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  “The Chinese gave up right after the strike, didn’t they?”

  “Some Chinese military and civilian leaders staged a countercoup days after the attack,” Wohl said. “It had nothing to do with your attack. It was a coincidence.”

  “I guess you’re the expert,” Brad said. Wohl shook his head but said nothing. “Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?” Brad repeated.

  “I’m not here to answer a bunch of questions, McLanahan,” Wohl snapped. “My orders were to intercept the hit team and keep you safe. That’s it.”

  “I’m not leaving campus, Sergeant Major,” Brad said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Wohl said. “My orders are to keep you safe.”

  “Orders? Whose orders?” No reply. “If you’re not going to answer, then I’ll speak to your boss. But I can’t leave school. I just started.” Wohl remained silent. After a few minutes, Brad repeated, “How long did you work for my father?”

  “For a while,” Wohl said after a few moments. “And I didn’t work for him: I was under his command, his noncommissioned officer in charge.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  Wohl glanced in Brad’s direction, then turned back and looked out the window, and was silent for several long moments; then, finally: “After . . . after your mother was killed, your father . . . changed,” Wohl said in a quiet voice. “In all the years I’ve known him, he was always a guy on a mission, hard-charging and kick-ass, but . . .” He took another deep breath before continuing: “But after your mother was killed, he took on a meaner, deadlier edge. It was no longer about protecting the nation or winning a conflict, but about . . . killing, even killing or threatening Americans, anyone who stood in the way of victory. The power he was given seemed to be going to his head, even after he quit Scion Aviation International and got the corporate job at Sky Masters. I put up with it for a while until I thought it was getting out of control, and then I quit.”

  “Quit? Why didn’t you try to help him instead?”

  “He was my commanding officer,” Wohl responded woodenly. “I do not counsel superior officers unless they request it.”

  “That’s bullshit, Wohl,” Brad said. “If you saw my dad was hurting, you should have helped, and screw that superior-officer shit. And I never saw any of that other stuff. My dad was a good father, a volunteer, and a dedicated executive who loved his family, his community, his country, and his company. He wasn’t a killer.”

  “You never saw it because he shields you from all that,” Wohl said. “He’s a different guy around you. Besides, you were a typical kid—your head was up and locked in your ass most of the time.”

  “You’re full of it, Sergeant Major,” Brad said. He again caught a glimpse of Wohl’s heavily lined face in the glare of an oncoming truck’s headlights. “What happened to your face?”

  “None of your business,” Wohl grumbled.

  “You’ve been spying on me for who knows how long, and I can’t ask you one lousy personal question?” Brad asked. “I think you were in the Marine Corps too long.”

  Wohl half turned to Brad as if he was going to argue with him, but did not, and turned back toward the window. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The American Holocaust,” he said finally. “You’ve heard of it, I assume?”

  “Sarcasm, Sergeant Major? It doesn’t suit you, and it’s inappropriate. Tens of thousands were killed.”

  “Your father planned and executed the American counterattack,” Wohl said, ignoring Brad’s remark. “Waves of bombers spread out over much of western and central Russia, hunting down mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles. I was his noncommissioned officer in charge at Yakutsk, the Siberian air base he commandeered.”

  It took a few seconds, but then Brad recognized the name of the air base, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. “You mean . . . the base that was hit by Russian nuclear cruise missiles?”

  Wohl did not react, but fell silent again for several moments. “Obviously I didn’t get a lethal dose of radiation—I was wearing Tin Man battle armor—but I had the greatest exposure to radiation of anyone except General Briggs,” he said finally. “Forty-seven survivors from that Russian underground shelter died from radiation-caused diseases over the years. It’s just taking a bit longer for me.”

  “My God, Sergeant Major, I’m sorry,” Brad said. “The pain must be terrible.” Wohl glanced over at Brad, a little surprised to hear the tone of empathy coming from the young man, but he said nothing. “Maybe that’s what killed General Briggs. Maybe the radiation made him take risks. Maybe he knew he was dying and decided to go out fighting.”

