isn’t it? They swore in a new president and everything.” The man paused for a moment. “I wonder how that works.”

Khomenko grunted, his eyes casually scanning the security personnel, he now making a point of standing beside his new companion, making it look like they had been together the entire time. He realized the man was waiting for a response. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t think that was on the citizenship exam.”

The man glanced down at Khomenko’s passport, clutched in his hand with his boarding pass. “How long have you been a citizen?”

“Almost two years.”

“That’s great. Where you from originally? Your accent sounds East European. Russian?”

“Very good. You’ve got a good ear.”

“Just a lucky guess. Your English is very good but I guess you never really lose the accent when you’re our age.”

Khomenko smiled slightly. “No, I guess you don’t.”

“I guess you’re happy to be out of there, what with everything going on.”

Khomenko felt his chest tighten, his cheeks flushing involuntarily as he prepared himself for another ignorant American’s opinion of Mother Russia. “Such as?”

“Well, what that guy’s doing in Moscow, trying to bring back the Soviet Union and everything.”

“Russia was never stronger than when it was part of the Soviet Union. A lot of people long for those days.”

The man frowned. “It’s been twenty five years since the Soviet Union collapsed and probably another five before they were a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who longs for the old days is either too young to remember how bad it actually was, or too old to accept how much better things are now. To want to go back to that insanity, is, well, insane.” The man nodded toward the screener. “You’re up. Nice talking to you.”

Khomenko nodded, trying to control his rage. “Have a good flight.” He handed his passport and boarding pass over then lifted his bag onto the scanner. He emptied his pockets, placing everything into a gray tray then stepped through the scanner cleanly. Filling his pockets, he grabbed his bag and returned a wave from the American, then made a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

Thirty minutes until boarding.

Then he could breathe easier.

He just hoped he didn’t run into the ignorant American.

He might just have to kill him.

His rage over the idiocy spouted by the uninformed fool wasn’t enough, however, to push aside his confusion over the news the man had delivered, it so unbelievable he had to confirm it for himself.

His heart sank as he read the headline on his smartphone.

President Starling Alive!

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red crouched behind a massive tree with the others, their harassment campaign a success so far. They had easily eliminated half the opposition, yet the men kept pressing on. The rebels would return fire, usually while running away, their guns outstretched behind them, then when they realized they weren’t being fired upon, regroup and continue forward.

Each time it cost them maybe ten or fifteen minutes, and each time they seemed to recover quicker, now taking to randomly spraying gunfire out ahead of their advance.

Which was why the team was positioned to their left flank.

“Lucky we’re not facing trained soldiers,” said Jimmy as the first of the hostiles came into view. “If they just pressed their numerical advantage, we wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”

Jagger nodded, taking a bead on a target. “Yup, I love amateurs.” He glanced at Red. “Shall we?”

Red nodded, motioning for them to spread out as one of the rebels emptied a mag into the jungle ahead of him.

Jagger took up position on the opposite side of the tree, Jimmy and Wings taking up position to their left and right, behind trees of their own. Red activated his comm. “On three… two… one… execute.”

Red squeezed the trigger, eliminating one of the targets in his arc, then twice more, another two down, but this time they reacted differently. Instead of running, they all dropped to the ground and opened fire, mostly in his team’s direction.

Red was already bugging out using the massive tree for cover, Jagger directly behind him, the others on their flanks. He heard Jimmy yelp to his right and he looked over, the operator still running at full tilt, whatever had caused him to cry out obviously not enough to put him out of commission.

The gunfire stopped behind them and they immediately slowed, not wanting to give away their position by snapping any branches. They broke left, to head back in the direction of the crash site and get ahead of the group again. He looked at Jimmy who was examining a tear in the left arm of his shirt. He held up his fingers.

Blood.

Jimmy shrugged. “I guess I spoke too soon.”

“You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, just don’t tell my mom.”

“If I did I’d have to kill her, and none of us wants that.” Jimmy didn’t say anything, instead examining his wound as they continued forward. “Right?”

Jimmy glanced up. “Huh?”

Red laughed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s get a little ahead of our friends then we’ll take a quick look at that.”

Jimmy slapped it then glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more concerned with their response to our last attack.”

Red nodded. “Agreed. I think they’re getting tired of being killed off twelve by twelve.” He looked at Wings. “What do you figure? Thirty left?”

Wings stepped around a tree. “At most. I can’t see them wanting to stick around much longer.”

Wings was right, but the question was how much longer. They had hit them four times, eliminating almost fifty of them, yet they continued to advance, either through incredible courage or a greater fear of what might happen to them if they were to retreat. He had dealt with these types before, and failure wasn’t an option for them. Quite often they had taskmasters back at their base that would kill one or more of them as an example, terrifying those left alive enough never to consider retreating again.

It usually meant a high body count, though it also sometimes meant victory. Casualties that might send some forces scurrying in retreat quite often only spurred these extremely motivated soldiers forward, which could be very dangerous when the opposition was few in number.

Like today.

“They seemed to have grown some balls,” he said, “which changes things. We’re going to have to switch things up.”

Wings stepped over to a wincing Jimmy, tearing his sleeve apart. “What have you got in mind?” he asked, cutting off Jimmy’s protest with a look.

“I think it’s time we stopped taking it easy on them.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Spock had zero doubt now that he was hearing MP5s battling an assortment of AKs. It was clearly a delaying op, the MP5s firing single rounds, almost overlapping, never more than three bursts, all within seconds.

They’re thinning the herd.

It must be a vastly superior force, at least in number. He doubted even government forces in this area would be anything to reckon with if it were an even fight, rebels even less so, especially rebels out of practice. If he remembered his briefing on the area properly, the RENAMO rebels were technically at peace, now part of the government, though not all had laid down their arms. If that’s who they were dealing with, whoever was harassing them wouldn’t be dealing with much skill, but they also might be dealing with men who had nothing to lose and nothing to live for.

There could be no doubt what they were after. The President. Or at least the plane. Whether they knew what plane had crashed or not was moot. A jetliner meant a huge payday just from the luggage alone.

And if they knew there were survivors, the ransom they had probably been promised would fuel their greed enough that they wouldn’t care how many of their comrades died in trying to reach the crash site.

As long as it wasn’t themselves.

He glanced up, trying to get a bead on the sun through the thick trees, it getting lower in the sky as afternoon turned into evening. It would be getting dark soon, which would make it not only more difficult to find what he assumed was Red’s team, but more dangerous.

He pressed forward, hoping to get in behind them so he could see his friends coming, rather than stumble upon the rebel group, painfully aware he had no weapon.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson stared up at the treetops, it clear the sun was getting lower in the sky, the daylight that managed to cast a dim glow from above through the canopy, dying. They could still see fairly clearly, but someone ahead snapped on their flashlight, followed quickly by the others.

He wasn’t going to bother reminding them about preserving the batteries. Either the rebels or the rescue team would be on them long before they’d have a chance to run out, and if it were the former, the last thing they’d want would be flashlight beams giving away their position.

They had barely travelled a mile, the going tough. The small group on the other side of the river had asked if they could move ahead but Dawson had refused, it more important for the two sides to stick together. The other group had no wounded to contend with and he could understand their desire to put some distance between themselves and the rebels, though according to the last update, both the rebels and rescue party were on this side of the river.

And apparently Red and the boys were thinning the rebels out extremely effectively, to the point there might be none left soon, which would take the pressure off, allowing them to actually set up camp and wait for the rescue team. That obviously would be the ideal situation, he not wanting to travel in the dark. They only had half a dozen flashlights, which meant too much opportunity for someone to twist an ankle. And one twisted ankle could be even slower than two people carrying a stretcher.

Red won’t let us down.

Niner came out of the trees ahead, carrying the portable satellite gear. “BD, Colonel wants to speak to you.”

Dawson frowned. It wasn’t the designated check-in time, which could only mean two things. Either news so good it couldn’t wait, or so bad it couldn’t wait either.

His money was on the latter.

He hooked the headset over his ear as he stopped, Niner reestablishing contact. “Control, Bravo Zero-One, come in, over.”

“Bravo Zero-One, this is Control Actual. I’ve got an update for you and you’re not gonna like it.”

Gee, what a surprise.

“Go ahead.”

“A massively superior force of over two hundred rebels are moving up the Lugenda River toward your location. It appears they have commandeered anything that will float. They definitely know who you are and that you’re alive. They know if they can get their hands on the President they’re set for life.”

“Any chance of an air strike?”

“Not in time. You need to get your people moving, Zero-One, there’s no way the rescue team will reach you before they do. They’re already almost at the waterfall where Air Force One is. My guys have you at…no more than two miles from that location. You need to get the President out of there. Leave the rest if you have to.”

Dawson knew that would be a no go. “Negative, his wife is severely injured. There’s no way he’ll leave her, and he refused to leave earlier, adamant about being the last one out.”

There was a pause, Dawson imagining the Colonel expressing his opinion with a few expletives he didn’t want on the official record. “You’re on the ground, Zero-One, what’s your assessment?”

“We’ll have to make a stand. We’ve got weapons and almost a dozen trained personnel. Ammo is the problem.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Control Actual, out.”

Niner looked at Dawson as he handed him the headset. “What’s the word?”

Dawson lowered his voice. “Over two hundred hostiles heading our way.”

“So in other words we’re up shit creek.”

Dawson smiled. “Not necessarily.”

He had an idea, but they’d need a lucky break.

And time they probably didn’t have.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Afonso Domingos stood on the prow of the lead boat, silently urging the small craft on as it struggled against not only the current but the heavy load of men she bore. Yet they were almost there. They had made excellent time, especially when news had arrived that it was Air Force One, the plane belonging to the President of the United States.

Not a soul had refused the use of their boat, more and more joining their mini-armada as they moved forward, allowing him to spread the men out and speed up their progress.

And it was only his men. The villagers that lived along the river were not welcome. This was a payday for him and those under his command. This one miracle from the sky would change their lives forever, make up for the ridiculous concessions that had been forced upon them by the peace accords, and allow them to all live a life of luxury.

Perhaps even in the United States.

It had always been a dream, and it had him wondering what the best course of action actually would be. If the President were alive, would he receive the reward he deserved for rescuing him? Or would he simply receive a handshake and pat on the back? All of the sacrifices he had made over the years had culminated in nothing but the respect of his men. He cherished that respect, though it didn’t feed him or put a Jaguar in front of his far too humble home.

He had dealt with Westerners before, and it didn’t matter if they were white or black.

They thought they were superior.

He felt a surge of anger rush through him.

A handshake and a bag of rice, that’s what they’ll give you!

He sneered at the falls in the distance.

What you do today you do for your men, and your family, for generations to come.

His decision was made. If the President were alive, they’d hold him for a ransom fit for the king he was.

Or he’d die, along with everyone with him.

Today he was in control.

Today he was superior.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Lt. Commander Rich Jacobson hacked away at the underbrush, the Search and Rescue team heading single file through the thick jungle, each man taking his turn in the lead, the swinging of the heavy blade tiring.

And they had to keep fresh.

Fatigue was their enemy, and the hot, humid, dense jungle was working against them almost every step of the way. The underbrush was thick and they were barely covering a mile per hour.

If only there had of been an LZ closer.

They were still hours away. They could have tried to insert a small team through the canopy then carve out an LZ, but it would have taken almost as long as hiking in, the jungle so dense and the area a chopper needed to land safely, huge. And with the enemy force advancing, it had been decided that every foot the survivors could travel themselves could prove invaluable. Once the SAR team reached them, there’d be an entire squad facing the enemy, with two more hot on their heels.

There’s no way the enemy would confront them.

He had convinced himself it was the right decision, since it wasn’t his and he had no choice, though he would have preferred dropping in himself at least to assess the situation, but that option had been eliminated. With rebels having opened fire on the rescue chopper that had managed to evacuate one of the wounded, the President had ordered no more lives risked, which was sort of confusing.

Who the hell is the President right now?

He was no constitutional expert though he was pretty sure it was the guy he was trying to save, though the new guy certainly seemed to be in charge.

He stopped, stepping aside to let the group pass, his shift at the front up.

We’ll make it.

They had to. After all, it was the President and his family. The alternative was unthinkable.

He flagged down the doctor who was looking none the worse for wear. “I understand you were able to talk with the President’s physician?”

Lt. Commander Petersen nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“The only severely wounded person I’m worried about is the First Lady. The worst off made it out before the chopper took fire. I’d like to medivac her the first moment we can, but with her injuries there’s no way we could risk pulling her up through that”—he pointed up at the thick canopy—“so there’s not much that can be done until either an LZ is cleared or we hike them back to the main LZ.”

“Will she survive that long?”

Peterson shook his head. “I don’t know. She should, assuming there aren’t internal injuries we’re not aware of, but these things are always hard to assess on the ground. The President’s physician believes it’s just broken ribs though her breathing is labored. He had to re-inflate a lung with a pen. She’s in a lot of pain and discomfort, but she should be okay, especially once we can get her some pain meds.” He sighed. “We got lucky from that perspective.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate to say it, but they’re lucky that almost everyone either died in the crash, or survived mostly unscathed. Can you imagine if we had dozens of people with severe burns or lacerations?” He shook his head. “That pilot performed a miracle. The river killed more of them than the crash did.”

“Why’s that?”

“The badly wounded couldn’t fight the current so went over.” Petersen sighed. “Such a waste. If they had just landed a couple of miles upstream or downstream, another twenty might have survived.” He looked at Jacobsen. “Still, it’s a miracle that any did.”

Jacobson had to agree with the man. He had gone into enough plane crashes over the years to know they could be horrible, the survivors quite often dying later from excruciatingly painful injuries, their suffering needlessly prolonged because they happened to be sitting a few seats behind those who had mercifully died instantly.

Thank God they did that fuel dump.

They had almost no details of what had happened, and frankly, he couldn’t care less at this point. All he knew was that he had fifty people to rescue, fifty people to protect.

They should just carpet bomb those rebels and be done with it.

The problem was the distances. They were dealing with incredibly tight distances on a map. Put his team in open country and they’d be there in an hour. The problem was the jungle. It was ridiculously thick, the undergrowth a constant struggle. If the rebels were twenty miles away, there probably wouldn’t be much debate, but they weren’t. They were only a couple of miles away, and apparently satellite was showing other small groups in the area that they couldn’t be sure who they were. Could they be other survivors? Hostiles? Innocent locals?

And if a bomb went astray, they might end up killing the very people they were trying to save.

They were in a Catch-22. Bomb them now when there’s a safety margin and risk potentially killing innocent people, or wait and hope the SAR team reached them first.

When it would be too late to do anything about it should they fail.

And now there were two hundred more on the way.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Roger that, Control Actual, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Red sighed, shaking his head, exchanging glances with the others as they continued toward the crash site, the rebel force only about five minutes behind them.

“Did he say two hundred?” asked Jagger.

Jimmy, sporting a fresh bandage over his arm courtesy of Wings, held up a finger. “Over two hundred. And they’re going to be between us and BD if we don’t hurry things up.”

Red pursed his lips, glancing to his left and right, the lay of the land pretty much the same as it had been for the past couple of hours. Trees and more trees. “Ok, we don’t have a choice. We make a stand. Eliminate them or break them, but they can’t be allowed to rejoin that new group. We’ve only got time for one more hit if we’re ever going to join up with the survivors before that company of rebels reaches them.”

Wings looked up at the rapidly dimming light. “If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do it now. What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to hit them from both sides this time. Jimmy and Jagger, you two take them on their right flank, then when they respond, Wings and I hit them from the left. You hold your fire, they should think you bugged out again and turn their attention to us, then you open up on them again. Fire at will, fall back if you have to, but no three shot limit. They all go down. Understood?”

Acknowledgements all around, Red sending everyone off with hand signals. He and Wings broke right, putting about a hundred yards between them and the others. He activated his comm. “Zero-two in position.”

“Zero-Eight in position,” responded Jagger.

Red took a knee behind a tree, peering out from behind his cover, scanning the jungle for movement, sound, anything. It was hard to hear anyone coming until they were almost right on top of you, the sounds of the jungle so naturally loud it was actually distracting. And sometimes what was snapping branches and rustling leaves wasn’t human at all, all manner of creatures great and small calling this place home.

“Contact, twelve o’clock.”

Red looked to where Jagger had indicated, seeing nothing at first, then suddenly seeing the silhouette of a rebel cautiously advancing, he the unlucky bastard selected to take point, knowing full well it meant certain death.

More emerged, soon a dozen in sight. The challenge they faced were the trees. There was so much cover that a sustained battle might become just that. Sustained. Their previous encounters had been over in seconds, not giving their targets a chance to hide, but now that they were going beyond a few shots, and the enemy was expecting them, this could turn ugly, quickly.

There’re worse places to die.

The entire force was visible now. He counted thirty-two, though with them passing behind and in front of trees as they advanced, it was hard to tell.

Just keep killing until nothing moves.

He activated his comm. “Zero-Eight and One-Zero, engage when ready, over.”

“Engaging.”

Shots erupted from Jagger and Jimmy, their muzzle flashes clearly visible, both on full auto as they tried to eliminate as many targets as they could. Two down, three, four, eight, too many to count, the strategy at the moment working, though the advantage would last only a few more seconds.

The rebels turned, responding in the one direction exactly as Red had expected, the MP5s silenced quickly as Jimmy and Jagger took cover.

“Engaging.”

He opened up on the rebels as they poured fire on his comrades. More dropped, at least half a dozen before they realized they were being attacked from behind. Confusion reigned for a moment, some turning to return fire, others continuing to fire on the silenced position.

“Take cover!” ordered Red as bullets slammed into their position. The sound of single shots from two MP5s across the combat zone let Red know both men were still intact, the enemy fire directed at him and Wings quickly dwindling. “Engage!”

He spun back out, most of his body covered as he searched for targets. Only a few were out in the open now, most hiding behind trees, but enough hiding on the wrong side.

He took a shot, one dropping, then another. Wings was squeezing off rounds to his left, Red ignoring his arc, concentrating on his own and making sure no one tried to escape the battle by moving forward.

That didn’t seem to be a problem.

The fifteen or so that remained seemed content to hide, though with accurate fire hitting them from either side, they were beginning to panic, their backs pressed up against tree trunks as they cowered from one side to the other, not sure what to do.

One broke, sprinting from his position, retreating rather than advancing.

Wings took him out.

Another broke, then another and Red adjusted his position as their arcs changed, the entire force now falling back.

“Take them all out.”

He didn’t want to have to deal with them again in ten minutes, no matter how few, but with the angle of attack worsening, over half a dozen managed to make it.

He lifted his weapon, rising as the MP5s became silent.

“Regroup,” he signaled, taking a direct line for the crash site then narrowing the gap with the others, enough distance that a stray shot shouldn’t make it through the trees. He paused for a moment as all four listened for any signs of pursuit.

Nothing.

“That should hold them for a while.”

Red looked at Jimmy. “You get hit again?”

Jimmy grinned. “All my original holes, no more.”

“Good. Let’s hope they’ve learned their lesson.” He activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, come in, over.”

“This is Control Actual, go ahead Zero-Two.”

“Sir, enemy is bugging out. Keep an eye in the sky on them for us, but I estimate their numbers to be less than ten, over.”

“Confirmed, Zero-Two, UAV over your area shows eight heat signatures retreating, joining two others who held back.”

“Probably their commanders.”

“Agreed. The second contingent has landed and are already disembarking. They’ve got a good climb ahead of them, but then it’s a clear shot to the survivors.”

“Roger that, sir. We’re heading now to intercept them.”

“You’re outnumbered fifty to one.”

“That sounds almost fair.”

There was a pause as the Colonel either laughed or growled. He’d never know which. “Negative, Zero-Two. Make for the survivors. Four more guns might make the difference, over.”

“Roger that, Control Actual. Zero-Two, out.”

He looked at the others, a frown on his face.

“You heard the Colonel. Let’s get a move on.”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Stand clear!”

Dawson looked to make sure everyone was well clear of the chopper thundering overhead, unseen. The sun was low on the horizon now, the jungle floor dark, all flashlights stuck in the ground, pointing upward in the hopes someone above might catch a glimpse.

He doubted it would help.

“Drop One, away!”

He saw nothing at first then there was a crashing sound overhead, tree limbs snapping, animals protesting then suddenly he could see it, the bottom of a skid dropping like a rock.

“Here it comes!” he shouted, pointing just in case anyone tasked to clear it out of the way, missed it.

It hit the ground with a crunch, just to the right of the flashlights.

“Move!” he shouted and a dozen able-bodied men surged forward, unhooking it then grabbing the netting and hauling the shipment out of the drop zone. Dawson held the radio to his mouth. “Drop zone clear, proceed with second drop, over!”

“Proceeding with Second Drop.”

“Stand clear!” ordered Dawson, the group already redistributing themselves around the drop zone. To call this a clearing would be incorrect. It was merely the only spot where there was about a ten foot radius without any tree trunks. There was no opening in the canopy overhead, they were going merely by ear, Dawson having guided the chopper to the exact drop zone once the GPS was no longer accurate enough.

He and the pilot had obviously got it right.

“Drop Two, away!”

Again the pause then the crashing sound. It had been decided by people smarter than him that trying to lower anything through the trees would not only be too slow, inviting enemy fire, but would most likely result in the cargo being hung up. But drop a heavy enough load from high enough, its momentum should carry it through the canopy.

He and the others had thought it a crazy good idea, as long as nothing was breakable.

The second load slammed into the ground, swarmed immediately by the retrieval crew, the process repeated a third time. He signaled the all clear.

“Dayshift Zero-One, Sierra Zero-One. Permission to come aboard, over?”

Dawson grinned. “Permission granted!”

The Special Forces community was vast in the United States Military. There were Delta, SEALs, Rangers, Green Berets, Force Recon and more, and they all thought they were the best. The rivalry was fierce but friendly, and when your back was against the wall with two hundred hostiles heading your way, you didn’t care what patch was on the shoulder, you welcomed them with open arms.

This time there wasn’t a crash, just some cursing echoing through the trees before the boots then legs then entire body of a Navy SEAL appeared overhead, being lowered by a cable. He motioned for Niner and Atlas to help the new arrival and they rushed forward, reaching up and guiding him down the last few feet. The man unhooked himself then stepped clear of the cable.

“Sierra Zero-One clear!” reported Dawson, the cable immediately retracting as the new arrival walked toward him. “Agent White I presume?”

Dawson laughed as the two men gave each other thumping hugs, it not the first time they had met. Senior Chief Chuck Skerritt and his team had been instrumental in helping stop the attempted coup months ago and they hadn’t seen each other since. He was a top-notch soldier, one he was happy to have help them out. “Chuck, great to see you again. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, BD. We were just returning from an op in Somalia and were already en route to the Bush when we got the call. We thought you were all dead.”

“So did we.” He lowered his voice. “We lost over forty including Spock.”

“Shit, BD, I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

“The best.” Dawson watched as a second SEAL landed. “How many are you?”

“Just four of us, I’m afraid. That’s all we could fit with the cargo. More are on their way.” He shook his head. “We should have been here sooner.”

“You’re here now.”

“Yeah. The initial SAR teams were sent with orders to hike it in since everyone thought you guys were dead. When we heard you were actually still kicking we volunteered for a drop but Command nixed it and cooked up this new plan.”

“Well, it seems to be working, and we can use more trained personnel.” He motioned toward the jungle around them. “We’ve extended our perimeter but there’s just too much area and visibility is shit, especially now that it’s getting dark. For all we know we could be surrounded.”

“There’s a couple of UAVs overhead now but infrared is having a hard time distinguishing between man or beast, there’s some good sized meals wandering around in these woods.”

Dawson nodded, watching the third SEAL break through the trees overhead. “And a few good sized things that would like to make meals out of us, I’m sure.”

Skerritt laughed. “Yeah, they briefed us on the way in. Best you don’t know what’s probably eyeing you right now. Suffice it to say shoot first, eat later.”

Dawson grinned as the third man hit ground, the new arrivals joining them, handshakes exchanged, Dawson recognizing both men. Suddenly gunfire erupted, civilians screamed, and all the Special Forces members swung toward the sound, dropping to a knee as their weapons came to the ready.

The unmistakable swoosh of an RPG from directly ahead had them all staring up, the whine of rotors as the pilot banked followed almost immediately by the sound of an explosion as the rocket hit the chopper. The mayday over the radio, repeated by the pilot, told Dawson they were still alive, but the screaming of the engines was distinct and familiar.

“Tail rotor’s out!” shouted Skerritt, who then pointed toward where the RPG was fired. “Did you see the flash?”

Dawson nodded. “Looked high.”

“Must have climbed a damned tree to get the shot.”

A massive crash overhead had everyone staring then running, the Seahawk helicopter slamming into the treetops, making quick work of the branches. Smoke and flames billowed from the tail and Dawson felt his stomach flip as he saw someone fall from the cabin, dropping through the trees then slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Skerritt leapt forward but Dawson grabbed him, the helicopter still dropping.

And then it stopped, the spinning propeller coming to an abrupt halt as the massive piece of hardware tilted past ninety degrees, the blade slamming into the trunk of a substantial tree.

The engines cut.

“Let’s go!” shouted Dawson as everyone surged forward, the chopper still about twenty feet in the air, suspended between several large trees. There was no telling how long it would last, or how long before it might erupt in a fireball. He pointed at two Air Force personnel then the body of the fallen man. “Check him!” He and the others came to halt under the chopper, staring up.

“Anyone alive up there!” There was a groan, but not much more. Someone was alive. He turned to Skerritt. “How many were left?”

“One of my men and four crew.”

“Hey, up here!”

They all turned toward the shout, Dawson at first seeing nothing. “Flashlights!” All six were quickly grabbed, the new arrivals with their own, and beams quickly cut through the darkness with limited effect.

“Give me a minute, I’m okay, I’m just caught up! I can get to the chopper!”

“That’s Felix!” exclaimed one of the SEALs, jubilation in his voice and on his face. The comrades slapped each other on the back as they tried to spot their friend overhead. “There!”

The man pointed and Dawson suddenly could see the SEAL, hooked on a branch above the chopper. They had obviously been in the process of lowering him when the chopper was hit. The bastard was lucky to be alive, let alone apparently alive and well.

One of the Air Force One crew walked up, shaking his head. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

Dawson looked over at the man that had fallen from the chopper, two crew moving his body away from the drop zone. He frowned. “Okay, we might have three alive in the chopper,” he said. “If your man Felix can get in there and free them, it’s only twenty feet, so we should be able to get them out safely.” He pointed at the flames. “But if that ignites the fuel, everyone’s toast.”

“I’m clear!” shouted Felix from overhead. Dawson watched as the man slowly climbed down the tree, reaching the overturned cockpit. He peered through the glass then waved. “Pilot’s dead! Copilot is breathing but out cold. I’m going to step onto the chopper now. Get clear in case this thing drops!”

“Everyone back!” ordered Skerritt, those gathered scattering like roaches when the light turns on.

“Here I go!”

The wreck creaked, a branch snapped, but the man’s two hundred pounds with gear seemed not to be the proverbial straw. Dawson watched, holding his breath, as Felix slowly made his way across the side of the chopper on hands and knees.

“Okay, I can see inside the cabin.” The voice lowered, as if he were talking to someone inside before he called out to those below. “Okay, I’ve got another wounded here but conscious. There’s some rope. I’m going to tie it off and try to lower him to you!”

Felix disappeared inside the chopper, it creaking in protest at the movement, the trees snapping in anger as the thousands of pounds of uninvited weaponry scarred the pristine jungle.

“Here he comes!”

“Two men only!” ordered Skerritt, he and one of his men stepping forward, the others all holding back despite wanting to get in and help. The wounded man slowly became visible from what was now the bottom of the chopper, dropping a foot or two at a time as Felix struggled to control the nearly dead weight. The two SEALs positioned themselves under the injured man, reaching up to get a hand on him.

Skerritt made contact first, stepping under him. “Okay, we’ve got him!”

The rope slackened rapidly as the man dropped the last few feet into Skerritt’s arms. The other SEAL untied him and they quickly carried him away.

“I’m going for the copilot now!”

The chopper protested again then suddenly dropped several feet before catching on a thick branch.

“Are you okay?” shouted Skerritt, everyone holding their breath, waiting for a reply.

The chopper dropped again.

“Yes, I’ve almost got him!”

Another two feet had bark and tree limbs exploding under the pressure, raining down on those below.

The smell of jet fuel filled Dawson’s nostrils. Usually a welcome smell, it reminding him of the life he loved, this time it wasn’t.

“Fuel leak!” he shouted, eyeing the flames. “You’ve gotta get out of there now!”

“I’m unhooking him now!”

“Everyone out of here, now!” ordered Dawson as he eyed the flames, a massive explosion imminent as he and Skerritt watched helpless.

There was a thud and the entire chopper shuddered, rolling again as the propeller turned, another blade catching in the Y shape of a split trunk, the Seahawk coming to a halt not ten feet from the jungle floor, completely inverted.

With Felix and the copilot pressed against the windshield.

The rotors began to bend. Dawson pointed at them. “They’re not going to hold. You’ve got seconds!”

The screeching of metal was almost overwhelming when he heard Felix shout, “Stand clear!” Dawson and Skerritt stepped back as the silhouette of Felix disappeared then just his boots reappeared, slamming into the shattered cockpit glass, the entire frame breaking away and dropping to the ground.

A sickening sucking sound from the rear of the chopper signaled the end, the sound all too familiar to these soldiers.

The fuel had ignited.

The chopper erupted into a ball of flame as Felix and the copilot dropped from the opening toward the ground. Dawson and Skerritt surged forward as the flames erupted in all directions except directly under the chopper, the metal skin acting as a heat shield. Felix let go of the copilot, either intentionally or by accident, his arms and legs flailing. Dawson jumped for the copilot, Skerritt for his man, both breaking the falls with their arms, the force shoving them to the ground hard, the falls broken.

Dawson felt hands on his shirt, hauling him to his feet before he had a chance to catch his breath. It was Niner, grabbing him and rushing him, stumbling, into the trees as Atlas hoisted the downed copilot over his shoulders in one swift motion, quickly following them into the dense jungle.

Shouts and cries filled the jungle around them and it wasn’t until Dawson was at least a good sixty feet away that he had a chance to recover his balance properly, Niner hauling him the entire way.

Dawson stood up, turning back toward the fiery crash site. “Everyone okay?”

There were shouts of acknowledgement but that was useless, he needed a true count. “Sound off! Air Force!” Eight acknowledged. Good. “Secret Service!” Two. “SEALs!” Another four. “Seahawk crew!”

“We’ve got both of them,” acknowledged Skerritt about twenty feet away.

All accounted for.

Dawson pointed at the recovery crew. “Check on those supplies. If you can get them away safely, do it.”

The dozen men rushed back toward the inferno as Dawson walked over to the SEAL team, all huddled around Felix. “You okay?”

Felix took a hand from Skerritt who hauled him to his feet. “Little winded, but I’ll live.”

“Pretty stupid thing you did,” grinned Dawson.

Felix laughed. “I hope my commander writes it up as extremely brave and selfless, worthy of a medal.”

One of the recovery team rushed up to them. “Supplies are safe, we’re getting them clear now but we need more people.”

“Take whoever you need,” replied Dawson, the man leaving, his shouts echoing through the trees as he gathered civilians to help with the human chain that Dawson could see in the firelight.

Yet none of that mattered right now. He turned to Skerritt. “We’ve got another scouting party out there, obviously.”

Skerritt nodded. “You guys took care of the last one, let us return the favor.”

Dawson smiled.

“With pleasure.”

Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters, Langley

“That’s him!”

Leroux pointed at the screen, the footage from Johannesburg accessed only minutes ago. The South Africans were insisting they handle the investigation, the administration in Pretoria apparently taking it as a point of honor to tie up their end of the tragedy, their bungling of the capture already making the press. Why they hadn’t surrounded the motel before screeching to a halt in front of it was anybody’s guess, though the prevailing wisdom in the room was overzealous lack of experience.

Whatever the cause, Khomenko had escaped, three of his men found dead in the room. Their photos had arrived and facial recognition identified them as members of Khomenko’s command in Donetsk.

But the man himself had gotten away.

Until now.

On the screen, the image of a man clearing security looked nothing like the file photo they had of him, yet it was clear to Leroux who it was. Khomenko could have lost his hair from the chemo and this man was bald, hiding it with an FDNY ball cap, the glasses had frames that were large and thick, as if to try and distract from the shape of the upper portion of his face. Not to mention he was the same build as the FSB file they had received indicated, and the mustache was obviously fake.

Who has a moustache and no arm hair?

The outstretched arm in the photo was completely free of hair, another confirmation the man had lost his hair from chemo.

And he appeared angry.

Like a man who just found out his plan had failed.

The news had broken that the President was alive just a few minutes before the footage was taken, but that was almost an hour ago. Which meant he could potentially be heading anywhere now, though almost definitely trapped on an airplane.

Fool!

Leroux watched as the computer confirmed what he already knew, the facial recognition points mapping on a side monitor, Therrien smacking his hands together. “It’s him!”

“Excellent. Let’s figure out what name he’s travelling under and what flight he got on. What kind of footage do we have access to?”

“Everything now, boss,” replied Child. “Once the President, or, umm, the Vice President—hell, I don’t know what to call him. Didn’t he just get demoted?—once whoever called, the taps opened.” His fingers were flying over the keyboard as he talked. He pointed at one of the panels. “Let’s follow him through the airport and see what flight he gets on.”

They watched as Khomenko headed for a bathroom, disappearing inside. Child fast-forwarded the feed for almost half an hour’s worth of footage until Khomenko finally reemerged, heading directly for his gate, handing over his boarding pass then leaving the frame as he entered the jetway.

“Where’s that flight going?” asked Leroux as Morrison entered the op center.

Child grinned. “Dubai.”

“Do we have any assets in that area?”

“Yes,” replied Morrison as he joined Leroux in the center of the room, watching the footage of Khomenko loop.

“Who?”

“Kane.”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Senior Chief Chuck Skerritt cleared the last of the civilians then glanced over at Felix. “Did you see where it came from?”

Felix nodded. “Yeah, looked like it came from the top of the trees. Bastard must have climbed to take the shot.”

“Which direction?”

“No freakin’ idea. It was all green to me.” He paused for a moment. “Sun was in the west, so I’d say almost due north of where I dropped. Literally.”

“That’s where I made it, too.” Skerritt lowered his night vision goggles, the jungle suddenly springing to life. The others did the same as they advanced, spreading out so as not to be a juicy target. The sounds of the survivors behind them slowly faded, as did the roar of the fire from the chopper. The Delta team along with the other trained personnel were forming a perimeter to protect the civilians, and it was up to his team to eliminate the hostiles. And now that he had a bead on their location, the UAV might just be able to help. He activated his comm. “Nightwatch, Sierra Zero-One, any targets in our vicinity, over?”

“Zero-One, Nightwatch, we’re showing numerous targets in your area, but there’s a cluster of six bearing zero-two-zero from your current position. Looks like your hostiles, over.”

“Roger that, Zero-One, out.”

He motioned toward the targets, advancing slowly as he scanned left to right for movement.

Something lit up his goggles and he flipped them up to see the streak of an RPG racing toward them. He surged left, arms outspread, knocking Felix to the ground as the rocket slammed into a tree, shredding the wood into thousands of razor sharp shards that blasted in every direction.

He winced as several pieces bored into his leg.

But the pain would have to wait.

Gunfire erupted from the trees ahead, bullets tearing into the ground to his right. He rolled left, behind a tree, then continued to roll, his FN SCAR Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle stretched out ahead of him, waiting for the shot.

The tree trunk exited his field of fire and the muzzle flashes of the AKs ahead of them were suddenly crystal clear.

He opened fire.

“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, the others to his right and left leaping to their feet and pressing forward, their own weapons firing. He was about to reach for a grenade when he thought better of it. It was one thing to toss a grenade in the open, an entirely different thing to throw it in the forest. It was just as likely to hit a tree and bounce back at you, as it was to make the target.

Felix continued to the left, the others to the right as they quickly outflanked their enemy, pouring controlled bursts on their position from three sides now. Skerritt ceased fire, rolling back behind the tree then jumping to his feet, peering out from the other side, his night vision goggles back in place.

He switched to single shot and took aim.

He fired.

One down.

Another spun around, firing at Felix’s position.

Skerritt fired.

Two down.

Another dropped, then another, his own men continuing to press their advantage using the trees as cover.