  “Now look who’s the expert,” Wohl murmured.

  They followed Highway 101 north, occasionally taking side roads and doubling back, looking for any signs of shadowing. Every few minutes when they found a highway overpass they pulled over, and one of the men in the SUV would get out, carrying what looked like very large multilensed binoculars. “What’s he doing, Sergeant Major?” Brad asked.

  “Searching for aerial pursuers,” Wohl replied. “We know the Russians employ unmanned aircraft to spy on military bases and other classified facilities over the United States, and Gryzlov was a Russian Air Force officer. He would definitely have that kind of hardware. He’s using infrared binoculars that can detect heat sources in the air or on the ground for several miles.” A few minutes later the man reentered the SUV, and they were back on their way.

  About an hour after leaving San Luis Obispo they turned in at the airport road outside the city of Paso Robles. The driver entered a code into an electronic lock, and the tall chain-link gate opened to admit them onto the airport grounds. They drove along quiet, dark taxiways, illuminated only by small blue lights on the edges, until coming to a large aircraft hangar surrounded on three sides by another chain-link fence, with only the aircraft entrance to the parking ramp and taxiway open. This time, instead of a code, the driver pressed a thumb against an optical reader, and the lock opened with a quiet buzz.

  The interior of the very large hangar was dominated by a gray General Atomics MQ-1B Predator remotely piloted aircraft parked on the left side of the hangar. The words CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION and the agency’s shield were emblazoned on the front side of the aircraft, but this definitely didn’t look like a government facility. Brad went to look it over, but a guy wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying a submachine gun slung in a quick-draw rig on his shoulders moved between him and the Predator and stood with his hands crossed before him, silently and plainly warning him to stay away.

  Brad walked back over to Chris Wohl, who had been speaking with the men that were in his SUV and some others. In the half illumination of the hangar he could get a better look at the deep etchings on Wohl’s face, and he could also see skin damage around his neck and on both hands. “What is this place, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

  “Someplace safe, for now,” Wohl replied.

  “Who are these—”

  “I’m not going to answer questions right now,” Wohl said gruffly. “If you’re supposed to know any more, you’ll be told.” He motioned to a cabinet along one wall near the Predator. “There’s coffee and water over there if you want. Don’t go near the aircraft again.” He turned away from Brad and began speaking with the others again.

  Brad shook his head and decided to head over to see if they had anything to eat, regretting not taking Jodie up on any of her offers—meals or otherwise. He found a bottle of cold water in a refrigerator, but instead of drinking it, he put it on the side of his head to soothe the impact area where the Russian had clubbed him. A few minutes later he heard an aircraft of some kind outside the hangar, approaching the area, sounding as if it was moving very quickly. Wohl and the other men stopped talking and turned toward the hangar door as the aircraft sounds outside became a bit quieter as the engines were pulled back to idle. Just as Brad was goin
g to go back to Wohl and ask him what was going on, the lights dimmed even further and the bifold hangar door began to open.

  After the door was fully opened, a twin-tailed C-23C Sherpa small cargo aircraft taxied inside. It had an American flag and a civil N-number on the tail, but no other military markings, and it was painted jet black instead of the usual gray. It taxied right inside the hangar with its big turboprop propellers turning, and Brad, Wohl, and the others were forced to back away as the aircraft moved all the way inside. Directed by a linesman with a submachine gun on a shoulder rig, it taxied forward until it was signaled to stop, and then the engines cut off. The big bifold hangar doors started to motor closed as soon as the engines began to wind down. The smell of jet exhaust was strong.

  A moment later a passenger door on the left side of the aircraft behind the cockpit windows opened up, and there appeared a big soldier-looking guy wearing a suit and tie—and with the noticeable bulge of a weapon under his jacket—followed immediately by a shorter man with a suit but no tie, rather long gray hair, and a neatly trimmed gray beard; at the same time the cargo door/ramp on the rear of the aircraft began to motor open. Wohl and the other men stepped over to the second newcomer, and they all shook hands. They spoke for a few moments, and then Wohl nodded toward Brad, and the second newcomer approached him, unbuttoning his jacket.