He didn’t have a shot, the gunfire now down to two weapons, only the muzzle flashes from behind the trees visible. He rose and rushed forward, taking advantage of the opportunity, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the enemy position. He was within twenty feet with still no shot, then ten. His men had adjusted their fire so they wouldn’t hit him and he signaled he was about to break right, the right flank immediately ceasing fire.

Skerritt broke right, rounding the massive tree blocking his shot.

And opened up on the two remaining men from behind, silencing their weapons.

He quickly scanned the area for other hostiles, the rest of his team joining him and taking up covering positions as he radioed in. “Nightwatch, Sierra Zero-One. What’s our count, over?”

“Six hostiles down, no other targets in your area. The rest of the readings scattered as soon as you opened fire. They were all animals, over.”

“Roger that, Nightwatch. Returning to the main group, out.” Skerritt rose. “Let’s get back to the group.” He pointed at the fallen rebels. “Grab their weapons and ammo. If we’re going up against two hundred hostiles, we may need it.”

That and a miracle.

Burj Khalifa, Dubai

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane moaned in pleasure as Helena, a Filipino masseuse, worked her magic on his aching muscles. He had just been extracted from Pakistan, a hellhole if there ever was one, and after lying on nothing more comfortable than rocks for over a week while waiting for some Al Qaeda bigwig to show, he was in need of some tender loving care.

Care that Helena was more than capable of providing.

While Dubai prided itself on welcoming foreign visitors, there was one thing he would never risk, and that was getting a massage from a local. The risk of Daddy or an older brother finding out what she did for a living too great. But the Filipinos and other foreign workers who poured into these Middle Eastern countries were completely safe to deal with, and to be honest, he felt sorry for them.

Especially the Filipinos.

More Filipinos worked outside their own country than any other citizens in the world. Over ten million worked under often horrible conditions, treated as slaves with few rights, especially in the Middle East. Mostly Catholic, they were often barred from practicing their religion, sometimes their passports were seized, they were raped, and when some tried to defend themselves, it was the innocent who were charged, and sometimes ultimately beheaded.

It was one of the many reasons Kane hated the Middle East. It wasn’t that everyone was bad, far from it, it was that he had yet to find a government that he would consider civilized. There were no democracies here, there were no equal rights, there was no freedom of the press, and there definitely was no freedom of religion.

Which was why when you were here, you were careful.

Dubai was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Decades of cheaply pumped oil and the recent sustained high oil prices had made the country filthy rich, and they were desperate for international recognition, as was the entire region. All that oil money had been put to use wisely with the “winning” of the 2022 FIFA World Cup. Thousands of foreign workers were toiling in the insane heat of the Qatari desert to build the venues that the well-heeled would enjoy in a few years, most aware but conveniently ignoring the fact that graft and corruption had chosen the location and thousands of workers had died for their pleasure.

Foreign workers had no rights.

He wondered what Helena’s life was actually like outside of the hotel. Did she feel safe? Did she fear for her life? Was she free to leave?

Her fingers reached low, below the towel, spreading out over his glutes.

He moaned again, something stirring.

Anywhere else, I know where I would want this to head.

But he preferred to keep his head intact, and he wasn’t about to get caught having sex with his masseuse in a Muslim country where he might lose his head if he wasn’t careful. No matter how liberal Dubai may appear, it was still a Muslim country and he was still a foreigner.

His watch jolted him.

And he cursed to himself. His watch appeared to be like any other semi-luxury one, but it was a highly customized CIA issue piece, it capable of receiving a signal anywhere in the world. Its discrete notification method of using a slight electrical pulse allowed him to know there was a message without anyone around him aware. No vibrations, no beeping, and unless it was on his wrist with a coded activation sequence entered, it functioned only as a watch.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Sorry, beautiful, but I’m going to have to cut this short. I forgot I’ve got a phone call to make.”

Helena stepped back and grabbed a towel. She began to wipe the oils off his body and he lay back down, enjoying the sensations, wishing he could continue this unofficially.

“All done.”

He swung off the table and stood, his towel slipping off revealing himself in all his glory. He turned away though not before he saw the widened eyes and the corners of a smile. Lifting his robe off the nearby hook, he shrugged himself into it and turned to face her.

“If you want to continue this later, I can come back. I’m very good at nuru massage.”

Something twinged below, threatening to take a peek outside his robe.

Are you trying to get me killed, little guy?

He smiled. “As tempting as that sounds, I better pass.”

She seemed genuinely disappointed. “Are you sure?”

Kane shook his head. “Beautiful, you have no idea how unsure I am.”

He signed the hotel receipt, adding a generous tip then reached for his wallet, giving her fifty US dollars, not confident she’d actually see any of the hotel gratuity.

Her eyes widened and she beamed as she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I come by later and make you forget what happened to your President.”

Kane’s eyes narrowed and he took her by the shoulders, pushing her back slightly. “What do you mean?”

She stared at him, puzzled. “You mean you not hear?”

He shook his head. “Hear what?”

“Your President. He dead. He die in plane crash today.”

Kane felt his chest tighten and his stomach flip as his watch pulsed again.

No wonder they’re trying to contact me.

He expertly broke down her massage table then ushered her toward the door, her disappointment at being sent away clear.

“I call you later?”

He decided to throw her a bone.

“Please, but I might not be here.”

God knows where I’ll be.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red raised a fist, bringing the team to a halt, everyone dropping and grabbing water and rations. They had been pushing hard for the better part of an hour as they tried to reach the President and the other survivors, though with the forest so dense, it was slow going.

He took a swig of water then a pull on a protein bar, savoring the chalky flavor, he so used to them by now it no longer bothered him. He remembered the first time he tried one he had wanted to spit it out. Now they tasted like home.

A sick and twisted home, but home nonetheless.

They’re familiar.

And when you were a soldier in the field, something familiar that wasn’t trying to kill you was sometimes worth its weight in gold.

Like Coca Cola and Hershey bars in World War II.

His breath caught, he activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, checking in, over.”

“Zero-Two, this is Control Actual. What’s your status?”

Red smiled slightly at the Colonel’s voice. As long as the Colonel was on the job, someone was looking out for their best interests, not the politicos. “We’re making best time for the crash site with no signs of pursuit. Can you confirm?”

“Roger that, UAV shows the rebel force has not advanced since your last assault. I think we can safely say they won’t be bothering you before you reach the survivors.”

“And the secondary force?”

“The first of them have cleared the ridge and are now making for the President’s position.”

“How far?”

“Less than two miles. BD’s got them moving again, but it’s slow going with the injured.”

“No luck getting any more out?”

“Negative, and there won’t be any more attempts. The rebels shot down a Seahawk that was providing supplies and inserting a SEAL team. Two dead.”

Red cursed, exchanging glances with the others. They all knew a lot of SEALs, the rivalry well known and good-natured. He didn’t bother asking who was lost, whether SEAL or crew, the loss was equally as bad. “Can you give us a bead on the survivors? How far are we?”

“We’ve got you one mile due west of the rebel force, and two miles due north of the survivors.”

“Roger that, and the rescue party?”

“Still three miles south. They won’t make it there first.”

Red’s jaw clenched. “We’ll get there, Colonel. Zero-Two, out.”

“Or die trying,” added Jagger as he pushed himself to his feet. “I still think we should hit them and try to slow them down.”

Red shook his head as he stowed his water. “Negative. The Colonel’s right. Not only are they probably expecting us to hit them, with two hundred guns, all we need is a few dozen of them not panicking and we’re toast.” He pulled Jimmy to his feet. “No, if we can join up with the main group, there’s BD and the guys, now some SEALs, some Secret Service and Air Force personnel, and four of us.”

“Make that five.”

They all spun toward the voice, cheers erupting as Spock stepped out from behind a tree, his hands raised slightly. Jimmy leapt forward, grabbing the man in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground as the others surrounded their comrade.

“We thought you were dead!” exclaimed Jimmy, returning their friend to terra firma as he exchanged thumping hugs with the others.

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated or some bullshit like that.” He grinned. “No, I went over the falls but I guess was thrown clear. Woke up downriver. I’ve been trying to find you guys ever since.”

Jagger looked Spock up and down, apparently still not believing his eyes. “You heard the excitement?”

Spock nodded. “Kind of hard to miss. I had a feeling it was you guys. What happened?”

“About seventy hostiles heading for the crash site,” replied Red. “We trimmed them down to ten apparently. But now we’ve got two hundred making for the site and we’ve gotta boogey.” He motioned toward him. “You good to go?”

“Absolutely. Just need a weapon.”

Red handed him his Glock and a few mags. “This’ll have to do for now.”

Spock took them. “Anything else I need to know?”

Jagger slapped Jimmy on the back. “Jimmy almost got shot in the balls.”

Spock cocked an eyebrow. “Good thing it wasn’t you, they might have cracked those chestnuts.”

Jagger laughed, grabbing Spock by the back of the neck. “Man, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Thanks, I was pretty sure I was a goner too.”

“I know. I thought for a while there I wasn’t going to get that twenty bucks back that you owed me.”

Spock’s eyebrow popped. “For what?”

“Cab fare from the bar last Friday. It was your turn.”

Jimmy jabbed a finger at him. “That’s right! And you owe me forty for your share of the BBQ two weeks ago.”

Spock looked at Red. “Permission to go back to being dead?”

Red jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You can always take point.”

“With pleasure. Nothin’ but a bunch of loan sharks back here.”

Red watched as Spock took the lead, a little too cautiously.

“Get a wiggle on, Sergeant, you’re not dead yet!” laughed Jagger.

Spock smacked his ass, inviting a kiss, Red reaching out and grabbing him by the arm. “Dude, you fell out of the sky, have no body armor, and are carrying a handgun. I’ll take point.”

Spock frowned. “Damn, I was hoping to get away from these bankers.”

“No such luck, but cut the chatter. These guys are way too close.”

Red took point, pushing through the underbrush toward Dawson and the others, listening for the hostiles on their left flank.

We have to get there first!

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Afonso Domingos stared down over the waterfall at the wreckage below. He had left a small contingent to try and retrieve anything they could using the boats. Once they had the hostages they’d concentrate on stripping the aircraft bare with a larger team, but for now they had to focus on capturing the President.

And their payday.

The dollar signs were dancing in front of his eyes, as he had read somewhere before, the amount of money they could get almost unfathomable. In fact, he wasn’t even sure how much to ask for. Millions for sure. Tens of millions? Billions? He simply had no concept of that amount of money. He had seen one hundred dollars once, and heard of someone who had been given almost one thousand to buy some weapons, but out here, far from the capital, US dollars were rare and small.

Yet precious.

He had instructed one of his people to contact a trusted friend at the RENAMO headquarters with instructions to keep it quiet. If anyone would know how much to ask, he would. For now they just needed to capture the man, then worry about how much he was worth.

No matter what the number, it would be enough to take care of them all, he of course getting the largest cut.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining what a Jaguar actually sounded like when the engine revved.

If it revved. Are they truly as unreliable as I have read?

Shouts ahead had him walking a little faster and he found a group of his men standing around the remains of a campfire. “They were definitely here,” said one of his men.

He nodded. “And for some time.” A fire like this wasn’t made quickly, it took effort. As he looked around there was evidence of bamboo having been chopped down and stripped.

They were making something.

He stared up at the trees overhead. It was dark now, and too many things in the jungle liked to hunt at night. He had no intention of losing anyone to nature, when there were so many men to kill.

“Torches!”

They had come prepared and torches were quickly lighting their way.

“We’re close! You heard that crash just a little while ago. Our men, your brothers, must have shot down one of those helicopters we’ve been hearing. That means they’re still there! When we reach them, we’ll surround them then demand they surrender. We must make sure we don’t kill the President! If he dies, then this is all for nothing. Remember, the money we will make on this will allow even your grandchildren to live like kings!”

A roar went up among the men as their torches were raised over their heads, the group pressing forward as more continued to climb up from the falls. Footsteps pounded toward him and he turned, raising his weapon.

“Sir, it’s me!” cried the voice of the runner he had sent earlier to find out what had happened to Nyusi and his group.

“Hold your fire!” he ordered, the man collapsing to the ground, his chest heaving. “Water!” Water was quickly brought and the young man took several swigs then pushed himself to his knees, still gasping.

“Sorry…sir…ran…all…the way…I found…them.” He held up a finger, trying to slow his breathing some more. “Only ten left.”

“Ten!” Domingos’ eyes shot wide open as his jaw dropped. He had sent at least seventy men ahead. They should have been here long ago.

Ten?

“They encountered heavy enemy resistance,” explained the runner as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning against a tree. “Nyusi said at least fifty American soldiers. They were lucky to survive.”

Domingos drew in a quick breath, anger taking hold over the shock. If the Americans had been able to put fifty soldiers on the ground, they would have been able to rescue their people and wouldn’t have bothered.

He knew bullshit when he heard it, and he recognized fear when he saw it.

And his men were scared.

If they were about to face fifty soldiers, then they were doomed. He knew it and they knew it.

Though there was no way there were fifty soldiers.

“Nyusi can’t count more than he’s got fingers, and he’s missing two of those,” he said with a smile, nervous laughter from his men echoing through the trees. “If the Americans had been able to put fifty men on the ground, they would have pulled the President out and they’d be swarming all over that aircraft down there,” he said, pointing toward the falls roaring behind him. He wagged a finger. “No, I think Nyusi’s men got lost or tired, and headed back to the village to get drunk while we did all the work!” A few curses could be heard. “I say we go get the President, and when we get the money, Nyusi and his men can kiss our rich asses!”

Cheers overwhelmed the falls, guns and torches raised in the air as the bravado of greed was restored.

“Now let’s move!” he shouted, waving them forward. He grabbed the runner by the shoulder, drawing him closer. “Did you tell them to advance?”

His head bobbed rapidly. “I did.”

“And will they?”

Fear spread across the young man’s face. “I-I think so.”

Domingos frowned.

“They better, or they’re all as dead as their friends.”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson waited in the rear of the group with Niner and Atlas. The gunfire had been fierce but brief, it all over in minutes. Skerritt had sent a message to them that they were okay, though they couldn’t be certain no one else lay in wait. Something snapped in the darkness.

“Flash!”

“Thunder!” Dawson smiled, his head turning toward the response as he snapped on his flashlight. The others did the same as Skerritt and his men stepped out from the darkness looking like they were in one piece, sporting some new weaponry.

Skerritt held up an AK-47. “Thought we could use these since they didn’t need them anymore.”

Dawson grinned as he took the weapon and the mags. “How many?”

“Six, lightly armed. They won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Niner pointed at Skerritt’s leg. “What happened there?”

Dawson saw a dozen shards of something sticking out of Skerritt’s thigh, blood soaking his pants.

“A tree decided to remind me I’m not king of the jungle.”

Niner dropped and examined the leg. He looked up. “Don’t think this is a first date or anything.”

“Never dream of it, though I’ve heard some wild stories about you Delta boys puttin’ out on the first go round.”

Niner yanked a splinter free.

“Oww!”

“Never insult your medic.”

Skerritt grinned at Dawson. “Sorry.” Another splinter hauled out, Skerritt grimacing this time. “So what’s the plan?”

Dawson turned, pointing upriver. “Atlas just came back from scouting ahead and he had a crazy idea that I think is worth considering.”

Atlas leaned in. “What he means is if it goes wrong, I’m the one that gets blamed. It was actually his idea.”

Skerritt looked at him. “Of course, Command Sergeant Majors are never wrong.”

Atlas slapped Niner on the shoulder. “Look out, shit rolls downhill.”

Niner glanced up at him. “Just because I’m on my knees doesn’t mean you can shit on me.”

“Your plan?” asked Skerritt, shaking his head.

“The river is a lot calmer here than it is down by the falls, but more importantly, it’s narrower and lower on the other side.”

Skerritt’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?”

Dawson held out his hands, palm upward. “We’ve got two hundred hostiles heading our way with no hope of our rescue team reaching us in time, and even if they did, we’re still outnumbered five to one.”

“That wouldn’t really bother me if it weren’t for the President and the civilians.”

“Agreed. We’ve got steel-reinforced cable from the chopper—”

“We do?”

Atlas nodded. “Yeah, the entire hoist assembly was blown clear in the explosion.” He pointed to a bundle of rolled up cable nearby. “I went back and grabbed it while you guys were out playing tag.”

“Good thinking.”

“It happens.”

Niner slapped Skerritt on the leg, causing him to wince. “All done, sweetheart.” Niner rose, ducking Skerritt’s swing. “Is that anyway to thank the man who saved your life?”

Skerritt gave Niner a look. “Hugs and kisses later, baby, just to say thank you.”

Niner winked. “Looking forward to it.”

Skerritt tested out the leg, then walked over to the cable. “So how do we get it across?”

“I’ll go,” said Atlas. “Tie it off on the other side, then we’ll rig a harness and everyone slides over, one at a time.”

Skerritt nodded. “Sounds like it will take time.”

“Yup,” agreed Dawson. “Some of the civilians are making the harnesses now and some rope out of vines. We were just waiting for the all clear from you.”

“All clear,” said Skerritt. “But there’s one flaw in your plan.”

“What’s that?”

“You need a SEAL to take that thing across the river.”

“You think you can swim better than me?” boomed Atlas.

Skerritt eyed him. “I know I can swim better than you.”

Dawson shrugged. “If a SEAL has to cross, then fine.” He pointed at the leg. “But it can’t be you. You’re liable to attract some unwanted company with that thing bleeding all over the place.”

Skerritt glanced down at his thigh then frowned. “You’re right. Felix, you up for getting a little wet.”

“Born for it.”

“Then let’s get to it, times a wastin’.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red froze, holding up a fist, bringing the others to a halt, he hearing chatter to their left, it distinct from the sounds of the jungle, sounds he had almost tuned out after hours surrounded by it.

This was different.

Somebody laughed.

Somebody else snapped out a scolding.

The laughter wasn’t repeated.

But it was too late, the enemy’s position revealed.

And they were close.

Too close to pass up the opportunity.

He knew Dawson was taking the civilians across the river. It was the right move, these rebels moving too fast to outrun, but they needed time. There were almost fifty people to get across and at the rate these guys seemed to be moving, maybe an hour left to complete the job.

Not enough time.

We have to delay them.

He motioned for the others to fan out then activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, come in, over.”

“Zero-Two, this is Control Actual. What’s your status, over?”

“We’ve found the rebel force, about two hundred yards east of us. They’re going to be on top of the survivors in less than an hour. Is there any chance of an airstrike?”

“Negative, Zero-Two. Pentagon says they can’t risk the President.”

“The flyboys would really have to miss at this distance, Colonel.”

“You and I are in agreement, but no one wants to chance a friendly fire incident.”

“I think the chances of a hostile fire incident is much greater.”

“Preaching to the choir, Zero-Two, but there’s nothing we can do. More SEALs are on the way but they’re dropping in well back due to what happened. Pentagon is playing this cautiously. It’s their position that the President and his family will be the first across the river so they will be safe. The others are acceptable losses should it go bad.”

“Nice. Permission to harass and delay?”

“Granted. Just watch yourselves, the odds are a little against you this time.”

“Roger that, Colonel. Zero-Two, out.”

He switched frequencies, whispering to the others. “Okay boys, delaying tactic. We’re not really trying to hit anything, we’re trying to slow them down and draw them toward us. Let’s just get about one hundred yards out, lay down some fire, then fall back to the southwest. Understood?”

Acknowledgements came through his earpiece. He flipped his night vision goggles in place and using hand signals, ordered the advance. As they neared the large group the quiet whispers of conversation became more obvious, and soon one could be forgiven for thinking they were coming up on a group of people just out camping. They were clearly in good spirits, the banter quiet though interspersed with snickers and chuckles.

Probably thinking they’re about to be rich.

“Hold.”

He stopped behind a tree, the western edge of the force visible. Most of them had torches in one hand, AKs in the other or slung.

They had no idea they were about to be hit.

“One mag each then fall back on three… two… one… execute.”

He opened fire, single shot, picking his targets as best he could, the jungle dense from this distance, it hard to find enough targets worth the thirty shots available.

As panic spread among the hostiles, a few had the presence of mind to drop and return fire as Red shot his final round. He turned and tore ass west as he ejected the empty mag and reloaded. The gunfire began to increase as the rest of the enemy found their balls, somebody coordinating them, and he could hear the trees behind him getting ripped apart, but with every step more and more lumber was between the team and their enemy. He could hear the others on his flanks, a quick glance showing everyone still on their feet, and as the bullets faded, he turned to the left, heading south, the others mirroring his move.

He signaled a stop and they all took a knee. “I took out about six.” He looked at Spock. “You?”

“Same.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Nine.”

Red eyed Jimmy. “Nine?”

He grinned. “What can I say? I had a good shot at a cluster of them.”

Red started to do the mental math. “So what’s that, six—twelve—seventeen—”

“Thirty,” interrupted Spock.

“Math whiz.”

Spock cocked an eyebrow. “No, I just paid attention in school.”

“Show off,” muttered Jagger.

Spock gave him the finger in the pitch dark.

“Umm, you do realize we all have night vision?”

Spock’s eyes popped wide. “Oops.”

Everyone stifled a laugh.

Red glanced back toward the firefight. “They’ve stopped and I’m not hearing any signs of pursuit. Looks like they’re not taking the bait. Any other ideas?”

“Keep hitting them. If we could get thirty at a time, we just might thin them out enough to either break their lines or at least make it a winnable fight when they reach BD.”

Red looked at Jagger, chewing his lip. “That’s a big if. I don’t think they’ll be caught with their pants down this time. My guess is they’ll drop on the first shot then open fire. We took them by surprise this time, it won’t happen again.”

“Then what do we do?” asked Spock.

Red grinned. “Rather than harass, we annoy.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Afonso Domingos took cover behind a tree, content to let his men return fire as he listened. The burst of fire on their position was short lived, his men quickly responding. He knew enough about military tactics to know this was a delaying action. If it were fifty men like Nyusi had claimed, there would have been a massive amount of firepower concentrated on their position, and it wouldn’t have stopped.

If there’s half a dozen, I’ll be surprised.

Which meant they were trying to delay them because he must be close.

His men were used to the jungle, used to moving at night by torchlight or less. They would absolutely be moving faster than the survivors, for there clearly were survivors. A small force wouldn’t risk their lives to protect wreckage.

Survivors mean money.

He smiled at the thought as he stepped out from behind the tree.

Nobody will stop me from getting my payday.

“Cease fire!” he ordered, the gunfire quickly dwindling to silence. “They’re just trying to delay us! We keep moving forward!”

Somebody moaned to his right, a stomach wound that would have him dead within the hour, either from blood loss or jungle beast. He pulled his Beretta and put a single shot in the man’s chest.

A hushed silence spread across the group.

“That was not punishment, that was mercy. There’s no time to take care of the wounded. If you’re wounded and can walk, head back to the boats. If you can’t, you can take your chances in the jungle alone, or ask your comrades to finish it for you. Either way, we move out, now!”

A gunshot rang out to his left, another to his right.

Then the entire force moved forward, the idle chatter silenced, the excitement over what was supposed to be an easy payday, forgotten.

This had become real.

Leaving South African Airspace

Igor Khomenko stared out the window at the night sky, the sun barely a sliver to the west, the stars forcing their way onto the deep blue canvas overhead. In the distance, he could see the red and green lights of another plane, but his eyes were focused on the ground below.

How did they survive?

He had spent the entire time in the bathroom reading every report he could find, but there were no details yet, the White House not even confirming the reports the President was alive, instead issuing a statement that there would be a press conference shortly.

Shortly.

Unfortunately, he was now on an airplane with no Wi-Fi, it apparently disabled for some reason.

Maybe they know about the hack on Air Force One.

If they did, then he would imagine that every airline in the world would have their Wi-Fi networks disabled, thinking that their systems were vulnerable. He was no tech expert and wasn’t about to speak up to tell them they had nothing to worry about.

That’s not how I did it, so it’s okay to turn the Wi-Fi back on!

He smiled slightly, his face reflected in the small portal to the outside world.

Then sighed.

What had been the point? He wasn’t out to seek revenge on the rest of the plane, just the President. His family was gravy. The others he couldn’t care less about, their deaths doing nothing to quench his desire for revenge.

Starling killed my family. He’s the one who had to die.

And now he was alive, and probably perfectly fine, perhaps already rescued and sipping lattes with his family, laughing at what had just happened.

Would they even know that it wasn’t an accident?

The thought gnawed at him for a moment then he smiled. They had to know it was done deliberately, otherwise they never would have tried to capture him at the motel. They definitely knew, which gave him some comfort. But by the grace of some miracle, Starling survived an assassination attempt so bold, it would have to send chills down the spine of even a coldhearted bastard like him.

He’ll be looking over his shoulder forever.

And if Khomenko weren’t dying, there’d be a legitimate reason for the man to look.

Yet it wasn’t to be. He could feel the life draining out of him. He had seen it enough on the oncology ward over the past six months, he recognized the death in his eyes, the sallow cheeks, the pale skin that barely clung to his body.

His body was shutting down now that the reason to live was gone. He had held on longer than he should have, all for this one shot to settle the score, to balance the scales of karmic justice.

And he had failed.

There were no more attempts in him, no more will even to try.

He just wanted to get home.

He wanted to die in his beloved homeland.

To rest in eternity, next to his wife and daughter.

A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away, closing his eyes then resting his head against the seatback, the image of his wife and daughter the morning he last saw them alive, vivid.

I miss you both so much.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Felix reached up and someone grabbed his hand, hauling him up and onto the riverbank. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, the trip across none too easy, he having slipped twice, despite his training.

Atlas is never going to let me live that down.

He swore he had heard the big man laugh on his second fall.

He pushed himself to his feet, unhooking the cable as the civilians stranded on this side surrounded him in the dark, there barely any moonlight making it through the trees overhead, the canopy from either side almost touching at this narrowed point.

How the hell that pilot spotted this, I’ll never know.

“Who’s in charge?” he asked as he looked for the sturdiest tree he could find.

“I am. Senior Airman Cornel,” said a voice in the dark.

Felix reached out and shook the man’s hand as he stepped forward. “Call me Felix. We’re going to be sending everyone over to this side.” He swung the cable around a large tree trunk and pulled, handing it to the man. “Wrap that around for me, would you?”

Cornel carried the cable around the tree and Felix took the end, repeating the process several times before hooking the end back onto the cable, everything taught. He removed his flashlight and flashed it three times, it decided that the rebels were too close to be shouting across the river.

Three flashes acknowledged.

He turned to the group. “Okay, the line is a little higher on the other side, so we’re going to slide the wounded over first. Our job is to unhook them as quickly as possible so that they can pull back the harness and get the next person across. We’ll move the wounded about a hundred yards back from the river so they’ve got lots of cover in case the shit hits the fan.”

“Do you think it will?” asked a woman behind Cornel.

“It will, it’s just a matter of when.” Steve felt the cable bounce and he turned back toward the river. “Okay, here comes the first person. This is one of my team, just to test it out.”

He watched as Reg Parker slid across easily, one of the reporters a former mechanic who managed to fashion a trolley out of the parts from the hoist, allowing Reg to slide smoothly across, gravity doing its job.

The only problem was there was no brake.

Reg had quite a bit of momentum built when Felix heard him curse.

“It’s gonna hurt!”

Felix reached out an arm and caught him, killing much of the forward momentum as Reg kicked his legs out, hitting the tree, his knees absorbing the impact. Felix helped him unhook then remove the harness fashioned out of belts and clothes. He tied it to the trolley then signaled for it to be pulled back using the vine tied to it. It immediately disappeared into the night as Reg gathered himself.

“So?”

Reg shook his head. “The First Lady is next. They’re sending her over on the stretcher, she’s in too rough a shape to hook into that harness. She’s going to have a lot of momentum built when she gets here.”

Felix frowned. “We don’t have much choice. We’ll just have to try and catch the stretcher on either side and hope we kill her momentum.”

Three flashes from the other side.

“Here she comes.”

They could see a black mass moving toward them though it didn’t seem to be racing faster and faster as they expected. The stretcher was making good speed, but was somehow controlled. Felix exchanged a quick glance with Reg, not sure what the hell was going on.

“Did you do it wrong?”

Reg shrugged. “I dunno.”

The stretcher reached them and they easily stopped it, Felix noticing the taught line attached to the trolley. He helped Reg unhook the stretcher from the trolley then signaled for its return as two volunteers carried the First Lady, moaning, into the darkness.

Felix looked at Reg. “I guess I never thought of that.”

Red shook his head. “All I want to know is did they figure that out before or after they sent me hurling across.”

“Who’s manning the other end?”

“Niner.”

Felix grinned. “Oh, he knew.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red peered through his night vision goggles, the first of the rebel force appearing through the trees. They had managed to hoof it ahead of the group and were now spread out over one hundred yards on the enemy’s right flank. It was too dangerous to hit them like they had before, it just gave them something to shoot at.

So now they’d become insects.

Annoying mosquitos.

He squawked his comm three times, starting the three count. He picked his target, counting down in his head.

And squeezed the trigger.

A single shot from five positions, five targets down, then nothing.

There were some shouts, some returned fire, then nothing, there nothing to fire at. The rebels had taken to ground immediately, all either prone or hiding behind trees.

And not moving.

Precious minutes bought.

He watched through his night vision, nobody advancing on their position, exactly as he had predicted. These men were after a prize and knew this was a delaying tactic. They weren’t about to split their force to find this small element trying to keep them from their reward. He knew from experience that too often life was considered cheap in this part of the world. Their commander would most likely be well back so as not to be at risk, sending his men forward, unconcerned how many died, as long as he reached his target.

Dawson and the others were getting the civilians across, their last communication from the Colonel indicating the First Lady and her daughter were safe though for some reason there was no update on the President’s condition. He had to assume the man was across and with every minute they bought the survivors, another one would make it to safety.

However temporary that might be.

The rebels would pursue them across the river, of that he had zero doubt. They had to know by now that there were survivors, there no reason for his team to be harassing them if there wasn’t.

US policy was that they didn’t negotiate with terrorists but that was bullshit. Ransoms were paid all the time, just through back channels and third parties so the government could claim they hadn’t broken their own rule.

What’s a President worth?

He watched as the rebels slowly rose to their feet.

Obviously enough for these guys to be willing to die.

He squawked three times and counted down, firing a single shot then falling back, more fire poured on them this time. He heard somebody grunt to his right and saw Jimmy stumbling. He made a beeline for him and grabbed him, swinging Jimmy’s arm over his shoulders and helping him forward in silence. Spock found them on the left and grabbed Jimmy’s free arm as they continued as fast as they could, Jagger and Wings joining them to provide cover fire should it become necessary.

But the return fire had already stopped.

They came to a rest behind a tree, Jimmy already regaining his feet by the time they stopped.

“You okay?” asked Red.

“Yeah, caught one in the vest, just knocked the wind out of me.”

Red checked the body armor and spotted the hole, the crumpled bullet embedded in the Kevlar. He pulled it out and handed it to Jimmy. “Doesn’t have your number on it.”

“Good thing.” Jimmy held up a hand and Wings hauled him to his feet. He moved around a bit, testing his joints. “I’m good. Let’s book.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. No time to waste over bruises.”

Red nodded, scanning the jungle behind them for movement, seeing none.

“I don’t think they’ll stand for that again. If I were their commander, I’d send half my company after us. He’s still got over a hundred and fifty men, even split there’s more than enough to capture any survivors.”

“We know that, but does he?” asked Wings.

“Good point. He probably doesn’t. We’ve bought BD another fifteen minutes, and if these guys move a little slower, maybe another fifteen, but that’s about it. Let’s get our asses to BD’s position and try to help evac those civilians across the river. Five more guns will make more of a difference there than here.”

He glanced at Jimmy, still rotating his shoulder to loosen things up.

We got damned lucky.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson watched as Niner fed the rope out, another civilian sliding across the river. The cable had held so far, not that that was a surprise, it designed to lift heavy cargo. The jury-rigged trolley was working fabulously and it was saving them so much time he was beginning to become optimistic that they might actually succeed.

Which was usually when things fell apart.

He glanced over at the President, the man sending the next passenger over to Niner. Starling had refused to go across, insisting that every civilian go across first. It was admirable but stupid. They were all risking their lives to save him, and if the rebels arrived first and he was killed or captured, it would have all been for nothing.

Spock would have died for nothing.

He pushed the thought of his fallen comrade out of his mind. Red’s team was out there somewhere, trying to slow things down, the Colonel relaying updates. He’d kill to be with them right now, thinning out the bastards, but it wasn’t an option no matter how close they probably were.

He had to get these civilians across so he could get the damned President across.

Another slid down the cable. If they weren’t in a race for their lives, it actually looked kind of fun.

Maybe Maggie and I’ll go zip lining when I get back.

He frowned. Maggie was in no condition for zip lining. In fact, she was in no condition for much. She was in such good spirits it was hard to remember sometimes that she was still recovering from her gunshot wound to the head, she always so happy to see him, the wives and girlfriends of the Unit helping her out in a near constant vigil. She had been discharged from the hospital some time ago, she needing plenty of bed rest in as stress free an environment as possible, but she was still weak.

The doctor had actually said it was good that her boyfriend was in logistics since he probably wouldn’t be deployed.

He and Maggie had exchanged a knowing glance on that one.

He knew his job was causing her stress, and he hated that it did, but there was no choice. She didn’t blame him, and he hoped after all this time she was used to it, and if she were healthy, it wouldn’t be a concern.

And now, at least for a brief time, she had thought he was dead.

That poor woman!

He watched another slide across, only one more civilian left before he was throwing the President across if he had to.

Remind me to recommend that mechanic for a medal.

President Starling walked up beside him, hands on his hips, staring across the river, everyone’s eyes adjusted to the point where they could see the other side. The SEALs were sending the civilians deeper into the jungle, away from the riverbank, in anticipation of what was to come.

This entire effort was just another delaying tactic.

It was ballsy, though so far it seemed like it was going to work.

“Good work, Sergeant Major.”

“It was a team effort, sir.”

“You and your men might have just saved all our lives.”

Dawson walked toward Niner as the last of the civilians crossed. “Your turn, Mr. President.”

Starling nodded. It was obvious the man was troubled. His wife was in rough shape. Dawson was almost regretting sending McNeely up in the chopper first, though it was the right call at the time. McNeely was worse than the First Lady, but now, after hours more of suffering, that couldn’t be said.

She was dying.

The doctor had confirmed she wouldn’t see the morning if she didn’t get help. Dawson wasn’t sure if that information had been shared with the President, and he wasn’t sure if he himself would want to know if the roles were reversed. He thought back on how tortured he had felt when he thought Maggie was dead, then equally tortured when he thought she wasn’t going to survive.

He never wanted to experience that again.

And he never wanted to contemplate life without her.

I wonder if I proposed would that be considered stressful.

He grunted.

“Something on your mind?” asked Starling as Niner helped him into the harness.

“Domestic matters.”

Starling nodded. “Sometimes the best kind, sometimes the worst.”

Dawson’s head bobbed in agreement. “I’m beginning to realize that.”

“Okay, Mr. President, off you go.” Niner gently pulled on the rope as Starling stepped off the edge, slowly sliding across. He held his breath as Niner continued to feed the rope, a little slower than with the others, this cargo particularly precious.

Three flashes.

“He’s across.”

Smiles all around as the two Secret Service and eight Air Force personnel congratulated each other. Dawson turned to Jane. “Ladies first.”

Jane smiled. “This is one time I’m happy to take advantage of being a woman!”

Dawson laughed, Niner hauling in the harness and helping her into it. Within seconds she was sliding across and Dawson found himself breathing a sigh of relief. The woman had been a rock since they had evacuated the aircraft, seeing to young Nancy’s needs and keeping the civilians in line, making sure they were busy and focused.

She definitely deserves a medal.

Gunfire erupted behind them, the distinct sounds of AKs initially, then the familiar reply of MP5s and a Glock.

He looked at Atlas and Niner. “That’s got to be Red. They’re close.”

“Too damned close,” said Niner as the other side signaled Jane’s successful arrival.”

“How far do you figure?” asked Atlas. “Half a mile?”

“Hard to tell with all these damned trees, but half a mile at most. Red wasn’t supposed to engage, he was supposed to join us. Something must have gone wrong.”

Niner helped one of the Secret Service agents into the harness. “No time for a slow ride, okay?”

“Let ’er rip.”