  “Mr. Bradley James McLanahan,” the newcomer said in a loud, dramatic, very politician-sounding voice when he was still several paces away. “It’s been a long time. You probably don’t remember me. I certainly wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  “I don’t remember you, sir, but I sure recognize you: you’re President Kevin Martindale,” Brad said, not trying to mask his surprise and confusion. Martindale smiled broadly and looked pleased that Brad recognized him, and he stuck out his hand as he approached. Brad shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, sir, but now I’m even more confused.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit, son,” the former president said. “Things are happening fast, and folks are scrambling to keep up. Then this incident with you in San Luis Obispo popped up, and we had to react.” He squinted at the bruise on the side of Brad’s head. “How’s your head, son? You have a very nasty bruise there.”

  “It’s fine, sir.”

  “Good. I, of course, asked the sergeant major what we should do when we detected the break-in, and he said extract you, I said yes, and so he did. He is extremely effective at things like that.”

  “I didn’t see what he did, but I’m here, so I guess he must be,” Brad said. “If the sergeant major works for you, sir, then can you tell me what’s going on? He hasn’t told me a thing.”

  “He wouldn’t tell you anything even if he had a car battery wired to his testicles, son,” Martindale said. “Neither would any of the men in this hangar. I guess I’m the head honcho of this outfit, but I really don’t run it. He does.”

  “He? He who?”

  “Him,” Martindale said, and he motioned to the cargo ramp of the aircraft just as it emerged. It was a Cybernetic Infantry Device—a manned robot, developed for the U.S. Army as a battlefield replacement for a standard infantry platoon, including the latter’s mobility, versatility, and all of its firepower—but it was unlike any CID Brad could remember. This one somehow seemed sleeker, lighter, taller, and more refined than the one Brad had piloted a few years back. The twelve-foot-plus-tall robot had a large torso that sloped from broad shoulders to a slightly thinner waist, more slender hips, and rather spindly-looking arms and legs attached to the torso. There were sensors mounted seemingly everywhere—on the shoulders, waist, and arms. The head was a six-sided box with sloped sides and no eyes but only sensor panels on every side. It seemed slightly taller than the one Brad had piloted.

  The sensory experience of piloting a Cybernetic Infantry Device was nothing like Brad had ever felt before. First he got his nervous system digitally mapped and uploaded to the robot’s computerized control interface. He then climbed into the robot through the back, lay spread-eagled onto a rather cold, gelatinous conducting mat, and stuck his head inside a helmet and oxygen mask. The hatch was sealed behind him, and everything went dark and quickly became a little claustrophobic. But within moments he could see again . . . along with mountains of data derived from the robot’s sensors being presented to him visually and inserted into his body’s sensory system, so he was not just reading information on screens, but images and data were appearing in his consciousness, like a memory or actual inputs from touch, vision, and hearing. When he started to move, he found he could run with amazing speed and agility, leap several dozen feet, kick down walls, and overturn armored vehicles. A dazzling array of weapons was interfaced with the robot, and he could control all of them with breathtaking speed and pinpoint accuracy.

  “A CID,” Brad remarked. “It looks brand-new. New design too.”

  “It’s the first copy of a new model CID force we plan on deploying,” Martindale said.

  “Cool,” Brad said. He waved at the robot. “Who’s the pilot? Charlie Turlock? She taught me how to pilot one a couple years ago.” To the CID he said, “Hey, Charlie, how are you? Are you going to let me take it for a spin?”

  The CID walked up to Martindale and Bradley, its movements frighteningly humanlike despite its size and robotic limbs, and in an electronic humanoid voice said, “Hello, son.”

  It took a few moments for Brad to realize that what he had just heard was the real thing and for the realization to sink in, but finally Brad’s eyes widened in surprise and shock and he shouted, “Dad?” He reached out to the CID, unsure of where to touch it. “My God, Dad, is it you? You’re alive? You’re alive!”