Niner pushed the man off and he slid rapidly to the other side, less than a minute later the harness on its return. The gunfire intensified, the sound of the enemy fire almost overwhelming, the friendly fire more sporadic.

God, I hope they’re okay!

The last surviving Secret Service agent began his trip, all that remained his team and seven of the Air Force crew that had manned the doomed flight. He watched as the agent reached the other shore.

Ten minutes. That’s all we need. Ten minutes.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red fell back, firing a short burst at the enemy then taking cover behind the next tree. Shit had hit the fan when they found themselves between an advance party and the main rebel force, a group having scattered after their last delaying tactic.

They had made quick work of the half dozen men, but it had drawn the others, 150 men now hell bent on getting past them, Red and the others now between the rebels and the survivors.

What was working against them however was also working against the rebels.

The trees.

They were so thick that it was almost impossible to hit anything on purpose, and because they were so many, not many of the rebels could actually get a clean shot without risking hitting their own men.

It was the only reason they were alive.

If they were in the desert with 150 weapons firing at them, they’d be dead by now, but thanks to hundreds of thick tree trunks, he and the others were beating an orderly retreat to the southwest, slowly moving away from Dawson’s position and out of the forward path of the main force.

There was no way they were going to be stopping them.

If only we had air support.

Earlier when they were well away from the survivors, it had been a bullshit decision made by the brass too concerned with covering their asses. Now that it was too late, it wasn’t an option. They were just too close.

His comm squawked as he dove behind another tree.

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control Actual. The survivors are clear, I repeat, the survivors are clear, do you copy?”

More gunfire tore apart the trees around them as the others returned fire, continuing the withdrawal. He activated his comm. “Bravo Team, cease fire and continue to fall back!”

The gunfire immediately halted, Spock’s Glock squeezing off a couple of rounds before he realized what was going on, he without comm equipment. Red pushed himself to his feet and sprinted through the trees like he was deking around pylons, the gunfire behind them noticeably dying with the returning fire that had spurred them on ceased.

He could hear boots pounding on the jungle floor on both sides of him so at least two had survived, the Colonel’s message repeated. He switched channels. “Zero-Two, acknowledged, stand by.” The gunfire behind them dwindled to nothing and he eased up, the others joining him, he breathing a sigh of relief as he counted off a full complement.

“Let’s get to BD’s position ahead of these bastards. They’re going to need every gun available.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Domingos listened but heard nothing, the enemy fire having stopped. Whoever they were, they were good. If they were the same soldiers that had eliminated most of Nyusi’s men, then they were extremely good.

“Did we get them?” asked one of his men.

Domingos shook his head, not saying anything.

I doubt it.

“I saw two people running away,” said another.

“Two? Only two? You mean two people did all this?” cried his nephew, Domingos immediately regretting bringing him along, the murmuring started, fear setting in. He had to act.

“It wasn’t two men, he just saw two men. Smarten up, you’re soldiers, act like it. They’re obviously scared of us otherwise they’d stand and fight. We know we’re close, we saw their fire pit and that downed helicopter a few minutes ago. From all the footprints, we know there’s a lot of them, which means an even bigger payday for us all. Now man up and move!”

His men reluctantly turned, the slow progress continuing as they hacked through the underbrush. He moved forward on autopilot, his mind processing what had just happened. If they were getting close to the President, wouldn’t these Americans be fighting to the death? Why would they be content to shoot just a few of his men then run away? He could understand why they did that with Nyusi and his men. They had time. Lots of it. But here? Now? He was pretty sure they were almost on top of the survivors. Why wouldn’t the Americans be hitting them with everything they had?

Something had changed.

What it was, he wasn’t sure, though he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

And with so many of his men dead, if he didn’t deliver their payday, he might not make it out alive.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red broke into a small clearing, the area showing a lot of recent human activity, shoeprints, trampled grass and plants, the underbrush hacked away. Abandoned supplies were scattered about, it clear the survivors had taken only what they could carry. Something long and thin glowed in the dark and he pointed.

“That’s the cable.”

Jagger stepped over and grabbed a rope made of vines, attached to the same tree as the cable. “Do you think we have time?”

Red listened, the hacking of machetes approaching quickly. “Negative.” He activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Patch me through to Zero-One, over.”

It only took a few moments for the patch to be made.

“Zero-Two, Zero-One, come in, over.”

He smiled at the sound of Dawson’s voice and stepped over to the edge of the high embankment, peering through his night vision goggles at the other side. He spotted Dawson and the unmistakable forms of the shorter Niner and massive Atlas.

He waved, the wave returned. “Everyone across?”

“Affirmative. Use the rope to pull the trolley across and get your asses over her now.”

“Negative, they’re almost on us. Want us to cut the line so they don’t know where you went?”

“Negative. We want them to know.”

Red smiled. “Ahh, I see what you’ve got planned. We’ll stay out of your way and open up a second front if needed.”

“Roger that.” Dawson paused. “You heard about Spock?”

Red grinned, Spock having insisted the Colonel not inform the others, he wanting to surprise them. “Yeah, bastard owes me money.” He motioned for Spock to step forward and their comrade walked up to the edge and waved. “I guess I’ll just have to collect it out of his ass when we get home.”

“Jesus Christ, is that who I think it is?” The excitement in Dawson’s voice was clear and he could see the others pumping their fists in the air in quiet celebration.

“Yup, found him wandering the forest, cryin’ for his mommy.”

Spock motioned for Jagger to give him his earpiece and he quickly fit it into place. “Actually, I found these guys running through the jungle like a bunch of pansies and helped calm them down. And I’ll have you know, I’ll be paying out all debts owed next week. With interest.”

Niner’s voice cut in. “Last time that interest was a sloppy kiss. You can keep your interest.”

Red laughed, stepping back and listening to the approaching force, then cut short the reunion. “They’re almost here. We’re going to go upriver a couple of hundred yards and monitor. Good luck.”

“Good luck, Zero-Two. Zero-One, out.”

Red motioned for the others to haul ass. “Let’s get ahead of this group, see if we can get a good firing position on the river. This entire day ends in the next few minutes.”

Domingos rushed forward, several of his men calling out in excitement. He entered a clearing at the river’s edge and smiled. Supplies were scattered about, several significant piles nearby, it clear this was where the survivors had been very recently. Yet something didn’t make sense. They had obviously left in a hurry; he could see no other reason why they’d abandon precious supplies including food and water and some medical supplies.

Why would you leave this stuff?

All of it could be carried, and even if they were in a hurry, he couldn’t understand leaving so much.

“Sir, look!”

He looked over and saw one of his men pulling on a rope tied to a tree, it extending down toward the river. He walked over and grabbed it.

A steel cable!

His head slowly turned as he followed the line across the river and down to the other side about three meters below. He cursed, shaking his head. Now he knew what had changed. Now he knew why they had abandoned their supplies.

They had crossed the river.

The attacks on his men had been to slow them down, to give the survivors a chance to escape to the safety of the other side. The supplies were abandoned because they couldn’t carry them over with them.

Unbelievable!

He had to admit his respect for his adversary had just gone up, the courage it must have taken to cross using just this cable, astounding.

“Do you think they crossed?” asked the man who had discovered the cable.

Domingos nodded. “Clearly.”

“I’ll try it,” said the man. “Make sure it’s safe.”

Domingos frowned as he tried to enter the mind of his adversary. If the roles were reversed, and he had crossed the river, he’d be hiding in the trees on the other side, waiting to shoot anyone who tried to come across that line. He shook his head. “No, they’ll pick you off.” He looked down the embankment then stepped off, sliding expertly down to the river’s edge, this something he had been doing since he was a child. Listening to the water, he took a tentative step forward then nodded.

He waved to his men above. “We’ll cross here like we always do. These Americans are soft and have no idea how to handle themselves in the jungle. They use rope because they are afraid to get wet. We are men! We’ll cross this river and capture them, just like we’ve planned from the start. The river will not stand in our way like it did theirs!”

His men roared and dropped over the edge, half sliding, half tumbling, the first bunch wading into the river, eager to get to the other side and closer to their reward.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouted, urging the company of men over the embankment and into the water, the first group already half way across, hands clasped together at the wrists to help each other across the slippery bottom.

He stopped the last group of about twenty men before they descended. “Stay up there. I want you to lay steady fire on the other side so they don’t get a chance to shoot our men.”

“Yes, sir!”

Gunfire erupted from the men, the effect on the other side heard but not seen. He stepped forward, his eyes glued to the other embankment, wondering when the enemy might return fire.

Maybe they fled into the jungle like the cowards they are.

Either way it made no difference. He had 150 guns and there was no way they had anything close. The harassment campaign waged against his men was like any other he had waged against his own enemies. It was effective and annoying, but it was too little, too late. They were here and there was no more room for delaying tactics. The President would be his, and anyone who got in his way was forfeit.

I will have my just rewards.

Dawson watched the river from about thirty yards back, slightly upriver of the cable. The civilians had been moved several hundred yards back so they’d be out of the field of fire, Jane and the other Air Force personnel leading them south just in case this battle was lost.

But right now, the rebels were playing right into their hands.

“Here they come,” said Atlas, positioned about twenty yards to his right. He had nine men with him including his team, the SEALs and the two Secret Service agents. Nine guns should be enough, with five more on the other side of the river if it became necessary.

He watched as the rebels neared the center of the river, it shallow here yet still up to their armpits. They were strung together in groups of four or five, hands clasped at the wrists as they helped each other across.

Teamwork.

Something he could respect.

Too bad it meant their deaths.

He watched the other side and saw a group still standing at the top of the other embankment.

Ah shit!

“Take cover! Pass it on!” he hissed, the message relayed quickly in either direction as he twisted, pressing his back against the tree he was stationed behind. As predicted gunfire erupted from the other side, tearing into the trees. He made himself as small as possible, tucking in his arms, squeezing his legs tight together, hoping the others were doing the same.

The orders he had given were clear. Should the enemy open fire before crossing the river, do not return fire. It was essential that the hostiles think they were long gone. Only then would they completely commit.

And only then could this tiny force overcome such overwhelming odds.

Lt. Commander Jacobson froze, the distinct sound of gunfire so alien to their environment it was easily heard. They were close, damned close, less than half a mile, Squads Two and Three already having reached them, making better time following the trail they had already blazed.

“Let’s move!” he shouted, spurring on those in the lead as they hacked away at the underbrush, the heavy fire continuing. “We’re almost there!”

They had to get into this fight before it was too late. The gunfire was heavy and sustained, as if whoever was attacking was in complete control of the situation.

Which meant all might have already been lost.

And he had failed.

Domingos held up his hand. “Cease fire!” His men on the embankment held their fire, the rest of the men, now on the middle of the river, visibly relaxed, resuming their struggle across, excited chatter as they realized, as he did, the unbelievable truth.

There’s no one there!

It was a foolish mistake, whoever was in command of the President’s security detail unfit for duty and clearly not a combat veteran like himself. He had fought for most of his life against the government forces and in the end, he had essentially won, though he had never been rewarded for the part he played.

In fact, it was an insult, a slap in the face, how he had been treated. And it wasn’t just him, it was his men as well. The leaders who were closer to the urban centers had become the politicians with the high salaries and cushy lifestyles. The women, the cars, the houses, the power.

He and those like him in the rural commands had received nothing but a pat on the back and an order to relinquish their weapons.

Over his dead body.

The new government had tried to disarm them forcefully, but his men had fought them off and retreated deeper into the wild, eventually the government giving up, figuring they couldn’t do any harm hidden away where they were.

And they were right.

He and his men were no threat to anyone, the tiny area they controlled along the river meaningless, the locals happy to have them there since they acted as a quasi-police force, and in exchange, they collected a small toll from any boat that passed through. They never collected from the locals—they wanted them on their side. But the boats from north or south were almost always pleasure or commerce, the passengers or owners far wealthier than he and his men.

They happily paid the toll, or unhappily at the point of a gun.

Complaints had been made to the government by some, a couple of gunboats sent up to challenge them, but his men made quick work of one, the other fleeing.

And the toll continued.

But once he had his hands on the President, everyone in Maputo would listen to him, would bow to his demands for autonomy and respect for his men. And the payday would mean they’d be able to fund their own damned country.

And his share meant complete freedom.

A girl on each arm, a driveway filled with cars, and a house trimmed with gold.

He frowned.

I’ll have to buy my wife her own house.

He stifled a grin at the thought. He was married with two grown children. He couldn’t stand her though, it arranged when they were young. Usually those marriages grew into loving relationships, or at least ones of mutual respect.

But not his.

She had been a hateful bitch from the moment they married. Sweet until the day, but once the ceremony was completed, she had nagged at him over everything, every waking hour.

So he had gone to war, it more peaceful.

He came back occasionally, though hadn’t been for several years. His sons had joined him when they were of age though after peace was declared returned to the village to establish families of their own. They had urged him to come home but he shook his head. “She hasn’t changed, has she?”

They both seemed crestfallen, his eldest answering. “No, father, she still hates you.”

He had hugged them both, smiling. “Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Now go home, take pretty wives for love, and make me lots of grandbabies.”

He hadn’t seen them since they left, though he did receive news of them through word of mouth up and down the river. They were doing well, and after he received his ransom, he’d make sure they were taken care of. And he knew them well enough to know that if he didn’t take care of his hateful wife, they would use their money to make her life better.

So he might as well do it himself so they could enjoy their own share without having to dilute it.

They loved their mother. Why, he couldn’t fathom; she treated them barely better than she treated him.

He thought of how he loved his own mother and shrugged.

Boys and their mothers.

He made a vow to see her when this was all over.

He motioned for the others to come down from the embankment and they all stepped into the water. The current was swift and he felt his foot slip slightly. He stopped and pointed to one of the men still near the shore. “Get that rope.”

The man looked then nodded, pushing himself through the water and grabbing a rope the survivors had fashioned out of vines. It was still attached above and apparently tied off at the other end. His man cut it off with a chop of his machete, then reeled in as much of the slack from the other side as he could, another hack rewarding him with a good ten meters of it.

He brought it over to Domingos who handed one end to his nephew. “Wrap this around your left wrist.” His nephew complied then Domingos left about five feet of slack between them, looping it around his own left wrist. He handed the rest to the next man, in all five of them able to move forward, the rope looped between them in case one of them should fall. The first of his men were almost at the shore as his group neared the middle. The current was stronger than he was expecting. Manageable, yet strong, each raised foot pushed slightly downriver, making it a little challenging to keep one’s footing.

The water was almost to his armpits, it a pleasant cool, and he was enjoying the respite from the heat they had endured all day when he heard his nephew yelp then a tug on the rope. Domingos’ head spun toward the boy but he was nowhere to be seen. He pulled on the rope, the boy’s arm appearing for a moment, then suddenly he felt his own feet slip out from under him.

He sucked in a breath just before he dropped below the surface, his nephew tugging on his arm. His legs swept out from under him and he dropped even further, then suddenly stopped, the rope biting into his arm as the other men pulled. He reached up with his free hand and gripped the rope, kicked out with his feet, one managing to hit the bottom enough to catch hold. He turned, letting go with his right hand and flipped around on the rope, keeping his foot planted on the river bottom, improving the angle and breaking the surface.

He gasped for breath as his other foot touched bottom. His nephew was still under, the tugs on the rope continuing but they wouldn’t be for long. He grabbed onto the rope with his other hand and pulled with all his might. The boy popped above the surface for a moment, drawing in a gasp of air then dropped below again.

And Domingos’ feet slipped out again.

The water enveloped him, it strangely quiet below the surface, almost peaceful. The rope continued to tear into his wrist as it was pulled from both directions. He hadn’t had a chance to get a full breath and he could feel himself starting to panic as his lungs threatened to burst. Reaching with his free hand, he pulled the machete from his belt and struck out at the rope, missing. He raised it again, the blade breaking the surface, then chopped down as hard as he could, his momentum cut as soon as he hit the water, but this time it hit the rope. He chopped again then again, the effort leaving his lungs burning, his body demanding he take a breath.

He swung again.

And suddenly the pull was broken, the others dragging him to the surface, one of his men reaching around and wrapping an arm around his waist as he regained his feet. He coughed the water out of his lungs, sucking in several large breaths before he looked at the frayed end of the vine, his nephew’s screams fading in the distance as the river carried him away. He felt bad. A bit. He wasn’t a good kid. A selfish little prick that complained constantly whenever he was asked to do any work.

He wouldn’t be missed.

But his mother’s going to kill me.

He turned to his men.

“Nobody tells my sister.”

His men laughed and he joined in as they resumed their crossing.

Dawson watched as a group of the men laughed, one of their comrades lost to the river. He could never understand the cavalier attitude toward life in some parts of the world. He had watched the blade cut the rope, and he didn’t blame the man for doing it. If you were both going to die, he could see cutting the other man loose. Sacrifice one to save the other. It’s not something he would necessarily do. He couldn’t imagine cutting Red or Niner away, dooming them, just to save his own skin.

But he could understand the rationale, and perhaps if he were desperate and dying, he might do the same, unable to control the instinct to survive.

Though he knew one thing.

There was no way in hell he’d be laughing about it.

It pissed him off.

“Let’s give them something to laugh about.” He took aim. “Open fire.”

Nine guns opened up on the unsuspecting force, the cries of the shocked enemy more satisfying than he had expected, the laughter at the expense of one of their own affecting him deeply. He was tired of this jungle, tired of running, tired of not facing his enemy.

And now he finally had that chance.

His enemy had made a tactical error, a grave tactical error, and they were going to pay for it. This cat and mouse game was ending here and now, and as each man cried out then slipped below the surface, carrying them away, he could feel the pressure of the past day lifting with each recoil of his weapon into his shoulder.

The return fire was sporadic, mostly sprayed unaimed into the air as they dropped, their human chains breaking apart as they tried to take aim, the buddy system failing. Their numbers dwindled rapidly and in less than two minutes the river was empty, the last cries lost in the distance, the blood already swept away.

It was as if it had never happened.

He checked the opposite shore to make sure none had remained behind, then stepped out from behind his cover, walking to the shore.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, the others stepping out, a string of affirmatives coming from his left and right. He put a hand up to his mouth. “You okay over there?”

Red and the others stepped into view near where the cable had been tied off.

“The only reason you won is because we thinned them out first!”

Dawson laughed, tossing his head back, relief washing over him as he realized their plight was nearly over. “Get your asses over here and we’ll thank you properly.”

Red waved and Dawson turned to the Secret Service agents. “You two get back to the main party and let them know everything is going to be fine. Set up camp, get a fire going, and let’s hunker down until the SAR team gets here.”

Pleased expressions abounded as the Secret Service agents disappeared into the jungle.

Somebody shouted in the distance, downriver.

He cursed.

Clearly some had survived.

Maybe this isn’t over.

Domingos heard one of his men shout from the shoreline and he kicked toward him, his hand outstretched as he struggled for breath. He felt fingers grasp his, then someone grab his wrist, halting his progress, his legs swinging toward the shore as he was hauled out of the water. He collapsed on the riverbank, clearing his lungs of water with several involuntary heaves, then dropped onto his back, his chest rapidly rising and falling as a few of his men gathered round him, some wounded, others unscathed.

“How many?” he asked, pushing up onto his elbows.

“Six.”

“Six?” He felt his stomach tighten.

“That’s all so far. There may be more, but…”

He nodded, putting his arms up, his men hauling him to his feet.

Six. Out of two hundred.

And that didn’t count Nyusi’s seventy men. Almost three hundred soldiers, three hundred comrades, dead. With nothing to show for it.

Nothing.

It was heartbreaking, though not for the reasons it should be. He was supposed to be rich, and now he was poorer than he ever had been. His army was wiped out, his command in tatters.

He had nothing.

He had no one to command, no one to lead, which meant those he lived off of had no reason to obey him. The income from the tolls would disappear, the respect of the villagers would be lost, and he’d probably be driven out of the area.

To return to what?

His wife?

Better death than that.

He looked at his men in the moonlight, recognizing and feeling their fear and anger, their confusion and uncertainty. Their lives as they knew it had just ended, almost everyone they knew dead.

For nothing.

“What do we do, sir?”

He stared upriver. It would be suicide to try and pursue the Americans. It was over, the President and the others no longer a prize that could be caught.

But he was forgetting one thing.

“Let’s get down to the plane and see what we can retrieve. There’s still one hell of a payday there, and with there so few of us left, we don’t need to split it so many ways.”

This brightened the faces of the men around him, and probably staved off a summary execution.

I might still get my Jaguar.

Air Force One Survivors’ Camp, Mozambique

Dawson rested against one side of a tree, his knees drawn up halfway, Niner, Atlas and Spock circling the rest of the trunk. They had wanted to help but the civilians were so grateful they had ordered those who had fought for them, off their feet. The brush was almost cleared away, two good fires going, water and rations being handed out.

And the mood was optimistic for the first time since the virus had wiped their control systems.

He looked over at Airman Lennox, the relief on his face clear, he and Cornel getting along once again. They had been stranded on the opposite side of the river during the ordeal, and with almost no one left alive that knew of his crime, he had been treated as just another survivor, Cornel apparently biting his tongue. Dawson was no lawyer, and definitely not a judge. He understood why the man did what he did, though couldn’t condone it. The man had acted to save his family yet in the process killed almost fifty people. He didn’t know if the man would be thrown in prison when they got back, though he was pretty sure his Air Force career was over.

No matter what, there were no winners here, only victims. Lennox was a victim, of that there was no doubt, and through his actions dozens died and some would argue—though he’d call bullshit on it—that the blood of hundreds of dead rebels stained his hands as well.

“Meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy.”

Dawson’s head lolled over to the side, staring at Niner. “Huh?”

“What I want to eat when I get home.”

“Doesn’t sound very Korean,” rumbled Atlas from the opposite side of the tree.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me I’m American.”

“You are.”

“I know. And my parents insisted we live like Americans. My mom makes awesome Korean food, but most nights around the table were American style. My mom never wanted my friends to turn up their noses at what was served if they stayed for dinner, so she only made Korean food twice a week or on special occasions.”

Spock grunted. “I find that hard to believe.”

Dawson could hear Niner shift. “Excuse me?”

“Not your mom’s cooking. I find it hard to believe you had friends.”

Dawson laughed, the thud of a landed punch heard behind him. Atlas grunted. “Could anyone else see these friends?”

“Don’t make me come over there and kick your ass,” replied Niner.

“You and what imaginary army?”

Dawson heard the comm beep, the call he had been waiting for arriving, Red’s team having handed over their comms while they rested.

“Bravo Zero-One, Control Actual. Come in, over.”

“Control Actual, Zero-One, I read you, over.”

“Zero-One, happy to report that your hostiles are in complete retreat back down the river with no one on your side. SAR team wants to know if you can get back across the river.”

Dawson glanced at Niner who grinned. “Negative, Control, that was a one way ride.”

“Roger that. SAR team should be crossing any moment.”

“Any ETA on a medivac for the First lady?”

“It’s inbound now. Should be over your location shortly.”

Dawson looked up, the moonlight barely making it through the thick canopy. “I’m not sure they’ll be able to get anyone down here, let alone back up.”

“SAR team will take care of it. You and your men can take a break. Control Actual, out.”

Dawson listened for the chopper but heard nothing. The sounds of the jungle were almost drowned out by the weary yet happy survivors, most in great spirits. He glanced over at the first family, near one edge of the clearing that had been made, Starling and his daughter lying on the ground on either side of the ailing First Lady.

She’s not going to make it.

The comm squawked. “Bravo Zero-One, Sierra Zero-One. We’ve got activity at the river, over.”

Dawson stood, the others doing the same. “SAR team should be arriving, hold your fire.” The SEALs had volunteered to take first watch at the river and Dawson had readily agreed, he and his men exhausted. Red and his team were already sacked away nearby, their ordeal a little more grueling, fighting and running through the jungle for almost eight hours with no rest a bit harder than corralling fifty people.

Though he’d remind them of the fact he and the others had fallen out of the sky, if they tried to sleep longer than the two hours agreed to.

Dawson followed a trail hacked out earlier, Atlas, Niner and Spock behind him, the sound of the river growing as they approached.

“Confirmed, SAR team has arrived,” came the announcement over the comm, Dawson feeling the tension in his shoulders immediately ease. The burden of command was about to be lifted. He didn’t mind it in combat, in fact, he thrived off it, but being in charge of almost fifty civilians including the President of the United States and his family? Not his cup of tea. He did it because it was necessary, and he was pretty sure the brass would privately agree he did a good job, though the public record would probably somehow blame him for what went wrong.

Air Force One had crashed due to a terrorist act. Over forty people were dead and the First Lady may yet die.

Somebody had to be blamed.

About his only saving grace at the moment was that he officially didn’t exist, though that blanket of protection might be thrown to the wind if a satisfactory scapegoat couldn’t be found.

“You hear that?” asked Niner.

Dawson cocked an ear and nodded, the distinctive sound of several Seahawks approaching from the south echoing through the trees. Dawson arrived at the river, the SAR team using the jury-rigged cable with their own trolley to slide across.

Skerritt glanced over at them as they emerged from the trees. “The cavalry has arrived,” he said, nodding toward the first man as two of his team unhooked the SAR team member.

“Just after the nick of time,” replied Atlas.

“Oh, that reminds me of an awesome movie,” said Niner, Spock and Atlas immediately groaning. “Nick of Time. Johnny Depp stars in it. His daughter is kidnapped and he’s blackmailed into assassinating a politician. Awesome movie. We should do that next movie night, you guys will love it.”

“Does it have all four cornerstones of a good movie?” asked Atlas.

“Only V and L unfortunately.”

“No S and N?”

“Nope.”

“Then it doesn’t make the cut.”

“Who decided these rules?”

“You did!” echoed Atlas, Spock and Dawson, the SEAL team laughing as the SAR team lead walked over.

“Lieutenant Commander Jacobson. I understand you’re in command?”

Dawson wasn’t in uniform so didn’t salute, but did draw himself to attention slightly. “Agent White. I stand relieved.”

“I bet you do,” smiled Jacobson. He held out his hand. “Lead the way.”

“Yes, sir.”

Niner and Atlas led them through the trail blazed earlier.

“You and your men did a hell of a job, Agent.”

Dawson caught a slight smirk from Jacobson.

Must have been briefed on who I might be.

“Thank you, sir. The civilians will be relieved that you’re here.” He pointed up. “Sounds like your choppers are arriving but I’m not sure if there are any gaps for them to evac the First Lady.”

“You leave that to us,” said Jacobson as they came out into the clearing, everyone who was still awake stopping what they were doing and turning to see the new arrival. Lt. Commander Jacobson immediately reported to the President as Dawson heard a small motor roar to life.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Jacobson turned and nodded. “We brought a couple of chainsaws. We’re going to clear an LZ so we can get the wounded and the President out immediately, then have a large enough area cleared by morning so everyone can get out.” He turned to the gathering crowd, almost everyone awake now. “Rest easy, ladies and gentlemen, your ordeal is almost over!”

Cheers, tears, hugs and kisses circulated the group, Jane beaming a smile at Dawson that would have made most men’s hearts skip a beat. Dawson merely returned it, oblivious to reality, his radar turned off long ago.

President Starling led them away from his family. “Commander, I’ll leave as soon as the last civilian leaves, not before.”

Jacobson shook his head. “Negative, Mr. President. President Roberts gave direct orders to physically remove you should you not leave on the first chopper.”

Starling gave him a look, a bemused smile on his face. “Oh really.”

Jacobson stifled a grin. “He said that as far as he was concerned he was President until he saw the whites of your eyes, and if you had a problem with that, you could take it up with the Chief Justice when you arrived in Washington.”

Starling began to chuckle, then outright laugh as he shook his head. “Commander, you’ve got moxie obeying that order. Fine, I leave with my wife and daughter if only to save you from being court-martialed for disobeying an order.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Timber!” shouted somebody deeper in the jungle, the sound of a tree crashing silencing the crowd, then only serving to fuel the excitement further as the thumping of chopper blades pounded overhead.

Commander Jacobson pointed to the First Lady as more of his team arrived. “Prep her for immediate transport.” He turned to the President. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President.”

“Of course.”

Jacobson snapped out a smart salute, Starling returning it, then disappeared into the woods. Starling turned to Dawson.

“Looks like you’re going to get your steak after all.”

Dawson tapped his watch. “I guess it’ll have to be steak and eggs.”

Starling smiled. “Hopefully I’ll be able to join you.” The happiness melted away from his face as he stared at his wife, the SAR team snapping together a proper stretcher. “I have a horrible feeling my pain is only just beginning.”

Dawson wasn’t sure what to say, or even if he should say anything, yet he felt compelled to say something. “Everyone is praying for her, Mr. President.”

Starling smiled slightly and patted him on the back. “Thank you, son.” He looked at the other Delta operators, now gathered in a cluster. “Thank you all.”

Air Force One Survivors’ Camp, Mozambique

Dawson extended a hand and Niner hauled him into the Seahawk, the last boot off the ground. One of the flight crew closed the door and the chopper lifted off, the load of Delta and SEALs the final group to leave. As he stared out over the thick jungle below, the morning sun already bright in the sky, he could see nothing but trees, even the river completely obscured.

A river that had saved their lives.

Twice.

Colonel Lacroix had managed to land them on it, the only reason any of them had survived, then they had used it as the great equalizer in their final battle with the rebels.

And still it remained hidden away.

How the hell did he ever see it?

One of the flight crew slapped him on the arm, pointing to his headset. “Signal from the carrier! The President and his family are secure!”

Dawson nodded and closed his eyes, a slight smile on his face. They had been through hell, all of them, but it was over. He opened his eyes and glanced over at Spock, talking animatedly with Niner about something, the chopper too loud for the conversation to be heard.

Thank God we didn’t lose him.

He would have hated to deliver the news to the family. It wasn’t his job, it the Colonel’s, though he always made it a point to see the family when a man was lost. It was devastating, every time, and it was the one duty he hated more than any other, especially the lies. The families could never know the truth about how their loved ones died, and unless it was a spouse, they usually never knew what their loved ones actually did. Every man in this chopper, Delta and SEAL, were heroes, willing to die for their country and their fellow man. They did it out of a sense of duty and honor, not for money or medals. If these men wanted money, they could leave the service tomorrow, join any number of private companies, and get paid six figures, their expertise in high demand.

But that would be almost like abandoning your post, leaving your friends to fend for themselves.

He’d never do it. As long as he had a fighting breath in him, and the Army would let him do what he loved, he’d remain a soldier. Eventually they’d force him out of active duty and at that point, he’d train the next generation. It was in his blood and he couldn’t imagine life outside Delta.

He wanted to die with the Unit.

He thought of Maggie and what she would go through if he were to die on the job. She’d be destroyed, he was sure, but she’d recover. They all did. That was life. He had no intention of dying in combat, though it didn’t scare him. He had always avoided serious relationships because he had never wanted the tortured look of a grieving widow on the face of a woman he loved.

It was bad enough his parents and sister would be left devastated.

But Maggie had changed that. He had finally given in, the woman pursuing him relentlessly, apparently at the urging of several of his men’s partners. She had confessed she was ready to give up on him in the beginning, but Red’s wife Shirley had been instrumental in urging her to continue her pursuit.

His relenting was the best thing that had ever happened to him since making the Unit.

His concerns over becoming less of a force on the battlefield had been proven unfounded, which had allowed him to throw himself fully into the relationship.

So what’s next, Big Dog?

“Thinking of that steak?” asked Red, leaning in beside him.

Dawson smiled and nodded. “Yeah.” His stomach growled, leaving just his brain guilty of the lie. “I’m starving.”

“You and me both. You gonna give Maggie a call when we get to the ship?”

Dawson shook his head. “I’ll fire her a message. I want to talk to her in person.”

“Sounds serious.”

Dawson shrugged.

“Could be.”

“Look!” shouted Niner, pointing out the window. Dawson leaned over to see several Super Hornets race by. “Better late than never, flyboys!”

Dawson watched as the planes banked in the distance then smiled.

Say goodnight, Gracie.

Below the falls, Lugenda River, Mozambique

Domingos’ eyes were wide with greed, the payday very profitable indeed. They had found the bodies of almost forty people on board the aircraft and along the river. Piles of loot lined the shore and lay on the decks of the nearly empty boats, the vast majority of the troops they had carried only yesterday dead and gone.

Yet as he held up a gold Rolex, the sun reflecting off the diamonds embedded around the face, he felt his heart race a little bit faster. Just the one watch would let him live like a king for a year.

Or at least a prince.

Watches, rings, chains, necklaces, earrings, cellphones, computers, clothing, and more were being retrieved. How much of the electronics still worked, he had no idea, though there was a lot of equipment in protective cases that he was certain were waterproof.

But just the jewelry alone would satisfy him and his men for some time.

And the weapons would allow them to maintain control of the area until new recruits were found.

They had found a cache of weapons in some unlocked cabinets, enough to equip a small army. They had handguns, rifles, bullets, grenades, body armor and more.

They were a force to be reckoned with again.

“Commander, look at this!”

Domingos turned toward one of his men as he waded out of the water. He had a large case in his hand, handcuffs dangling from the handle. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know, but it must be important. It was handcuffed to a soldier.”

“How did you get it off?”

The man grinned, tapping his machete.

Domingos laughed, patting the ground. “Put it here, we’ll try to open it later.”

“Yes, sir.”

The case was placed beside him and Domingos eyed it for only a moment, not wanting to betray his excitement at the find. It was the only thing they had found so far that had been handcuffed to anyone. That meant it was important. The only thing he could think of that could possibly be important enough for it to be cuffed to a soldier was money. Surely the President travelled with a large amount of cash to pay for his visits or grease any wheels that might need silencing during negotiations. It’s not like he could walk into a bank and make a withdrawal.

This is his bank role.

It had to be, there could be no other explanation.

He lifted the case and it was heavy.

Extremely heavy.

He covered his mouth, unable to control his elation.

There must be millions in there!

He had his payday, all neatly contained in a black case that no one else knew about. He stared at the man who had retrieved it as he climbed back into the wreckage, it difficult work, the falls roaring over the fuselage. The plane stood on an angle, the nose shoved into the riverbed, the tail high in the air, leaning against the falls.

It took a brave man to go inside.

He’ll have to die.

That would be easy enough. He’d just tell one of his trusted men to do the deed tonight. The body would never be found.

And then he’d be rich, with enough money to leave the country if he had to.

He smiled then shoved his lips out, biting his cheek in an attempt to control his excitement.

America, here I come. And you better have my Jaguar ready when I get there.

Jet engines roared overhead and he looked up to see four planes streak across the sky, over the falls. They swept past the river then out of sight, the small opening in the canopy only around the basin created by the falls.

He pushed himself to his feet, trying to see where they went, the sound of the engines changing then growing louder again. He heard new sounds, higher pitched, then spotted the missiles as they streaked across the sky directly toward them.

He reached for the bag as the first missile hit, shrapnel from the downed plane ripping in all directions, the screams of the men inside quickly silenced, replaced by shouts of terror and pain from those outside. Missile after missile slammed into the area, massive fireballs consuming everything in sight as he realized he had committed yet one more error in judgment.

He had underestimated the Americans once again, not realizing they wouldn’t be content to leave their precious aircraft to the mercies of the likes of him.

And as a fireball ripped toward him, the oxygen sucked out of his lungs, he found himself not thinking of his lost glory or his wife and sons, but of the one thing that had worried him all morning.

His nephew.

And how having to lie to his sister was no longer a problem.

USS George H. W. Bush, Off the coast of South Africa

Senior Airman Jane Harrison leaned against the cool metal of the bulkhead, her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds of the aircraft carrier, its engines, crew and constant take offs and landings new to her. She had never been on a naval vessel before though she had been sailing quite a bit with her father when they lived in Maine. She had her sea legs, something that couldn’t be said for a lot of the other survivors.

She smiled.

Then frowned, a lump forming in her throat.

So many dead!

She thought of Jennifer. They had been friends since the beginning of her tour, socializing, hanging out, confessing their deepest secrets and desires to each other.

She would be missed.

The sound of a hatch opening nearby had her head turning lazily to the side.

She smiled.

Dawson stood not twenty feet from her, looking damned fine. Freshly showered and shaved in some borrowed clothes, she felt her heart shift into high gear.

Jenn would have loved him!

A few times they had competed for guys, but always, once a preferred choice was expressed by the man, the other would back off. And if he tried to play both of them, they’d both back off.

He’s definitely a one-woman kind of guy.