  “Yes, son,” Patrick McLanahan said. Brad still couldn’t figure out where to touch the robot, so he had to settle for clutching his own abdomen. He started to sob. “It’s okay, Bradley,” Patrick said finally, reaching out and embracing his son. “My God, it’s so good to see you again.”

  “But I don’t get it, Dad,” Brad said after several long moments in his father’s embrace. “They . . . they told me you had . . . had died of the injuries . . .”

  “I did die, son,” Patrick said in the electronically synthesized voice. “When they pulled me from the B-1 bomber back on Guam after you landed the B-1, I was clinically dead, and everyone knew it, and that’s the word that was passed around. But after you and the other crewmembers were evacuated to Hawaii, they loaded me onto an ambulance and started resuscitation, and I made it back.”

  “They . . . they wouldn’t let me stay with you, Dad,” Brad said between sobs. “I tried to stay with you, but they wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry, I should have demanded—”

  “It’s okay, son,” Patrick said. “All casualties had to wait for assessment and triage, and I was just one more casualty out of hundreds that day. Local medics and volunteers took over the casualties, and the military guys and contractors were taken away. They kept me alive in a small clinic off base for a day and a half, parked far away from everything. The first responders to arrive were locals, and they didn’t know who I was. They took me to another little clinic in Agana and kept me alive.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “President Martindale found me, a couple days after the attack,” Patrick said. “Sky Masters could still track me through the subcutaneous datalink. Martindale was monitoring all of Sky Masters Inc.’s activities in the South China Sea region and had a plane sent to Andersen Air Force Base to collect intelligence and data on the attack. They eventually found me and secretly spirited me off to the States.”

  “But why the CID, Dad?”

  “That was Jason Richter’s idea,” Martindale said. “You met Colonel Richter in Battle Mountain, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir. He helped me do the programming so I could get checked out in piloting a CID. He’s the head of operations for Sky Masters Aerospace now.”

  “Your dad was in critical condition and not expected to survive the flight back to
Hawaii,” Martindale said. “My aircraft that evacuated him had very few medical staff and no surgical or trauma-care equipment . . . but it did have a Cybernetic Infantry Device on board to help with rescue and recovery on Guam. Jason said the CID could help a victim breathe and control his other bodily functions until he made it to a hospital. Richter didn’t know that victim was your father.”

  “Then . . . then you’re okay, Dad?” Brad asked, at first happy. But he quickly realized that his father was far, far from okay, or else he would not still be aboard the CID with his only son standing in front of him. “Dad . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid not, son,” Patrick said. “I can’t survive outside the CID.”

  “What?”

  “I could possibly survive, Brad, but I’d definitely be on assisted breathing and heartbeat and probably in a vegetative state,” Patrick said. Brad’s eyes welled with tears, and his mouth dropped open in shock. Both the robot’s hands reached out and rested on Brad’s shoulders—its touch was light, even soft, despite its size. “I didn’t want that, Brad. I didn’t want to be a burden to my family for years, maybe decades, until they had the technology to heal me, or until I died. Inside the CID I was awake, functioning, and up and moving. Outside, I’d be in a coma, on life support. When I was inside the CID and awake, I had the choice: stay on life support, pull the plug, or stay in the CID. I decided I’d rather stay inside, where I could be of some service.”

  “You’re . . . you’re going to stay inside . . . forever . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid so, son,” Patrick said, “until we have the ability to heal all of the injuries I sustained.” The tears rolled down Brad’s face even harder now. “Brad, it’s okay,” Patrick said, and his softer, reassuring tone was evident even in the robot’s electronic voice. “I should be dead, son—I was dead. I was given an extraordinary gift. It may not seem like life, but it is. I want you to be happy for me.”

  “But I can’t . . . can’t see you?” Brad reached up and touched the robot’s face. “I can’t touch you for . . . for real?”