He hadn’t expressed any interest earlier, though he was on duty, the enemy about to descend on them at any moment, dozens dead, everyone covered in sweat and blood.

Not exactly a romantic setting.

But she was young, hot, and single, with adrenaline fueled hormones from the past twenty-four hours that had her hotter than she had been in months.

And it had been months.

She pushed off from the wall. “Hi!”

Dawson looked toward her and smiled, turning in her direction.

Maybe he is interested.

“How are you?” he asked.

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a big hug. He didn’t return it at first, then finally did.

A little too awkwardly.

She sighed.

Oh well.

She leaned back and placed a hand on his cheek, staring into his confused eyes. “You’re taken, aren’t you?”

He nodded, looking away for a moment then back at her. “Ah, yeah.”

“Married?”

He shook his head.

“Engaged?”

Again he shook his head.

“Something wrong with her?”

He laughed. “No, she’s the greatest woman I’ve ever known.”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for?”

His smile spread wide.

“I have no idea.”

Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters

Leroux smacked his hands together as they all watched the target area blasted repeatedly by the Navy jets. If the rebels had left the plane alone, it wouldn’t have been necessary, but the difficult decision had been made by the White House to flatten the area to prevent any classified materials or equipment from falling into the wrong hands.

Unfortunately, it meant many of the bodies of the victims of Air Force One would never be recovered.

A team was already on the way to secure the area, retrieve any bodies that they could and make sure everything was recovered. It would be a big operation, the intent apparently to try and pull everything out for military and environmental reasons.

Nobody wanted the environazis raising a stink that a 747 had been left to spoil the pristine environment.

He had to admit they would have a point if they were to complain, and apparently, someone higher than him on the totem pole had agreed. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into a civilian operation once the military aspect had been wrapped up.

Though as he watched the last of the bombs rip through the dozens of boats gathered around the fuselage of the downed airliner, he took little satisfaction in this one aspect of this entire ordeal being wrapped up.

For from his perspective, there was a loose end that still needed tying.

He turned to Therrien. “When does Khomenko land?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Is our asset in place?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, boss, I found something you’re gonna wanna see.”

Leroux walked over to Child’s workstation. “What is it?”

Child pointed at the display. “Look who registered for refugee relief in Kiev.”

Leroux’s eyes shot wide open, his jaw dropping.

“You’re kidding me!”

USS George H. W. Bush, Off the coast of South Africa

Dawson stood with the other members of Bravo Team, the SEALs already having shipped off to another assignment, they not officially there either. The survivors were all gathered in the hangar bay, temporary quarters until they were evacuated, which would be shortly. Transport from the carrier was already being arranged to South Africa then a charter flight would take everyone home.

A new Air Force One had already arrived, the title merely a designation for whatever plane was carrying the President. Technically a Cessna would be Air Force One if he were on it.

“How were your steak and eggs?” asked Niner.

Dawson patted his belly. “Damned fine. The galley did a good job.”

“I think they enjoyed the special requests,” grinned Atlas. “My fried chicken was good. Not as good as my gramma’s, but she’s from Louisiana. Hers is worth going to war over.”

“I thought you were born in the Bronx?” asked Niner.

“I was, but my folks were from the South originally. Moved to New York when they were young.” Atlas looked at Dawson. “So, did they tell you who was responsible in your briefing?”

Dawson nodded. “Yeah, some Ukrainian separatist with the help of a rogue FSB agent.”

“Christ!” exclaimed Red. “Are they sure he was rogue?”

Dawson chuckled. “If they aren’t, they’ll never admit to it. If he wasn’t, then we’ll be going to war, so something tells me they’ll accept the Soviet—sorry, Russian—explanation.”

“Soviet Union Two point Oh, brought to you by madman Poutine, not just a French Canadian treat.”

Dawson and the others laughed at Jimmy’s outburst. “Soviet Union Two point Oh. Wasn’t that what Professor Acton called it?”

Niner nodded. “Yup. It fits.”

“Sad but true,” agreed Spock. “I wonder what they’re going to do with Lennox.”

Dawson shrugged. “Above my paygrade, but they just received a report that his wife and daughter walked into a police station in Annapolis about an hour ago, unharmed.”

Niner picked at his nails, frowning at something. “So this Ukrainian guy, do they know where he is?”

“CIA has a lead apparently.”

“No!”

They all turned to see Nancy Starling sprinting across the floor, her father looking helplessly on as tears rushed down the young girl’s cheeks. Niner stepped toward her, holding a hand out. She spotted him and made a beeline toward him, wrapping her arms around him as she sobbed.

Dawson felt his chest tighten, a lump slowly rising in his throat, as there could be no doubt what news had just been delivered. President Starling walked over, Dawson and the others standing a little straighter.

“The First Lady?” Dawson asked gently.

Starling nodded. “I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

Another wail from Nancy as she tightened her grip on Niner.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. President. I wish there was something I could do.”

Starling looked at him.

“There is.”

Dubai International Airport, Dubai

Igor Khomenko stepped out of the jetway and quickly made his way toward the gate for his next flight. Plan B had him on a tight schedule and heading for Beijing next. If they had truly identified him, then Moscow would be the logical destination, or anywhere else in Eastern Europe, so his backup plan had him heading for Beijing then by the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow and eventually Donetsk. Once he was in China, he was pretty sure he’d be safe, and the fact he hadn’t been met at the gate suggested he had successfully given the authorities the slip.

Which he had to admit surprised him.

They had been betrayed, of that there was little doubt. The fact the South African police had hit the motel meant someone had talked. His men in America hadn’t been captured up to that point, and they only knew what they needed to know operationally.

They had no clue the operation was even taking place in South Africa, let alone the name of the motel they were staying at.

Which meant Moscow.

Dudnik must have talked.

And he was privy to the entire plan. He would have been able to tell the Americans who he was and where he was. What Dudnik didn’t know was that the accommodations had been changed, just in case. He had learned long ago to trust no one, especially spies.

It must have been the cellphone.

He felt it in his pocket, turned off since South Africa. It suddenly felt very heavy. He spotted a garbage can and headed for it, pulling the cellphone out of his pocket and palming it. He dropped it in the can then continued on.

Somebody slammed into him, hot coffee splashing onto his chest.

He cursed, pulling the scalding hot shirt off his skin as he stepped back from the asshole. “Look where you’re going!” he cried in English. The man looked at him, the half-empty cup held out to his side, his face aghast.

“I’m so sorry!” He glanced at his watch. “I’m really sorry, I truly am, but I’ve got a flight to catch.” The man rushed off, pulling a carry-on behind him, continuing to apologize as he disappeared into the crowd.

Khomenko futilely wiped at the coffee covering his shirt, the heat quickly dissipating, but the bastard was a coffee pussy, it loaded with sugar and cream, his chest quickly turning into a sticky mess. He searched for a bathroom and spotted the universal blue sign, heading quickly for it, there not much time to waste.

Entering the bathroom, he walked up to the sink, pulling his soiled shirt off and using it to wipe as much of the coffee as he could off his chest, then shoved it into a garbage can. Splashing copious amounts of water on his pale, hairless pecs, pecs that now sagged under the weight of his own skin, he used paper towel to dry himself off.

He glanced in the mirror and noticed several people giving him odd looks, making him wonder if it was his actions or his appearance causing the rude behavior.

You’d be staring too.

He looked in the mirror, staring into his own eyes.

He was tired.

Tired of living.

I just want this to be over with.

Now.

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane shoved the rest of the sugar and cream laden coffee cup into a garbage can, circling back toward his target. He quickly reacquired him with some help from his eye in the sky back at Langley. His old high school buddy, and one of his only true friends in the world, Chris Leroux, was acting as Control on this op, his team expertly overriding the video cameras as he walked through the airport. By the time he left, there’d be no evidence he had ever been there.

Not that he expected the authorities in Dubai to dig too deeply, especially when they found out who his target was.

“He’s headed into the bathroom.”

“Copy that.”

“Do you see the janitor?”

Kane spotted what looked like a foreign worker, possibly a Filipino, pushing a janitor’s cart toward the bathroom entrance. He was actually a CIA plant, a low level operative that worked Dubai, not cleared for assassination like he was, though definitely more than qualified to assist in one.

“Affirmative.”

The janitor put a sign in front of the bathroom door indicating in several languages that it was closed, several disappointed and uncomfortable men already being redirected farther into the terminal. Kane stepped past him, each ignoring the other, knowing glances not exchanged in real life. Instead, Tagalog curses were directed at his back as this tourist ignored the sign, the man following him in and handing him a rolled up newspaper.

Kane took it, the heft of a gun obvious. As he rounded the corner, he found about half a dozen men, including Khomenko at the far sink, washing his chest clean. The bathroom quickly emptied as toilets flushed, taps turned off and hand dryers finished.

They were alone, Khomenko reaching into his carry-on bag, pulling out a clean shirt.

Kane pulled the gun and cleared his throat.

Khomenko spun toward the sound, immediately recognizing the asshole that had spilled coffee all over him.

Then he noticed the gun.

He frowned, realizing it had all been planned, not an accident at all.

And that he hadn’t escaped like he had thought.

“You are American?”

The man flicked the gun, indicating their conversation should be moved to the bathroom stall, then twisted a suppressor in place.

Khomenko nodded, resigned to his fate. He raised his hands slightly, walking toward the large handicap stall, stepping inside. He could feel the cold sweat of fear begin to drench his body, a chill shivering over him as he turned to face his assassin, bare chested.

He wasn’t going to die in his beloved Donetsk; he wouldn’t be buried beside his wife and child, overlooking the river for eternity. Instead, he was going to die in an unholy country, his body probably sent to America and cremated after an undignified autopsy, his ashes scattered in some grotesque manner.

So be it. At least I’ll be with my family soon.

He glared at the man who had yet to say a word.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The man nodded, then aimed his weapon low, catching Khomenko by surprise.

Why—?

A shot popped, then another, it taking a moment before Khomenko realized what had just happened, the excruciating pain suddenly overwhelming him as he dropped to his knees, the impact sending another jolt of agony through his body, the shattered kneecaps now bloody pulps. He fell to his side, trying to relieve the pressure on the wounds, his body slamming against the cool metal of the bathroom stall, one hand gripping the toilet paper dispenser, the other reaching for his knees, too scared to touch them.

He was about to scream out at the agony when the man leaned forward, gun pointed at Khomenko’s chest, the free hand clamping over his mouth.

“Feel free to scream.”

Khomenko did, his tearing eyes wide, staring into the cold, unfeeling orbs of his enemy. It was as if the man had no soul, didn’t care about the agony he was causing.

He’s merciless.

Khomenko’s scream subsided and the hand was removed, leaving him gasping for breath as his body adjusted to the new level of pain. He looked back up at the man. “Kill me.”

“Oh, you’re going to die. But first I have a little secret to let you in on.”

Khomenko said nothing. He was being toyed with to prolong his suffering, and he wasn’t about to give the man the satisfaction of playing along.

The man smiled. “What, not interested?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone, swiping his thumb then tapping a few times. “I think you’ll want to see these photos. Do you know who they’re of?”

Again, Khomenko said nothing, instead wincing as a jolt of pain surged up his leg.

“You know these two ladies. Are you sure you don’t want to guess?”

Two ladies. Who the hell is he talking about?

All the women in his life were dead. His wife, his daughter, his mother. All dead. He knew a lot of women, though none was close enough for anyone to possibly think he would care about them.

“Here, I’ll give you a hint. They died six months ago.”

Khomenko glared at the man, his lip curling up slightly as he tried to grab him, the surge of pain at the movement completely incapacitating him as he fought to stay conscious.

“Don’t pass out on me now. This should cheer you up so you’ll want to be awake.” He felt a slap on his cheek. “You still with me?”

The world snapped back into focus and he glared at the man, finally breaking his silence. “If you have disturbed their graves, my men will seek you out and make certain you suffer a death far worse than the one you intend for me.”

The man smiled, then flipped the phone around so Khomenko could see the photo.

He gasped.

It was his wife, sitting on a bench, their daughter curled up beside her. He didn’t recognize the photo or the location, but a Ukrainian flag was on the wall behind them. The last time a Ukrainian flag would have been anywhere near them was long ago, and their daughter much smaller.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this?”

The man swiped his finger, flipping through several photos of his wife and daughter, then stood back. “Your wife and daughter never died.”

Khomenko felt his mouth fill with bile, then his stomach leaped in relief then his chest tightened in anger. He was being toyed with again. He knew they were dead, he had seen their bodies with the others, he had attended their funeral.

They were dead.

You picked out two bodies that looked like them. They were unrecognizable.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember that day. There were so many bodies, so much confusion. He had walked up the line, picking them out where his lieutenant had stopped.

“That’s them.”

It was them.

“That’s them,” the lieutenant had said.

He gasped at the sudden realization, his memory of that day completely wrong. He hadn’t identified them at all; it had been the lieutenant. The lieutenant had pointed at the two mutilated bodies, covered in blankets. It was this young man who had never met his family that had identified them.

He had never actually looked at them, had never actually seen their faces. The funeral had been closed casket, everything happening so fast due to his wound, he had never stopped to question if it was them.

But even if it wasn’t, they should be dead. The apartment building was flattened and they were inside it.

Weren’t they?

“Would you like to know the truth?”

Khomenko looked up at the man, his eyes pleading for a little mercy, for proof that his beloved family was still alive.

He nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Very well. As soon as you left that morning, your wife packed a bag and left with your daughter for Kiev. She left you a note explaining all this, but it was lost in the explosion that flattened your apartment. According to Ukrainian authorities, she betrayed you because she didn’t believe in the war. It had turned you into a monster that she didn’t recognize or love anymore. So she decided to leave you and wait out the war in safety. She never knew you thought they were dead, and she has no clue that you are here now, about to die.”

Khomenko’s heart was slamming in his chest, his eyes wide, his mouth agape, as he processed the words. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be true. There was no way his wife, his soulmate, could betray him like this, could take his daughter and deliver her into the hands of the enemy who would oppress them.

“I don’t believe you.”

The man tapped at his phone then the unmistakable sound of his wife’s voice could be heard along with a man’s voice. She was being interviewed, her answers confirming the horrid truth just revealed him.

He slumped against the bathroom stall, his eyes closing as he listened to each word, every syllable another dagger to his heart as he realized the woman he thought had loved him, hadn’t for some time, the woman he had shared everything with, had fought so hard for, thought of him as a horrible monster that might come home one day and take out his frustrations on her or their daughter.

A woman who was pregnant with a second child, the discovery of that pregnancy spurring her into action.

The recording ended and the man slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Everything you did, everything you did that you said was for them, was for nothing. All the innocent people you killed was to avenge a woman who hated you, who feared you, who had fallen out of love with you long ago.”

Tears poured down Khomenko’s cheeks as he realized everything he had done had no meaning. The humiliation of failing in his mission to kill the President was nothing compared to the collapse of his entire world. Every memory of his wife was now suspect, her smiles, her kisses, her tender caresses, were all tainted.

Was it all just an act? Could there have been something still there?

He looked up at the man. “Get it over with.”

The man nodded and aimed the gun at his head, then quickly drew it away. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a message for you from the President.”

Khomenko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“Burn in hell.”

Kane squeezed the trigger twice, a double-tap to the head, then followed it up by emptying the magazine into the chest, a message being sent to anyone who would dare mess with the First Family. The request had come through Dawson a short while ago, it unofficial, though something he had been more than happy to deliver on.

The First Lady was dead.

A husband was grieving.

A husband with people like Kane at his disposal.

So a message had been delivered, there no doubt in Khomenko’s final thoughts who was killing him. Not Kane, but the President himself, Kane merely an instrument to exact revenge.

Kane stepped out of the stall and grabbed the carry-on, dragging it inside. He locked the door from the inside then slipped under and out. He stuffed the gun in the garbage bin embedded in the wall then strode out and past the janitor, mopping the floor in front of the bathroom. He pulled out his cellphone as he headed for the airport exit, dialing a number from memory, it immediately answered.

“Hey BD, it’s me. Tell him his message was delivered.”

Maggie Harris Residence

Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, a Command Sergeant Major in America’s most elite fighting unit, was scared. Terrified. He actually was trembling as he extended a hand to knock on the door. Spotting his ailment, he jerked his hand back and sucked in a deep, slow breath through his nose, holding it then exhaling though his mouth, using some of his battlefield training for something other than combat.

He had arrived last night but hadn’t told Maggie, there too many things to take care of after his debriefing. But the plan had been put in motion, meetings and phone calls with the Colonel and Maggie’s doctors just the start.

It had been the call to Maggie’s father that had been the most terrifying thing, more so than anything he had faced in Mozambique.

Until now.

He held out his hand.

Okay, we’re good.

He knocked gently on the door, it opened almost immediately, Red’s wife Shirley grinning at him, tears in her eyes. “I guess you got medical clearance?”

He nodded. “Uh huh.”

“You look terrified.”

Is it that obvious? “I’d rather face ISIS singlehandedly. At least I know what they’re going to say.”

Shirley reached out and took his hand in hers, it trembling again. “You’ll do fine.” She stepped inside the apartment and grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. “I’ll leave you two alone. She’s taking a nap in the bedroom.”

Dawson nodded and stepped aside as Shirley stepped out. She reached up and pulled his head down, giving him a peck on the cheek, then hurried toward the elevator.

Dawson entered the apartment and closed the door, suddenly painfully aware his hands were empty.

I should have got her flowers.

He shrugged.

Nothing you can do about that now.

He patted his pocket then headed for the bedroom. The nightstand light was on low, Maggie lying on her side, her back to the door, her breathing gentle and steady, her scar visible, the hair still not yet hiding it. The scarf she wore to hide it from herself lay nearby, it either having come off on its own, or Maggie having removed it to be more comfortable.

He stepped inside and gently sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over and kissing her cheek. She moaned, inhaling suddenly as she rolled toward him. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled.

“BD!”

She reached up and grabbed him, wrapping her arms around him as he did the same. “Hey, babe, howya doing?”

She squeezed him tight then kissed him, a kiss that fired him up every time. She broke it, instead staring into his eyes. “So much better now that you’re here.” She straightened, pushing herself into an upright position, resting against the headboard. “I thought you were dead,” she said, her voice cracking. “When I saw the news reports they showed the file footage and saw you guys in the background so I knew you were with him.” Her eyes flooded with tears, one spilling out and down her cheek. “I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered.

He smiled at her gently, reaching out and wiping the tear away with his thumb. “I’m alive, and so is the rest of the team. You know I’m never going to let anything happen to me now that I’ve got you in my life.”

She smiled, reaching for a Kleenex then dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “Look at me, I’m such a woman.”

His smile spread. “Yes you are. An incredible woman.” He tried to remember the words he had memorized, but he suddenly found himself blanking. He stared at her, the overwhelming feeling of being a raw recruit under fire for the first time, disturbing.

“What is it, sweetheart?” She took his hand in hers, lifting it to her lips and placing a gentle kiss before clasping it to her chest.

He inhaled deeply then decided to wing it. “We’ve been together a long time.”

“Some might not call it that,” she replied with a wry grin. “But I would agree.”

“And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, you know, after what happened in Paris and the other day, and it made me realize some things.”

“What, darling?”

“Well, it made me realize I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“And that when I’m not with you, I think about you all the time. Trapped on that airplane, as we faced what I thought was certain death, I found myself worried not about dying, but about leaving you alone. And when I survived, I realized that the biggest reason I was relieved was that I’d get to see you again.” She squeezed his hand, he returning it. “When I thought I had lost you in Paris I decided I didn’t want to go on living. I just wanted to take out as many of them as I could and die right then and there so I could be with you again, then when you survived, I wondered if we should remain together because I was a danger to you.”

She gasped, her eyes opening wide as she gripped his hand tighter. “You never told me that before!”

He nodded. “I know. But I realized that I didn’t want to be without you, that I needed you in my life.” He paused, staring into her eyes. “I love you more than I have ever loved any woman in my life. More than I thought I could love any woman in my life. It wasn’t until I met you that I understood why guys like Red were always so happy, even when they were in the mix. They knew what they were fighting for, and they knew what they had to go home to.” He wiped away another of her tears. “The other day, when I realized we were going to survive, I realized I wanted that feeling too, I wanted to know I had a family to come home to when it was all over.”

He rose, pulling a small box out of his pocket, then dropped to a knee, opening the most expensive thing he had ever purchased besides a car. Maggie gasped, her hand darting to her chest as her cheeks flushed.

“Oh my God!” she cried as she realized what was about to happen.

Dawson stared up at her, finally remembering something he had rehearsed.

“Maggie Alyssa Harris, will you marry me?”

THE END

Acknowledgements

The idea for this book came from news reports about hackers being able to access flight computers. Having worked in the computer business for over twenty years before becoming a fulltime writer, I was pretty confident that John Q. Public sitting in their seat couldn’t crash the plane using the onboard Wi-Fi, though the research would have me avoiding older planes for a while, the designers not as paranoid when this tech first arrived. Now with modern methods, everything would be isolated—or it should be!

What spurred this story on were the reports of the Airbus A400M crash in Spain, where they discovered that the software for the engines hadn’t been installed properly, the result of which was the engines going into idle and the plane crashing, killing four.

So it was possible to crash a plane through computer error.

Which meant hackers could do the same thing.

If they had access.

Air Force One is probably the most famous plane in the world, its passenger certainly fairly well known, so if you’re going to crash an airplane, you crash this one. The only problem with the scenario was that Air Force One is old. Very old. It’s due for replacement, the first plane to be in service by 2023.

So how to get around this little problem of there not being the modern computers that could be hacked?

Easy.

An upgrade!

Artistic license is of course taken, though I think a little less so than that fantastic Harrison Ford movie. Contrary to what was shown there, there is no emergency escape pod and there are no parachutes.

Which was good, as it would have made this story not nearly as eventful.

Whether or not hacking a plane with someone on the inside, and subsequently crashing it, is even possible, is up for debate. Note that in this book the idea wasn’t to crash the plane by overriding the flight controls, it was simply to shut everything down. Contrary to what our Looney Tunes tell us, planes that run out of fuel or have their engines cut don’t come to an immediate halt and drop from the sky, they glide. A skillful pilot can glide a massive 747, exactly as was done in this book, and has been done far too often through history.

It works great, as long as you have a place to land.

Crashing over a jungle sort of solved that plot point.

The incredible skill shown by Captain Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger when he landed an Airbus A320 on the Hudson River in New York City after his engines shut down proves that landing safely on a body of water is possible, and the plane will float.

I hope you enjoyed this torn from the headlines story, and yes, it was just pure coincidence that the real President travelled to Kenya just this week, the destination of the fictional Air Force One before it crashed.

One note about the dedication. In this book, we saw the misguided actions of parents who had either lost a child or were trying to secure a better future for their children. While they truly loved their children, obviously their actions couldn’t be condoned. True love for your child was graphically illustrated on July 27, 2015. Before googling Xiang Liujua, be forewarned that the videos online are graphic and not for the faint of heart. For those who don’t want to see the moment a person dies a horrible, terrifying death, do not view the videos. For those who do view it, you will see a selfless, almost instinctual act of a mother who thinks not of herself, but her child. This brave young mother was killed in an escalator accident recently, and in her last desperate act, she saved her two-year-old son by pushing him to safety as she was drawn into the machine.

It is a sobering reminder of just how precious life is, and how quickly one life can be saved while another is snuffed out, doing something mundane like shopping at the mall.

As usual, there are people to thank. My father for the research (the Air Force One stuff was fascinating!), Marc Quesnel for helping me determine the location for the crash and who the bad guys were, Brent Richards and Ian Kennedy for some military tactics help, and Greg “Chief” Michael for some Navy help. As always, I’d like to thank my wife, daughter, and mother, along with all my friends and family for their continued support.

To those who have not already done so, please visit my website at www.jrobertkennedy.com then sign up for the Insider’s Club to be notified of new book releases. Your email address will never be shared or sold and you’ll only receive the occasional email from me as I don’t have time to spam you!

Thank you once again for reading.

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The Bravo Team will return!

Did you miss Bravo Team's first outing on their own? Check out Payback (Delta #1) today!

While waiting, why not see where it all began? Bravo Team was first introduced in the James Acton Thrillers. Get started with The Protocol (Acton #1) today!

Or, why not check out Special Agent Dylan Kane? Kane is a former student of James Acton and before being recruited into the CIA, served with Delta Team Bravo. Get started with Rogue Operator (Kane #1) today!

About the Author

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller list in the US and UK since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

Visit Robert's website at www.jrobertkennedy.com and sign-up for the Insider's Club to be notified of new book releases.

Books by J. Robert Kennedy

The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Sins of the Titanic

Saint Peter's Soldiers

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Black Widow

The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

The Protocol

A James Acton Thriller - Book #1

For two thousand years the Triarii have protected us, influencing history from the crusades to the discovery of America. Descendent from the Roman Empire, they pervade every level of society, and are now in a race with our own government to retrieve an ancient artifact thought to have been lost forever.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Brass Monkey

A James Acton Thriller - Book #2

A nuclear missile, lost during the Cold War, is now in play--the most public spy swap in history, with a gorgeous agent the center of international attention, triggers the end-game of a corrupt Soviet Colonel's twenty-five year plan. Pursued across the globe by the Russian authorities, including a brutal Spetsnaz unit, those involved will stop at nothing to deliver their weapon, and ensure their pay day, regardless of the terrifying consequences.

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Broken Dove

A James Acton Thriller - Book #3

With the Triarii in control of the Roman Catholic Church, an organization founded by Saint Peter himself takes action, murdering one of the new Pope's operatives. Detective Chaney, called in by the Pope to investigate, disappears, and, to the horror of the Papal staff sent to inform His Holiness, they find him missing too, the only clue a secret chest, presented to each new pope on the eve of their election, since the beginning of the Church.

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The Templar's Relic

A James Acton Thriller - Book #4

The Vault must be sealed, but a construction accident leads to a miraculous discovery--an ancient tomb containing four Templar Knights, long forgotten, on the grounds of the Vatican. Not knowing who they can trust, the Vatican requests Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer examine the find, but what they discover, a precious Islamic relic, lost during the Crusades, triggers a set of events that shake the entire world, pitting the two greatest religions against each other. At risk is nothing less than the Vatican itself, and the rock upon which it was built.

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Flags of Sin

A James Acton Thriller - Book #5

Archaeology Professor James Acton simply wants to get away from everything, and relax. A trip to China seems just the answer, and he and his fiancée, Professor Laura Palmer, are soon on a flight to Beijing. But while boarding, they bump into an old friend, Delta Force Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson, who surreptitiously delivers a message that they must meet the next day, for Dawson knows something they don’t. China is about to erupt into chaos.

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The Arab Fall

A James Acton Thriller - Book #6

An accidental find by a friend of Professor James Acton may lead to the greatest archaeological discovery since the tomb of King Tutankhamen, perhaps even greater. And when news of it spreads, it reaches the ears of a group hell-bent on the destruction of all idols and icons, their mere existence considered blasphemous to Islam.

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The Circle of Eight

A James Acton Thriller - Book #7

The Bravo Team is targeted by a madman after one of their own intervenes in a rape. Little do they know this internationally well-respected banker is also a senior member of an organization long thought extinct, whose stated goals for a reshaped world are not only terrifying, but with today's globalization, totally achievable.

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The Venice Code

A James Acton Thriller - Book #8

A former President's son is kidnapped in a brazen attack on the streets of Potomac by the very ancient organization that murdered his father, convinced he knows the location of an item stolen from them by the late president. A close friend awakes from a coma with a message for archeology Professor James Acton from the same organization, sending him along with his fiancée Professor Laura Palmer on a quest to find an object only rumored to exist, while trying desperately to keep one step ahead of a foe hell-bent on possessing it.

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Pompeii's Ghosts

A James Acton Thriller - Book #9

Two thousand years ago Roman Emperor Vespasian tries to preserve an empire by hiding a massive treasure in the quiet town of Pompeii should someone challenge his throne. Unbeknownst to him nature is about to unleash its wrath upon the Empire during which the best and worst of Rome’s citizens will be revealed during a time when duty and honor were more than words, they were ideals worth dying for.

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Amazon Burning

A James Acton Thriller - Book #10

Days from any form of modern civilization, archeology Professor James Acton awakes to gunshots. Finding his wife missing, taken by a member of one of the uncontacted tribes, he and his friend INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading try desperately to find her in the dark of the jungle, but quickly realize there is no hope without help. And with help three days away, he knows the longer they wait, the farther away she’ll be.

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The Riddle

A James Acton Thriller - Book #11

Russia accuses the United States of assassinating their Prime Minister in Hanoi, naming Delta Force member Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung as the assassin. Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer, witnesses to the murder, know the truth, and as the Russians and Vietnamese attempt to use the situation to their advantage on the international stage, the husband and wife duo attempt to find proof that their friend is innocent.

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Blood Relics

A James Acton Thriller - Book #12

A DYING MAN. A DESPERATE SON.

ONLY A MIRACLE CAN SAVE THEM BOTH.

Professor Laura Palmer is shot and kidnapped in front of her husband, archeology Professor James Acton, as they try to prevent the theft of the world’s Blood Relics, ancient artifacts thought to contain the blood of Christ, a madman determined to possess them all at any cost.

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Sins of the Titanic

A James Acton Thriller - Book #13

THE ASSEMBLY IS ETERNAL.

AND THEY’LL STOP AT NOTHING TO KEEP IT THAT WAY.

INCLUDING KILLING MEDDLING ARCHEOLOGY PROFESSORS.

When Professor James Acton is contacted about a painting thought to have been lost with the sinking of the Titanic, he is inadvertently drawn into a century old conspiracy an ancient organization known as The Assembly will stop at nothing to keep secret.

Hearts will be broken, the innocent will die, but the truth will finally be revealed of what happened the night Titanic sank.

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Saint Peter's Soldiers

A James Acton Thriller - Book #14

A MISSING DA VINCI.

A TERRIFYING GENETIC BREAKTHROUGH.

A PAST AND FUTURE ABOUT TO COLLIDE!

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy delivers another torn from the headlines thriller in Saint Peter’s Soldiers.

In World War Two a fabled da Vinci drawing is hidden from the Nazis, those involved fearing Hitler may attempt to steal it for its purported magical powers.

It isn’t returned for over fifty years.

This is fact.

And today, archeology Professor James Acton and his wife are about to be dragged into the terrible truth of what happened so many years ago, for the truth is never what it seems, and the history we thought was fact, is all lies.

Spanning seven decades, J. Robert Kennedy’s Saint Peter’s Soldiers is an action-packed adventure taking readers on an adrenaline-fueled thrill-ride across Italy and her troubled history. Deftly crafted in true Kennedy style, this fast-paced stunner is jam-packed with action, intrigue and laughter, as only he can deliver.

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Payback

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #1

Doctor Sarah Henderson, daughter of the Vice President, is kidnapped from an Ebola clinic, triggering an all-out effort to retrieve her by America’s elite Delta Force just hours after a senior government official from Sierra Leone is assassinated in a horrific terrorist attack while visiting the United States. Sarah battles impossible odds to survive her captors and one of the most vicious diseases known to mankind. As she struggles to prove her worth to her captors who have promised she will die, she’s forced to make unthinkable decisions to not only try to save her own life, but those dying of an indiscriminate disease, all in the hopes an unleashed Delta Force can save her before her captors enact their horrific plan on an unsuspecting United States.

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Infidels

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #2

When the elite Delta Force’s Bravo Team is inserted into Yemen to rescue a kidnapped Saudi prince, they find more than they bargained for—a crate containing the Black Stone, stolen from Mecca the day before. With the worldwide Muslim population erupting in violence at the news of the theft by infidels, Bravo Team finds themselves disavowed as they desperately try to return the relic they are accused of stealing.

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The Lazarus Moment

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #3

When Air Force One crashes in the jungles of Africa, it is up to America’s elite Delta Force to save the survivors not only from rebels hell-bent on capturing the President, but Mother Nature herself.

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Rogue Operator

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #1

Three top secret research scientists are presumed dead in a boating accident, but the kidnapping of their families the same day raises questions the FBI and local police can’t answer, leaving them waiting for a ransom demand that will never come. Central Intelligence Agency Analyst Chris Leroux stumbles upon the story, and finds a phone conversation that was never supposed to happen but is told to leave it to the FBI. But he can’t let it go. For he knows something the FBI doesn’t. One of the scientists is alive.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Containment Failure

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #2

New Orleans has been quarantined, an unknown virus sweeping the city, killing one hundred percent of those infected. The Centers for Disease Control, desperate to find a cure, is approached by BioDyne Pharma who reveal a former employee has turned a cutting edge medical treatment capable of targeting specific genetic sequences into a weapon, and released it. The stakes have never been higher as Kane battles to save not only his friends and the country he loves, but all of mankind.

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Cold Warriors

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #3

While in Chechnya CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane stumbles upon a meeting between a known Chechen drug lord and a retired General once responsible for the entire Soviet nuclear arsenal. Money is exchanged for a data stick and the resulting transmission begins a race across the globe to discover just what was sold, the only clue a reference to a top secret Soviet weapon called Crimson Rush.

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Death to America

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #4

America is in crisis. Dozens of terrorist attacks have killed or injured thousands, and worse, every single attack appears to have been committed by an American citizen in the name of Islam. A stolen experimental F-35 Lightning II is discovered by CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane in China, delivered by an American soldier reported dead years ago in exchange for a chilling promise. And Chris Leroux is forced to watch as his girlfriend, Sherrie White, is tortured on camera, under orders to not interfere, her continued suffering providing intel too valuable to sacrifice.

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Black Widow

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #5

A MASS MIGRATION

AN OUTPOURING OF COMPASSION

THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy serves up another heart-pounding thriller in Black Widow. After corrupt Russian agents sell deadly radioactive Cesium to Chechen terrorists, CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane is sent to infiltrate the ISIL terror cell suspected of purchasing it.

Then all contact is lost.

From the war-torn deserts of Syria to the humanitarian corridors of Europe, J. Robert Kennedy delivers another action-packed thriller torn from today’s headlines, taking readers on a heart-wrenching journey from the perspectives of the innocent victims, the terrorists among them, and the heroes trying to stop them. In true Kennedy style, this deftly-crafted, taught thriller, provides all the action, humor, romance and heartbreak only he can deliver.

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Depraved Difference

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #1

SOMETIMES JUST WATCHING IS FATAL

Would you help, would you run, or would you just watch?

When a young woman is brutally assaulted by two men on the subway, her cries for help fall on the deaf ears of onlookers too terrified to get involved, her misery ended with the crushing stomp of a steel-toed boot. A cellphone video of her vicious murder, callously released on the Internet, its popularity a testament to today's depraved society, serves as a trigger, pulled a year later, for a killer.

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Tick Tock

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #2

SOMETIMES HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE

Crime Scene tech Frank Brata digs deep and finds the courage to ask his colleague, Sarah, out for coffee after work. Their good time turns into a nightmare when Frank wakes up the next morning covered in blood, with no recollection of what happened, and Sarah’s body floating in the tub.

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The Redeemer

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #3

SOMETIMES LIFE GIVES MURDER A SECOND CHANCE

It was the case that destroyed Detective Justin Shakespeare's career, beginning a downward spiral of self-loathing and self-destruction lasting half a decade. And today things are only going to get worse. The Widow Rapist is free on a technicality, and it is up to Detective Shakespeare and his partner Amber Trace to find the evidence, five years cold, to put him back in prison before he strikes again.

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The Turned

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective - Book #1

Zander has relived his wife’s death at the hands of vampires every day for almost three hundred years, his perfect memory a curse of becoming one of The Turned—infecting him their final heinous act after her murder. Nineteen year-old Sydney Winter knows Zander’s secret, a secret preserved by the women in her family for four generations. But with her mother in a coma, she’s thrust into the front lines, ahead of her time, to fight side-by-side with Zander.

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Published Internationally by J. Robert Kennedy, Ottawa, ON Canada

Copyright © 2015 J. Robert Kennedy

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, J. Robert Kennedy, is an infringement of copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

V1.3

Table of Contents

www.jrobertkennedy.com

The Novel

Acknowledgements

Get 5 Free eBooks!

About the Author

Also by the Author

Payback (Delta #1)

The Protocol (Acton #1)

Rogue Operator (Kane #1)

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Sins of the Titanic

Saint Peter's Soldiers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Black Widow

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

The Turned

Return to book list